I took my son in for an evaluation with the local school district today, to see whether he would qualify for special services to help him with his Sensory Integration Disorder. In addition to causing some severe eating issues, Isaac's SID has interfered significantly with his motor skills development.
During the testing, Isaac scored a full two standard deviations below average in gross motor skill development, a clear deficit. This score puts him in the bottom ten percent of kids his age for gross motor skills. Mind you, this is how he scored even AFTER a year and a half of occupational therapy.
I honestly wasn't unduly upset by this score. I expected this type of score. My son didn't walk until fifteen months, and didn't run frequently until he was almost two. He didn't start jumping, or standing on one foot, until just a couple of months ago, and that was with the intervention of his occupational therapist.
He is terrified of heights. He won't climb ladders. He clings to the rail when he goes up and down stairs. He refuses to go down the slide at the playground, even if we lift him up so he doesn't have to climb-- even if I go down with him. Whenever he does any activity that challenges his sense of balance, he becomes utterly terrified that he is going to fall.
Isaac's OT calls this issue a "motor planning deficit" heightened by "gravitational insecurity."
I personally call this issue: "Sweet merciful heavens, if we can't at least teach this child how to go at least down a slide without screaming in terror by the time he turns five, he is SO getting his ass kicked at the playground on the first day of school. Not to mention the fact that if I can't teach him to kick properly, jump properly, or hop on one foot, he will never learn to enjoy sports, and will spend the rest of his youth getting picked last for every sports team and constantly trying to duck out of PE with forged doctor's notes. And all of this is really starting to sound disturbingly familiar in relation to my own clumsy childhood. So, if it's at all humanly possible, I would really, really like to get this child a little more professional de-klutz-ification help, mkay?"
More help than my health insurance company is willing to provide even grudgingly, no matter how many letters from doctors I send them.
So, to tell you the truth, I was maybe even a teensy bit relieved that my son scored so low on this gross motor skills test. Getting a score as low as he did on this motor skills test is the statistical equivalent of scoring a 70 on an IQ test. If a kid scored a 70 on an IQ test, you would expect the school district to offer him some extra help, right? So, if a kid scores a 70 on a motor skills test, one might imagine that the school district would be willing to provide some help there, as well, right?
But.
On the verbal development test, my three-year-old scored as a five-year-old.
He knew what day of the week it was.
He knew the names of the seasons.
He knew not only the word for telescope, but also what a telescope is for.
("He knew what a telescope was!" exclaimed the smitten speech therapist. "Would you like to give me the test, Isaac?")
And, well, there's also the fact that . . . he can read. About 40 or so words, last I counted.
Now I have a test for you: What does gifted plus delayed equal, in the eyes of special school district funding?
Average.
We were denied physical therapy assistance from the district.
I'd like to see my son eat words for lunch.
I'd like to see him read his way up a ladder, and down a slide.
I'd like to see him overcome his fear of fingerpaints with the definition of the word "telescope."
But, for now, I'll keep taking him to the library each week, and I'll keep watching proudly as he reads board books to the other preschoolers at story time.
And I'll keep taking him to the playground, and I'll keep praying each time that this will be the day he'll make it down the slide.
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Junk Funk
A lot of things have been falling apart around my house lately.
In the past two months:
-One brand new plastic colander cracked when I tried to pick it up after filling it half-full with green beans from my garden.
-Another brand new metal colander that was supposedly stainless steel started to rust. (I mean, really, now. Who makes a colander that corrodes in the presence of water? Who does that? Why, apparently, the same people who make a plastic colander that cracks under the massive weight of a small pile of green beans-- Chefmate.)
-A pricey supposedly rust-proof silicon-coated whisk that I purchased less than six months ago ALSO began to rust.
-A two-month-old pair of my husband's pants began to fray at a seam sufficiently that I could not repair them.
-A nightlight in the bathroom stopped working-- not the bulb, but the light itself. When my husband tried to test it with his multimeter to see if it conducted any current, he discovered that--
-My husband's multimeter has mysteriously stopped working.
-The toilet AND the sink in the master bath clogged at the same time. When tried to unclog them with the auger we bought for months ago, we couldn't, because the auger, despite having been thoroughly cleaned and stored in a dryish place, had completely rusted.
-The remote control to my son's totally awesome remote control moon night light that shows all the different phases of the moon stopped functioning.
-A package of brand new, Disney licensed big-boy underpants for my son came with two of the three pairs already coming apart at the seams.
-My computer hard drive died such a thoroughly tragic death that even my major computer mojo master husband could not resuscitate it.
-The hard drive to my husband's Linux server in the basement ALSO somehow got corrupted to the point that my husband had to reinstall the operating system.
All of these recent unhappy accidents-- along with the rash of recent toy recalls the mainstream media have gleefully gone about terrifying us all with-- have set me to thinking a fair bit lately about how difficult it has become in the past several years for ordinary middle-class people like myself to buy decently made things that last.
Though I have pretty much always, out of necessity, been a mostly* thrifty sort of shopper, I am not the sort to value low cost over quality. When given the choice-- i.e., the cash-- to choose between a low-cost item that is obviously cheaply made and a higher-cost item that is clearly crafted to last, I will nearly always choose the latter. From a practical standpoint, I know paying a bit extra for better quality is likely to save me money in the long run.
And, from an environmentalist standpoint, I know that buying well-made goods that last is better for the environment than buying cheap goods that will soon be thrown out and replaced.
But from a philosophical standpoint, too, I simply appreciate objects that are well-made. I find it much more pleasing to buy a thing when I feel as though another human being really put some thought, effort and skill into creating it. This preference of mine is one of the reasons I like living in my fifty-year-old house. When I look at the hand-troweled patterns in the mud over the drywall, for instance, I think of all the time some person spent making sure those whorls looked just right fifty years ago, I feel a deep appreciation for that unknown man's dedication to his craft. I never felt this way looking at the hastily slapped-together walls so common in more recent construction.
So, whether I am purchasing a house, a table, or a kitchen knife I am willing to spend a little extra time searching, and spend a little extra money, if I have it, to get something that was made with a little extra care.
But I feel like lately it is becoming next-to-impossible for a middle-income person such as myself to buy everyday items, like household goods and clothing, that are made to last. It's not so much that prices have gone up-- it's that the quality of consumer goods across the board seems, at least in my personal experience, to have gone down.
I remember when I could buy a pair of khaki pants at Target or Old Navy, and have those pants last me for three years even if I wore them twice a week. Now it seems like no matter where I go to shop for clothing-- even if I go someplace slightly more upscale, like The Gap, or a fancy department store-- everywhere I look I see garments made of the cheapest possible fabric, or clothes that are already sporting loose threads, frayed seams, or missing buttons right there on the rack. And no item of clothing I buy anymore seems to last me more than a year. I have shirts I bought five years ago that still look new, and shirts I bought six months ago that are falling apart.
I remember when I could plunk down $10-$15 on a stainless steel colander and have it turn out to be, well, a stainless steel colander.
It would be easy to blame all the shoddiness I seem to see on store shelves lately on global free markets and the outsourcing of U.S. manufacturing jobs to foreign countries. But, to tell the truth, when I DO make a point of trying to buy American-made goods (an effort which has become increasingly challenging, given how few tangible goods are actually made here these days), I generally find that THOSE products are cheap junk, too. Like the "Made in the USA!!!" steel storage shelves we bought for our basement recently that were so warped it took two people three hours, a vise and a hammer to put a simple six-shelf unit together. Or the domestically made flag-and-pole set I bought on the Fourth of July that has already practically rusted in half.
I can only conclude that pretty much no company, anywhere, cares anymore about making quality products. And that few business people, anywhere, care anymore about such concepts as pride in workmanship, integrity, or honor. Which is kind of a discouraging thought regarding the moral state of global human society.
I do have some hope left, though. After I tracked down the company that made my son's moon light, and emailed them asking for a replacement remote control, a customer service representative named Jenn actually wrote me back, personally, and sent me a new remote that actually worked in less than a week. I didn't even have to send the broken remote back in. No receipts, proof-of-purchase, mother's maiden name, or ownership rights to first-born children required.
It was practically a miracle.
*Good haircuts, high-heeled boots, books, and gardening accessories notably excepted
In the past two months:
-One brand new plastic colander cracked when I tried to pick it up after filling it half-full with green beans from my garden.
-Another brand new metal colander that was supposedly stainless steel started to rust. (I mean, really, now. Who makes a colander that corrodes in the presence of water? Who does that? Why, apparently, the same people who make a plastic colander that cracks under the massive weight of a small pile of green beans-- Chefmate.)
-A pricey supposedly rust-proof silicon-coated whisk that I purchased less than six months ago ALSO began to rust.
-A two-month-old pair of my husband's pants began to fray at a seam sufficiently that I could not repair them.
-A nightlight in the bathroom stopped working-- not the bulb, but the light itself. When my husband tried to test it with his multimeter to see if it conducted any current, he discovered that--
-My husband's multimeter has mysteriously stopped working.
-The toilet AND the sink in the master bath clogged at the same time. When tried to unclog them with the auger we bought for months ago, we couldn't, because the auger, despite having been thoroughly cleaned and stored in a dryish place, had completely rusted.
-The remote control to my son's totally awesome remote control moon night light that shows all the different phases of the moon stopped functioning.
-A package of brand new, Disney licensed big-boy underpants for my son came with two of the three pairs already coming apart at the seams.
-My computer hard drive died such a thoroughly tragic death that even my major computer mojo master husband could not resuscitate it.
-The hard drive to my husband's Linux server in the basement ALSO somehow got corrupted to the point that my husband had to reinstall the operating system.
All of these recent unhappy accidents-- along with the rash of recent toy recalls the mainstream media have gleefully gone about terrifying us all with-- have set me to thinking a fair bit lately about how difficult it has become in the past several years for ordinary middle-class people like myself to buy decently made things that last.
Though I have pretty much always, out of necessity, been a mostly* thrifty sort of shopper, I am not the sort to value low cost over quality. When given the choice-- i.e., the cash-- to choose between a low-cost item that is obviously cheaply made and a higher-cost item that is clearly crafted to last, I will nearly always choose the latter. From a practical standpoint, I know paying a bit extra for better quality is likely to save me money in the long run.
And, from an environmentalist standpoint, I know that buying well-made goods that last is better for the environment than buying cheap goods that will soon be thrown out and replaced.
But from a philosophical standpoint, too, I simply appreciate objects that are well-made. I find it much more pleasing to buy a thing when I feel as though another human being really put some thought, effort and skill into creating it. This preference of mine is one of the reasons I like living in my fifty-year-old house. When I look at the hand-troweled patterns in the mud over the drywall, for instance, I think of all the time some person spent making sure those whorls looked just right fifty years ago, I feel a deep appreciation for that unknown man's dedication to his craft. I never felt this way looking at the hastily slapped-together walls so common in more recent construction.
So, whether I am purchasing a house, a table, or a kitchen knife I am willing to spend a little extra time searching, and spend a little extra money, if I have it, to get something that was made with a little extra care.
But I feel like lately it is becoming next-to-impossible for a middle-income person such as myself to buy everyday items, like household goods and clothing, that are made to last. It's not so much that prices have gone up-- it's that the quality of consumer goods across the board seems, at least in my personal experience, to have gone down.
I remember when I could buy a pair of khaki pants at Target or Old Navy, and have those pants last me for three years even if I wore them twice a week. Now it seems like no matter where I go to shop for clothing-- even if I go someplace slightly more upscale, like The Gap, or a fancy department store-- everywhere I look I see garments made of the cheapest possible fabric, or clothes that are already sporting loose threads, frayed seams, or missing buttons right there on the rack. And no item of clothing I buy anymore seems to last me more than a year. I have shirts I bought five years ago that still look new, and shirts I bought six months ago that are falling apart.
I remember when I could plunk down $10-$15 on a stainless steel colander and have it turn out to be, well, a stainless steel colander.
It would be easy to blame all the shoddiness I seem to see on store shelves lately on global free markets and the outsourcing of U.S. manufacturing jobs to foreign countries. But, to tell the truth, when I DO make a point of trying to buy American-made goods (an effort which has become increasingly challenging, given how few tangible goods are actually made here these days), I generally find that THOSE products are cheap junk, too. Like the "Made in the USA!!!" steel storage shelves we bought for our basement recently that were so warped it took two people three hours, a vise and a hammer to put a simple six-shelf unit together. Or the domestically made flag-and-pole set I bought on the Fourth of July that has already practically rusted in half.
I can only conclude that pretty much no company, anywhere, cares anymore about making quality products. And that few business people, anywhere, care anymore about such concepts as pride in workmanship, integrity, or honor. Which is kind of a discouraging thought regarding the moral state of global human society.
I do have some hope left, though. After I tracked down the company that made my son's moon light, and emailed them asking for a replacement remote control, a customer service representative named Jenn actually wrote me back, personally, and sent me a new remote that actually worked in less than a week. I didn't even have to send the broken remote back in. No receipts, proof-of-purchase, mother's maiden name, or ownership rights to first-born children required.
It was practically a miracle.
*Good haircuts, high-heeled boots, books, and gardening accessories notably excepted
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Why I Am Moving to a Log Cabin in the Wilderness
It started a few weeks ago.
I came out of the shower one morning to hear my three-year-old son calling, "Mommy, is it okay if I watch this video?"
I went into the living room to find my son sitting in front of his father's laptop. Squinting without my glasses at the screen, I discovered that my son was watching Nora the Piano Cat on You Tube.
At the top of the screen was the Google Video search frame.
My son had found Nora the Piano Cat by starting Firefox, typing "CATS" into the Google box on the Firefox homepage, and then clicking the Video link.
Today, I caught him searching for "GMSS."
You see, he couldn't quite remember how to spell "Games."
(I am currently taking bets on what age he'll be when he makes his first attempt at hacking the NSA.)
I came out of the shower one morning to hear my three-year-old son calling, "Mommy, is it okay if I watch this video?"
I went into the living room to find my son sitting in front of his father's laptop. Squinting without my glasses at the screen, I discovered that my son was watching Nora the Piano Cat on You Tube.
At the top of the screen was the Google Video search frame.
My son had found Nora the Piano Cat by starting Firefox, typing "CATS" into the Google box on the Firefox homepage, and then clicking the Video link.
Today, I caught him searching for "GMSS."
You see, he couldn't quite remember how to spell "Games."
(I am currently taking bets on what age he'll be when he makes his first attempt at hacking the NSA.)
Friday, August 17, 2007
The M Word
Ahem.
[Screeeeeeeech]
Is this thing on?
Now, where was I?
A couple of weeks ago, as I was cleaning the kitchen, my son sat at his father's laptop playing educational flash games at an excellent, if somewhat goofy, phonics/reading site called Starfall.com (mad props to the mother of Bub and Pie for mentioning it briefly on her blog months ago). He came across a section of the site that focused on practicing the proper pronunciation of vowel pairs, such as "ai."
I listened to him surreptitiously as he read each practice word as it popped on the screen. Every time he would read a word, he would add a little commentary about it. something I've noticed him doing often as he learns to read-- I suspect it helps him remember new words.
"Snail. I like snails. They have shells."
"Pail. You can put water in a pail."
So, here I was, smiling proudly to myself as my three-year-old boy read real words, all by himself, when suddenly, I heard him say,
"Maid. Mommy is a maid!"
Now, why was I so appalled when I heard those words innocently escape his mouth?
I mean, it is rather understandable that he would draw such a conclusion. After all, my son sees me wiping counters, sweeping floors, scrubbing toilets, vacuuming rugs, dusting bookcases, folding laundry, loading the dishwasher, watering plants, etcetera, etcetera, day in and day out, every single day. A woman cleaning the house, according to the cartoon picture I assume must have accompanied the word, is called a maid. Mommy cleans the house, so Mommy must be a maid. It was a perfectly logical assumption for a three-year-old to make.
I laughed nervously, and called out cheerfully, "Isaac, mommy isn't a m-a-i-d, maid, because mommy doesn't get p-a-i-d, paid for cleaning the house!"
But inside my head, gears were grinding.
There's nothing wrong with housecleaning, of course. We all have to do it, or pay someone else to have it done. And, despite the stigma historically attached to it by our society, I believe strongly that the maintenance of a household is honorable, honest, important work, especially when associated with the care of children.
And wasn't that belief of mine part of the reason I decided to stay home with my son in the first place? Didn't I make this choice, in part, because if if I had gone back to my low-paying outside-the-home job, I would not have had the wherewithal to pay someone what I considered to be a fair wage to do the important work of keeping my home and caring for my son?
It wasn't the idea that my son might see me primarily as a housekeeper that bothered me, I decided. It was my fear that that might be all he saw me as.
After all how could he know-- how could he possibly know, at such a young age, all the other things I have been? All the things I have wanted to be?
How could he know, for instance, that in high school I ran long distance races, or that in college, I wrote high-minded papers analyzing literature and film in multiple languages, that I once spoke Spanish and Hindi well enough to write essays? How could he that I once won awards for my amateur photography? That I once built sets and hung lights in a theatre, where I met traveling performers from all over the world? How would he know that I used to have picnics in parks in at midnight? That, before I met his father, an adamant non-dancer, I used to go out regularly at night to dance swing or salsa late into the early morning?
How would he know that I have at least ten novels in my head that have never been written, let alone published? That sometimes I wish I could go back to school and get a second bachelor's degree in botany, just for the heck of it?
How would he know any of this, when, day in and day out, I get up in the morning, and clean, and cook, and tend the garden, and read my son a few books from the library, and help him practice learning to hold a pencil properly according to the instructions of his occupational therapist, and clean some more, and build a few towers with Duplos, and cook and clean again, and perhaps spend a few hours writing descriptions of dressers or something, or watch tv and read depressing news articles on the internet until I feel like a zombie, and then go to straight to bed?
I feel strongly that I am where I need to be right now, caring for a person that I love in the best way I know how, and yet, I can't help but fear on certain days that I'm losing my identity in such a way that, one day, when my son needs less of my time, it may be very difficult to find myself again.
How do you, the rest of you, find the balance between being a good parent, and being true to yourself?
--------------
Update: Lisa at Midwestern Mommy has nominated this a Perfect Post. Thanks, Lisa!
[Screeeeeeeech]
Is this thing on?
Now, where was I?
A couple of weeks ago, as I was cleaning the kitchen, my son sat at his father's laptop playing educational flash games at an excellent, if somewhat goofy, phonics/reading site called Starfall.com (mad props to the mother of Bub and Pie for mentioning it briefly on her blog months ago). He came across a section of the site that focused on practicing the proper pronunciation of vowel pairs, such as "ai."
I listened to him surreptitiously as he read each practice word as it popped on the screen. Every time he would read a word, he would add a little commentary about it. something I've noticed him doing often as he learns to read-- I suspect it helps him remember new words.
"Snail. I like snails. They have shells."
"Pail. You can put water in a pail."
So, here I was, smiling proudly to myself as my three-year-old boy read real words, all by himself, when suddenly, I heard him say,
"Maid. Mommy is a maid!"
Now, why was I so appalled when I heard those words innocently escape his mouth?
I mean, it is rather understandable that he would draw such a conclusion. After all, my son sees me wiping counters, sweeping floors, scrubbing toilets, vacuuming rugs, dusting bookcases, folding laundry, loading the dishwasher, watering plants, etcetera, etcetera, day in and day out, every single day. A woman cleaning the house, according to the cartoon picture I assume must have accompanied the word, is called a maid. Mommy cleans the house, so Mommy must be a maid. It was a perfectly logical assumption for a three-year-old to make.
I laughed nervously, and called out cheerfully, "Isaac, mommy isn't a m-a-i-d, maid, because mommy doesn't get p-a-i-d, paid for cleaning the house!"
But inside my head, gears were grinding.
There's nothing wrong with housecleaning, of course. We all have to do it, or pay someone else to have it done. And, despite the stigma historically attached to it by our society, I believe strongly that the maintenance of a household is honorable, honest, important work, especially when associated with the care of children.
And wasn't that belief of mine part of the reason I decided to stay home with my son in the first place? Didn't I make this choice, in part, because if if I had gone back to my low-paying outside-the-home job, I would not have had the wherewithal to pay someone what I considered to be a fair wage to do the important work of keeping my home and caring for my son?
It wasn't the idea that my son might see me primarily as a housekeeper that bothered me, I decided. It was my fear that that might be all he saw me as.
After all how could he know-- how could he possibly know, at such a young age, all the other things I have been? All the things I have wanted to be?
How could he know, for instance, that in high school I ran long distance races, or that in college, I wrote high-minded papers analyzing literature and film in multiple languages, that I once spoke Spanish and Hindi well enough to write essays? How could he that I once won awards for my amateur photography? That I once built sets and hung lights in a theatre, where I met traveling performers from all over the world? How would he know that I used to have picnics in parks in at midnight? That, before I met his father, an adamant non-dancer, I used to go out regularly at night to dance swing or salsa late into the early morning?
How would he know that I have at least ten novels in my head that have never been written, let alone published? That sometimes I wish I could go back to school and get a second bachelor's degree in botany, just for the heck of it?
How would he know any of this, when, day in and day out, I get up in the morning, and clean, and cook, and tend the garden, and read my son a few books from the library, and help him practice learning to hold a pencil properly according to the instructions of his occupational therapist, and clean some more, and build a few towers with Duplos, and cook and clean again, and perhaps spend a few hours writing descriptions of dressers or something, or watch tv and read depressing news articles on the internet until I feel like a zombie, and then go to straight to bed?
I feel strongly that I am where I need to be right now, caring for a person that I love in the best way I know how, and yet, I can't help but fear on certain days that I'm losing my identity in such a way that, one day, when my son needs less of my time, it may be very difficult to find myself again.
How do you, the rest of you, find the balance between being a good parent, and being true to yourself?
--------------
Update: Lisa at Midwestern Mommy has nominated this a Perfect Post. Thanks, Lisa!
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
Jaelithe's Tricks for Tricking Picky Eaters
Since I started this blog, I have had a number of other mothers, and fathers, leave comments or send me emails telling me that their children are picky eaters, too, and wondering if I had any good advice.
I'm not sure I do have good advice, but I can give advice based things that have worked for me, with my child, in my home.
Since I know very well how stressful and upsetting it can be for a parent when your child won't eat, I have decided to provide the internet with a few of my strategies.
Note of course that I am not a nutritionist, or a child psychologist, or an occupational therapist, or a news channel talking head. I'm just a mom with an underweight, exceedingly picky kid, and I have seen and talked to a lot of experts and tried a lot of different strategies in the course of my ongoing quest to help my son become a better eater.
So, without further ado:
Jaelithe's Tricks for Tricking Picky Eaters
Let your child play with his food. And I don't mean just at dinner time. Let her help you get it down from the shelf and put in the cart at the grocery store. Let him help you prepare the food in the kitchen. If you have an older child, you might want to talk about where your food comes from. Say, "Apples grow on apple trees," or, "Pasta is made from flour, which comes from a kind of grass, called wheat." Let your child help pick berries at a farm, or grow a backyard vegetable garden. Get your child interested in food outside of the context of eating it.
At play time, let your child paint pictures with chocolate pudding or applesauce—it's really not any messier than finger paint, is it?— or build towers with banana slices. If your child is reluctant to play with certain kinds of food because of an aversion to the food's color, scent or texture, start playing with it yourself and allow your child to join in at his leisure.
Roleplay cooking, serving and eating food with toy food, a toy stove and toy utensils.
And, yes, assuming you don't eat out every night at a five star restaurant, let your child touch her food and get it all over her fingers if she wants to at the dinner table.
Picky eaters are afraid of the unfamiliar, and so, the more familiar a certain type of food becomes, the more likely it is that the child will eventually become willing to try it.
Don't let your child's reluctance to touch a food get in the way of her eating it. If your child really dislikes getting sticky fingers while eating fresh fruit, cut an apple or a pear into small pieces and let him eat it with a fork. Make sure there are plenty of napkins around within your child's reach so that if he does drip some food on himself, he can clean it off quickly before it starts to bother him. And let him use the napkin himself—don't do it for him unless he's utterly distraught. Learning that he can take care of uncomfortable sensations himself will help him feel more in control of the situation.
Or, if your child won't eat the food with utensils, she may allow you to feed her the food yourself (but don't force it into her mouth—ask if she would like you to put a piece of the food in her mouth for her, and then do so slowly and gently.)
Now of course, your ultimate goal should be to get your child feeding himself at all times, and accepting the same food in many different forms (i.e., you don't want a 13-year-old insisting that all apples must be cut into bite-sized pieces and eaten with a fork, preferably a fork wielded by her mother). But, I have found that after a texture-averse child has been assisted with a certain food multiple times, she will eventually become more comfortable about touching the food with her hands, feeding herself, and accepting the same type of food in a different preparation.
Go ahead and bribe the kid already. I know that some nutritionists will take issue with my saying this, because our nation's bad eating habits have led to a childhood obesity epidemic, and everything you do to influence the way your child views food when he is three will influence his entire future including whether he gets to be world president, or winds up scrubbing toilets at McDonald's, etcetera, yada, yada, yada.
But, listen, in my completely unprofessional, from-the-trenches opinion, if you're like me, trying to feed an extremely picky, extremely underweight child, who NEEDS to gain weight RIGHT NOW, in order to maintain proper health and growth, the last thing you need is to be worrying about on top of your other worries is whether bribing your super-skinny child to finish her meal by offering her one chocolate chip cookie for dessert today will somehow find her sobbing at an Overeaters Anonymous meeting twenty years from now.
Of course it's important to model good eating habits for your children, but, I believe that developing a healthy relationship to food is an ongoing process, and I don't believe the occasional offering of a bite of dessert in exchange for a bite of broccoli will necessarily permanently destroy your child's future with food.
But, the good news is, you don't even necessarily have to use unhealthy food as a bribe.
Many picky kids have at least one healthy food that they like. For example, I often bribe my own son with dried coconut or dried fruit. Think about the healthy, or at least not-unhealthy, foods that your own child likes. (And remember also that unhealthy for adults is not the same as unhealthy for children, especially underweight children. Children need a good deal more fat in their diets than adults do, for brain development. So, fatty foods like coconut, avocado, nut butters, cheese and whole milk can actually be good for kids who aren't overweight.)
I generally find that the best way to bribe a child into trying a new food, or eating a familiar food the child will only occasionally tolerate, is to offer a small amount of a food the child likes in exchange for each bite of the new or underappreciated food. For example, don't say, "If you just try this spinach once, you can have a whole apple pie!" Just say, "If you try one bite of this pasta, you can have one chocolate chip."
Use reverse psychology. I suspect this works especially well if your child is in the two-to-three-year-old age range, but it will probably work to a certain extent with older children, too.
If your child refuses to eat the food on his plate, very casually say, "Oh, you don't want that food? Well, can I eat it, then?"
This will often trigger an immediate change of attitude toward the food. What once was just a stupid plate of weird overly mushy mashed potatoes is suddenly MY plate of mashed potatoes, that Mommy or Daddy wants to TAKE AWAY FROM ME! If the food on the plate is something you have had some success in getting your child to eat before, this will often work on the first try.
However, if your child says "Yes, please eat it!" don’t give up. Start eating small bites of your child's food, right in front of your child. Your actually eating the food will sometimes cause the child to demand that you give the plate back to her if simply asking for it won't. As you eat the food, try saying things like, "It's too bad Janey didn't want this muffin. It tastes really good. I guess she just doesn't like muffins." But don’t overact or make a huge deal out of it—with picky kids, it's always best to try to keep dinnertime drama to a minimum.
Now, obviously reverse psychology doesn't work every time. It all depends on whether your child's territorial instincts (and general desire to prove his parents wrong) are strong enough to override his aversion to the particular food you are offering.
(By the way, if you have a two or three-year-old, reverse psychology also works pretty well when you want your kid to dress herself, or put away her toys. "Oh? You won't help me with this? All right. I'll just do it myself then. I guess maybe you're not old enough to help me yet.")
Seek out new nutritious foods that are similar in form and texture to food your child already eats. Did you know that Whole Foods Market carries vegetable chips made from real whole sliced vegetables? If you have a potato chip lover, try sneaking some veggie chips in instead. If your child won't eat fresh fruit, but loves raisins, have you tried offering him dried blueberries, dried cherries, or dried apples? If she'll eat bread all day long, will she eat banana bread? Zucchini bread? Pumpkin bread? Have you tried it?
Be as understanding and patient as you can manage. Remember that your child most likely really is afraid of trying new foods, and really isn't refusing to eat just to be ornery.
Watching your child refuse to eat perfectly tasty, nutritious food that you purchased and prepared for him yourself can be an incredibly frustrating experience, especially if it happens several times each day, and even more especially if your child's poor eating habits are leading you to be concerned about her health. Providing food for your child is one of your most fundamental duties as a parent, and it can be absolutely maddening when you feel as though you are doing everything right to provide your child with a nutritious diet, but your child is still refusing to cooperate.
It's okay to get frustrated. It's okay to get mad. It's okay to excuse yourself from the room and go cry and punch a pillow, if you have to. But try to keep your cool in front of your child at mealtimes, and try to remember that your child is refusing the food—not your love.
Everyone tastes foods differently, and we all have certain foods we don't like. When your child makes a face after trying a new food, try to imagine how you would feel if someone were trying to force your least favorite food on you.
We also all have irrational fears. Are you scared of heights? Leery of elevators? Nervous about driving? Terrified of harmless bugs that can't even sting you? Imagine the way you felt the last time you had to face one of your irrational fears, and remember that that may very well be how your child is feeling about eating, every day.
Making your child's fear of certain foods real in your mind can help you become more attuned to his feelings while he is eating, and being more attuned to your child's feelings can help you judge whether a particular moment is a good moment to push your child to take another step in overcoming his fear, or if it would be better just let things slide and try again next time.
Above all, remember that this situation is not your fault. It's not your child's fault. It's just an obstacle the two of you are faced with to surmount, together.
I'm not sure I do have good advice, but I can give advice based things that have worked for me, with my child, in my home.
Since I know very well how stressful and upsetting it can be for a parent when your child won't eat, I have decided to provide the internet with a few of my strategies.
Note of course that I am not a nutritionist, or a child psychologist, or an occupational therapist, or a news channel talking head. I'm just a mom with an underweight, exceedingly picky kid, and I have seen and talked to a lot of experts and tried a lot of different strategies in the course of my ongoing quest to help my son become a better eater.
So, without further ado:
Jaelithe's Tricks for Tricking Picky Eaters
Let your child play with his food. And I don't mean just at dinner time. Let her help you get it down from the shelf and put in the cart at the grocery store. Let him help you prepare the food in the kitchen. If you have an older child, you might want to talk about where your food comes from. Say, "Apples grow on apple trees," or, "Pasta is made from flour, which comes from a kind of grass, called wheat." Let your child help pick berries at a farm, or grow a backyard vegetable garden. Get your child interested in food outside of the context of eating it.
At play time, let your child paint pictures with chocolate pudding or applesauce—it's really not any messier than finger paint, is it?— or build towers with banana slices. If your child is reluctant to play with certain kinds of food because of an aversion to the food's color, scent or texture, start playing with it yourself and allow your child to join in at his leisure.
Roleplay cooking, serving and eating food with toy food, a toy stove and toy utensils.
And, yes, assuming you don't eat out every night at a five star restaurant, let your child touch her food and get it all over her fingers if she wants to at the dinner table.
Picky eaters are afraid of the unfamiliar, and so, the more familiar a certain type of food becomes, the more likely it is that the child will eventually become willing to try it.
Don't let your child's reluctance to touch a food get in the way of her eating it. If your child really dislikes getting sticky fingers while eating fresh fruit, cut an apple or a pear into small pieces and let him eat it with a fork. Make sure there are plenty of napkins around within your child's reach so that if he does drip some food on himself, he can clean it off quickly before it starts to bother him. And let him use the napkin himself—don't do it for him unless he's utterly distraught. Learning that he can take care of uncomfortable sensations himself will help him feel more in control of the situation.
Or, if your child won't eat the food with utensils, she may allow you to feed her the food yourself (but don't force it into her mouth—ask if she would like you to put a piece of the food in her mouth for her, and then do so slowly and gently.)
Now of course, your ultimate goal should be to get your child feeding himself at all times, and accepting the same food in many different forms (i.e., you don't want a 13-year-old insisting that all apples must be cut into bite-sized pieces and eaten with a fork, preferably a fork wielded by her mother). But, I have found that after a texture-averse child has been assisted with a certain food multiple times, she will eventually become more comfortable about touching the food with her hands, feeding herself, and accepting the same type of food in a different preparation.
Go ahead and bribe the kid already. I know that some nutritionists will take issue with my saying this, because our nation's bad eating habits have led to a childhood obesity epidemic, and everything you do to influence the way your child views food when he is three will influence his entire future including whether he gets to be world president, or winds up scrubbing toilets at McDonald's, etcetera, yada, yada, yada.
But, listen, in my completely unprofessional, from-the-trenches opinion, if you're like me, trying to feed an extremely picky, extremely underweight child, who NEEDS to gain weight RIGHT NOW, in order to maintain proper health and growth, the last thing you need is to be worrying about on top of your other worries is whether bribing your super-skinny child to finish her meal by offering her one chocolate chip cookie for dessert today will somehow find her sobbing at an Overeaters Anonymous meeting twenty years from now.
Of course it's important to model good eating habits for your children, but, I believe that developing a healthy relationship to food is an ongoing process, and I don't believe the occasional offering of a bite of dessert in exchange for a bite of broccoli will necessarily permanently destroy your child's future with food.
But, the good news is, you don't even necessarily have to use unhealthy food as a bribe.
Many picky kids have at least one healthy food that they like. For example, I often bribe my own son with dried coconut or dried fruit. Think about the healthy, or at least not-unhealthy, foods that your own child likes. (And remember also that unhealthy for adults is not the same as unhealthy for children, especially underweight children. Children need a good deal more fat in their diets than adults do, for brain development. So, fatty foods like coconut, avocado, nut butters, cheese and whole milk can actually be good for kids who aren't overweight.)
I generally find that the best way to bribe a child into trying a new food, or eating a familiar food the child will only occasionally tolerate, is to offer a small amount of a food the child likes in exchange for each bite of the new or underappreciated food. For example, don't say, "If you just try this spinach once, you can have a whole apple pie!" Just say, "If you try one bite of this pasta, you can have one chocolate chip."
Use reverse psychology. I suspect this works especially well if your child is in the two-to-three-year-old age range, but it will probably work to a certain extent with older children, too.
If your child refuses to eat the food on his plate, very casually say, "Oh, you don't want that food? Well, can I eat it, then?"
This will often trigger an immediate change of attitude toward the food. What once was just a stupid plate of weird overly mushy mashed potatoes is suddenly MY plate of mashed potatoes, that Mommy or Daddy wants to TAKE AWAY FROM ME! If the food on the plate is something you have had some success in getting your child to eat before, this will often work on the first try.
However, if your child says "Yes, please eat it!" don’t give up. Start eating small bites of your child's food, right in front of your child. Your actually eating the food will sometimes cause the child to demand that you give the plate back to her if simply asking for it won't. As you eat the food, try saying things like, "It's too bad Janey didn't want this muffin. It tastes really good. I guess she just doesn't like muffins." But don’t overact or make a huge deal out of it—with picky kids, it's always best to try to keep dinnertime drama to a minimum.
Now, obviously reverse psychology doesn't work every time. It all depends on whether your child's territorial instincts (and general desire to prove his parents wrong) are strong enough to override his aversion to the particular food you are offering.
(By the way, if you have a two or three-year-old, reverse psychology also works pretty well when you want your kid to dress herself, or put away her toys. "Oh? You won't help me with this? All right. I'll just do it myself then. I guess maybe you're not old enough to help me yet.")
Seek out new nutritious foods that are similar in form and texture to food your child already eats. Did you know that Whole Foods Market carries vegetable chips made from real whole sliced vegetables? If you have a potato chip lover, try sneaking some veggie chips in instead. If your child won't eat fresh fruit, but loves raisins, have you tried offering him dried blueberries, dried cherries, or dried apples? If she'll eat bread all day long, will she eat banana bread? Zucchini bread? Pumpkin bread? Have you tried it?
Be as understanding and patient as you can manage. Remember that your child most likely really is afraid of trying new foods, and really isn't refusing to eat just to be ornery.
Watching your child refuse to eat perfectly tasty, nutritious food that you purchased and prepared for him yourself can be an incredibly frustrating experience, especially if it happens several times each day, and even more especially if your child's poor eating habits are leading you to be concerned about her health. Providing food for your child is one of your most fundamental duties as a parent, and it can be absolutely maddening when you feel as though you are doing everything right to provide your child with a nutritious diet, but your child is still refusing to cooperate.
It's okay to get frustrated. It's okay to get mad. It's okay to excuse yourself from the room and go cry and punch a pillow, if you have to. But try to keep your cool in front of your child at mealtimes, and try to remember that your child is refusing the food—not your love.
Everyone tastes foods differently, and we all have certain foods we don't like. When your child makes a face after trying a new food, try to imagine how you would feel if someone were trying to force your least favorite food on you.
We also all have irrational fears. Are you scared of heights? Leery of elevators? Nervous about driving? Terrified of harmless bugs that can't even sting you? Imagine the way you felt the last time you had to face one of your irrational fears, and remember that that may very well be how your child is feeling about eating, every day.
Making your child's fear of certain foods real in your mind can help you become more attuned to his feelings while he is eating, and being more attuned to your child's feelings can help you judge whether a particular moment is a good moment to push your child to take another step in overcoming his fear, or if it would be better just let things slide and try again next time.
Above all, remember that this situation is not your fault. It's not your child's fault. It's just an obstacle the two of you are faced with to surmount, together.
Sunday, May 27, 2007
Food
This morning while tending my vegetable garden I noticed the first bell pepper fattening on the vine, its waxy green skin glimmering new and unblemished under an umbrella of broad leaves. As I left, thinking of the taste of a fresh roasted golden yellow pepper a month from now, I double-checked my garden's chicken wire fence to make certain there weren't any gaps that would let a rabbit in to steal my prize.
Back inside the house, I brought out my good heavy mixing bowl and started gathering the ingredients to make biscuits for the strawberry shortcake I had planned for tonight's dessert after dinner. We had Bisquick in the pantry, but I skipped it, opting instead to make the biscuits from scratch: flour, salt, sugar, cream, butter, baking powder.
When the dough came together, I rolled it out and cut it into heart shapes with a cookie cutter.
While the biscuits baked, I took out a box of ripe strawberries and selected the nicest ones and rinsed them. The strawberries were too red and juicy for me to resist eating a couple. I sliced the rest, and put them in a bowl with some sugar. Then I put the sugared strawberries and fresh-baked biscuits in the refrigerator to chill.
When the neighbor girl came over around midday to play with my son, I made a point of showing her the first pepper. She had helped me plant some of the herbs in my herb garden, and I thought she'd want to see how quickly the vegetable plants across from the herbs had grown. She was excited about the pepper, but impatiently disappointed to see the tomato plants I planted just a few weeks ago covered in yellow blossoms, but no fruit.
Later this afternoon, while running errands, I stopped at the hardware store and found that the herbs were on sale. I picked up a peppermint plant and a chamomile plant to put in pots on my patio. Between those two and the spearmint I already had growing, I thought, I'd be set for the rest of the summer for fresh herbal tea.
At dinnertime, despite the rain outside, my husband fired up our new grill for the first time, grilling hamburgers and veggie burgers and ears of corn over charcoal and soaked hickory chips under the shelter of the carport. The new grill made a quick, clean fire and the burgers came out tender with crisp edges.
When we'd finished our barbeque, I brought out some heavy whipping cream, mixed in sugar and vanilla, and whipped it into a rich whipped cream. I spread this over the biscuits I'd baked earlier, and added the sugared strawberries.
As I bit into a crumbly, strawberry-juice-soaked, cream-topped biscuit, feeling utterly decadent, I considered that the simple recipe I'd used for my strawberry shortcake was probably not all that different from the recipes used by women fifty or even a hundred years ago. Only, I imagined that the whipped cream would have tasted much better a hundred years ago, if it had been skimmed earlier that same day from milk milked that very dawn from one's own personal cow.
Still and all, I decided, this strawberry shortcake was pretty damned good.
But my son wouldn't eat the strawberries, or the shortcake, or the cream.
He didn't care for the barbeque sauce on his burger, either, come to talk of it, and he didn't even want the grilled corn touching his plate.
The chamomile plant and the mint plant I bought earlier today? They will both make great tea to soothe upset stomachs the next time one of us gets sick. But I know my son won't tolerate even a drop of warm tea on his tongue. Not even with sugar in it. I've offered it to him when he's been sick before, many times.
The fresh peppers and tomatoes and beans I'm growing in my garden? The basil, parsley, oregano, and sage? Chances are, he won't willingly take a single bite of any of these things when they're ready to be eaten.
Because none of these things are on his list: the list of things he is willing to eat. That list that has grown so much over the past year, after so much work, into something that, finally, sort of resembles a sustainable balanced diet. That list that has grown so much, yet sometimes still seems so terribly short to me.
For as long as I can remember, since I was a very little girl, toddling after my mother in the kitchen or my grandmother in the garden, growing and cooking and eating good food has always been such a pleasure for me. Despite the issues all sorts of people, including me seem to have with food these days-- worrying about this or that food making us too fat, or causing cancer, or heart disease; worrying about where our food comes from, and whether making that food harmed the planet or caused other people suffering, etcetera-- despite all that, food has so often been a source of so much wonder and joy for me.
And the fact that my only child doesn't seem to enjoy food much as all is so devastating to me when I think about it in the context of the joy I have experienced in connection with food. It's the same to me as if a person could, somehow, hear, but not hear music; the same as if a person could walk, but could not dance.
And my sadness over the world of happy experience I imagine my son is missing out on now haunts every happy moment I experience watering a tomato plant (and breathing in the sultry tomato scent the plants give off each time they are watered), or kneading bread dough (and feeling the elasticity grow beneath my hands, and imagining the fine texture it will produce in the finished loaf), or biting into a tart new apple or a slice of fresh-baked cake.
Back inside the house, I brought out my good heavy mixing bowl and started gathering the ingredients to make biscuits for the strawberry shortcake I had planned for tonight's dessert after dinner. We had Bisquick in the pantry, but I skipped it, opting instead to make the biscuits from scratch: flour, salt, sugar, cream, butter, baking powder.
When the dough came together, I rolled it out and cut it into heart shapes with a cookie cutter.
While the biscuits baked, I took out a box of ripe strawberries and selected the nicest ones and rinsed them. The strawberries were too red and juicy for me to resist eating a couple. I sliced the rest, and put them in a bowl with some sugar. Then I put the sugared strawberries and fresh-baked biscuits in the refrigerator to chill.
When the neighbor girl came over around midday to play with my son, I made a point of showing her the first pepper. She had helped me plant some of the herbs in my herb garden, and I thought she'd want to see how quickly the vegetable plants across from the herbs had grown. She was excited about the pepper, but impatiently disappointed to see the tomato plants I planted just a few weeks ago covered in yellow blossoms, but no fruit.
Later this afternoon, while running errands, I stopped at the hardware store and found that the herbs were on sale. I picked up a peppermint plant and a chamomile plant to put in pots on my patio. Between those two and the spearmint I already had growing, I thought, I'd be set for the rest of the summer for fresh herbal tea.
At dinnertime, despite the rain outside, my husband fired up our new grill for the first time, grilling hamburgers and veggie burgers and ears of corn over charcoal and soaked hickory chips under the shelter of the carport. The new grill made a quick, clean fire and the burgers came out tender with crisp edges.
When we'd finished our barbeque, I brought out some heavy whipping cream, mixed in sugar and vanilla, and whipped it into a rich whipped cream. I spread this over the biscuits I'd baked earlier, and added the sugared strawberries.
As I bit into a crumbly, strawberry-juice-soaked, cream-topped biscuit, feeling utterly decadent, I considered that the simple recipe I'd used for my strawberry shortcake was probably not all that different from the recipes used by women fifty or even a hundred years ago. Only, I imagined that the whipped cream would have tasted much better a hundred years ago, if it had been skimmed earlier that same day from milk milked that very dawn from one's own personal cow.
Still and all, I decided, this strawberry shortcake was pretty damned good.
But my son wouldn't eat the strawberries, or the shortcake, or the cream.
He didn't care for the barbeque sauce on his burger, either, come to talk of it, and he didn't even want the grilled corn touching his plate.
The chamomile plant and the mint plant I bought earlier today? They will both make great tea to soothe upset stomachs the next time one of us gets sick. But I know my son won't tolerate even a drop of warm tea on his tongue. Not even with sugar in it. I've offered it to him when he's been sick before, many times.
The fresh peppers and tomatoes and beans I'm growing in my garden? The basil, parsley, oregano, and sage? Chances are, he won't willingly take a single bite of any of these things when they're ready to be eaten.
Because none of these things are on his list: the list of things he is willing to eat. That list that has grown so much over the past year, after so much work, into something that, finally, sort of resembles a sustainable balanced diet. That list that has grown so much, yet sometimes still seems so terribly short to me.
For as long as I can remember, since I was a very little girl, toddling after my mother in the kitchen or my grandmother in the garden, growing and cooking and eating good food has always been such a pleasure for me. Despite the issues all sorts of people, including me seem to have with food these days-- worrying about this or that food making us too fat, or causing cancer, or heart disease; worrying about where our food comes from, and whether making that food harmed the planet or caused other people suffering, etcetera-- despite all that, food has so often been a source of so much wonder and joy for me.
And the fact that my only child doesn't seem to enjoy food much as all is so devastating to me when I think about it in the context of the joy I have experienced in connection with food. It's the same to me as if a person could, somehow, hear, but not hear music; the same as if a person could walk, but could not dance.
And my sadness over the world of happy experience I imagine my son is missing out on now haunts every happy moment I experience watering a tomato plant (and breathing in the sultry tomato scent the plants give off each time they are watered), or kneading bread dough (and feeling the elasticity grow beneath my hands, and imagining the fine texture it will produce in the finished loaf), or biting into a tart new apple or a slice of fresh-baked cake.
Saturday, May 19, 2007
Hot Blogger Secrets Revealed!
Dana doesn't like nuts in her chocolate.
Lisa prefers Raspberry Vinaigrette to Balsamic.
Reba orders the EXACT SAME THING I DO, LIKE, EVERY TIME. Poser :P
Oh, and we all hate Bratz dolls. But I don't think that was a secret.
Lisa told me I should digitally enhance this photo, but, as you see, it wasn't necessary.
I told Dana her camera was geeky, but only because I am jealous of it. My martini glass was the empty one. You can see that everyone else's was still half full.
Appropriately blurry photo of my dessert.
I had to leave early, so I don't know what wanton debauchery might have followed dessert, but, I imagine you, dear reader, are also sad you missed it, no?
Thanks to all the lovely ladies for letting me hang with the cool kids, even though I've been a total slacker lately on my own blog. And thanks especially to Lisa for organizing a SECOND St. Louis blogger meetup. Considering that half the time lately I can't even seem to organize a trip to the grocery store, I really appreciate her take-chargery.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
I Just Don't Know What to Do with Myself
Last week, my son turned three. My husband turned . . . twenty-something (I'll never tell). My sister graduated from college. Some in-laws we haven't seen in several months came into town from Kansas. And I had my third Mother's Day. (Did I mention I spent my first Mother's Day giving birth?) And I had an existential crisis about what I want to do with my life, including whether I ought to be getting to making another baby right now, or trying to finally get back on the fast track with my currently mommy-tracked career. (Which is? What is that I wanted to be when I grew up again, exactly?)
I have meaningful things to write about all of these events. But, today, my frazzled brain has chosen to gift you instead with the lyrics of the song that Isaac spontaneously composed this evening while getting ready for his bath:
You wanna see something, little girl?
I'm gonna make a game.
You can't see me anywhere--
you can only see the rain.
Heavens. Am I raising the next Burt Bacharach?
I have meaningful things to write about all of these events. But, today, my frazzled brain has chosen to gift you instead with the lyrics of the song that Isaac spontaneously composed this evening while getting ready for his bath:
You wanna see something, little girl?
I'm gonna make a game.
You can't see me anywhere--
you can only see the rain.
Heavens. Am I raising the next Burt Bacharach?
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Back to Scare Your Pants Off
Today, when I woke up, I could breathe. This was a remarkable experience after after two weeks of nearly hacking up a lung every twenty minutes (because, apparently, I can't just come down with a case of the blahs-- oh no-- I have to come down with a case of the cold from hell, too, or, shoot, maybe it was whooping cough or pneumonia something; I don't know, but the boy didn't catch it, which is good, considering that for the past several days my husband has been gone on an extended business trip! Hooray!)
Since I was feeling quasi-normal I decided that today might be a good day to FINALLY get some work done on my new herb garden. This despite the fact that after two weeks of illness I had laundry on the bedroom floor, dishes in the sink, and a Matchbox car obstacle course in my office.
You see, I've been planning to dig a plot for the garden and lay out a cement brick border for weeks; I'd already purchased a couple of plants and they have been getting quite literally sick of living in tiny plastic containers on a windowsill under crappy fluorescent lighting. If I wait much longer to plant these poor creatures, they'll croak.
Isaac was itching to get outside anyway after days of being cooped up with a loony sick woman who sounds like a broken robot when she speaks.
So, when we got a break in the rain this afternoon, I went out to dig.
After marking out two small garden beds next to my patio, I started digging up the grass. Isaac pretended to help me with his little trowel, and insisted that I rescue every worm we came across. Things were going pretty well, albeit slowly. Every ten minutes or so, I had to stop to catch my breath; my lungs were still pretty unhappy after two weeks of coughing.
I had gotten about half of one bed dug when I realized it was almost dinner time. I decided to cut a sharp edge with my trowel, lay the cement bricks in one one side of one bed, and then go back inside.
As I dug, my trowel struck something that was decidedly un-dirt-like. I pushed back the dirt with my gloved hands, and discovered a piece of coarse, dirt-encrusted fabric. I could see a seam down the middle of the exposed piece.
Could it be a bag, I wondered? A few weeks ago, while planting fruit trees, my husband had dug up an old-fashioned, dented silver serving spoon. We'd wondered whether it had been buried by a child playing with some old worn-out silverware, or an adult who had some sort of poverty paranoia who had decided to hide silver trinkets throughout the yard.
When I hit the cloth, I thought that perhaps it was a bag full of coins, or more silverware, buried by the same silver-hoarder.
I dug more carefully, with my hands, gently exposing the fabric.
It wasn't a bag.
It was a pair of jeans.
There wasn't a body inside them.
(Phew!)
I may or may not have googled, "What should I do when I find clothes buried in my backyard?" this evening . . .
(Being married to a former Catholic has its advantages. When your husband has a family roughly the size of a small town, he's bound to be related to someone in just about every profession. So I already called the police-officer-in-law tonight. His thought is that maybe the rehabber who owned the house briefly several years ago, just before the people we bought the house from moved in, may have buried a bunch of junk that had been left in the house in the yard before sodding over it, because it was easier than taking it to the dump. What's your theory?)
Since I was feeling quasi-normal I decided that today might be a good day to FINALLY get some work done on my new herb garden. This despite the fact that after two weeks of illness I had laundry on the bedroom floor, dishes in the sink, and a Matchbox car obstacle course in my office.
You see, I've been planning to dig a plot for the garden and lay out a cement brick border for weeks; I'd already purchased a couple of plants and they have been getting quite literally sick of living in tiny plastic containers on a windowsill under crappy fluorescent lighting. If I wait much longer to plant these poor creatures, they'll croak.
Isaac was itching to get outside anyway after days of being cooped up with a loony sick woman who sounds like a broken robot when she speaks.
So, when we got a break in the rain this afternoon, I went out to dig.
After marking out two small garden beds next to my patio, I started digging up the grass. Isaac pretended to help me with his little trowel, and insisted that I rescue every worm we came across. Things were going pretty well, albeit slowly. Every ten minutes or so, I had to stop to catch my breath; my lungs were still pretty unhappy after two weeks of coughing.
I had gotten about half of one bed dug when I realized it was almost dinner time. I decided to cut a sharp edge with my trowel, lay the cement bricks in one one side of one bed, and then go back inside.
As I dug, my trowel struck something that was decidedly un-dirt-like. I pushed back the dirt with my gloved hands, and discovered a piece of coarse, dirt-encrusted fabric. I could see a seam down the middle of the exposed piece.
Could it be a bag, I wondered? A few weeks ago, while planting fruit trees, my husband had dug up an old-fashioned, dented silver serving spoon. We'd wondered whether it had been buried by a child playing with some old worn-out silverware, or an adult who had some sort of poverty paranoia who had decided to hide silver trinkets throughout the yard.
When I hit the cloth, I thought that perhaps it was a bag full of coins, or more silverware, buried by the same silver-hoarder.
I dug more carefully, with my hands, gently exposing the fabric.
It wasn't a bag.
It was a pair of jeans.
There wasn't a body inside them.
(Phew!)
I may or may not have googled, "What should I do when I find clothes buried in my backyard?" this evening . . .
(Being married to a former Catholic has its advantages. When your husband has a family roughly the size of a small town, he's bound to be related to someone in just about every profession. So I already called the police-officer-in-law tonight. His thought is that maybe the rehabber who owned the house briefly several years ago, just before the people we bought the house from moved in, may have buried a bunch of junk that had been left in the house in the yard before sodding over it, because it was easier than taking it to the dump. What's your theory?)
Friday, April 13, 2007
The Blahs
See the title of my blog?
I've been feeling especially discontented lately.
I'm sorry I haven't been around much. I hope I'll be back soon.
I've been feeling especially discontented lately.
I'm sorry I haven't been around much. I hope I'll be back soon.
Thursday, April 05, 2007
Notice from the Management*
I am not a ten dollar back-alley writing ho.
I am AT LEAST a writing escort service.
At the very least.
So if you cannot muster the courtesy to treat me like a lady when soliciting my writing services, you will be denied access to my specialized skills.
Thank You,
The Management
*Management idea totally borrowed from Dana's closet without asking. But, I needed something new to wear to the club tonight! And it fit me so well!
I am AT LEAST a writing escort service.
At the very least.
So if you cannot muster the courtesy to treat me like a lady when soliciting my writing services, you will be denied access to my specialized skills.
Thank You,
The Management
*Management idea totally borrowed from Dana's closet without asking. But, I needed something new to wear to the club tonight! And it fit me so well!
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Echooo (Echooo, Echooo, Echooo)
Boy, it's been, empty, around here, lately, hasn't it?
Sorry. For some reason, I've just been missing my blog mojo lately.
(If anyone saw Dr. Evil in my neighborhood recently, let me know. Especially if he starts writing blog posts about his son's funny foibles and all the crazy mishaps that have happened lately during renovations in his Evil lab. Then I'll totally be on to him.)
The lovely Andrea has kindly volunteered (okay, I begged her) to tag me with an interview meme in an attempt to revive my dismally flagging initiative. So, without further adieu, an interview:
1. What's the best advice you've ever received?
"You should be a professional writer someday." -Mother
"You should be a professional writer someday." -Fourth Grade Teacher
"You should be a professional writer someday." -Sixth Grade English Teacher
"You should be a professional writer someday." -High School English Teacher
"You should be a professional writer someday." -College Dramatic Criticism Professor
"You should be a professional writer someday." -College Screenwriting Professor
"You should be a professional writer someday." -College Exposition Professor.
At around the 200th time someone said this to me, it finally sunk in that perhaps I should be a professional writer, and not a biologist, when I grew up. Because I suck at math. And I'm not too good with a micro-pipette. And I really hate dissecting cats. (Did you know you have to dissect cats to get a biology degree? You do.)
2. If you could be a character in a book or movie, who would you be and why?
I would be Elizabeth Bennet from that book Andrea says she can't get through, Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen. I share a lot of her flaws (like, for instance, having a tendency to push away people I ought instead to try to attract, or, for example, occasionally being too convinced of my own intellectual superiority for my own good), so I think I'd be comfortable. And, believe it or not, the Bennet family is way saner than mine, so I could totally put up with them.
Not to mention the fact that Mr. Darcy is HAWT.
A close second, of course, would be Hermione from the Harry Potter series. Because what geeky former know-it-all schoolgirl doesn't want to be Hermione?
3. How did you and your lovely husband meet?
We met in the food court in the St. Louis Galleria shopping mall. No joke. How's that for romantic?
He was wearing geeky glasses, and reading a C++ programming book the size of an infant elephant. I thought to myself, "Hmm, that guy looks really cute in a nerdy sort of way, just like all those nerdy guys I used to have crushes on back when I was in high school. But I am so over that nerdy guy phase."
(I was wrong.)
4. What issue concerning your country do you think needs the most attention given the impending campaigns gearing up for next year's leadership change?
This is a tough question to answer, because the current administration has done a lot of things to make me unhappy, and in some cases, very angry, and it's hard for me to decide where a new government ought to start undoing the damage.
I suppose there is one issue underlying nearly all of my issues with the current group in power, though, and that issue would be: trust.
I want to be able to trust my elected officials to honor my country's constitution. I don't want the government reading my mail or tapping my phone without a warrant; that's against the Constitution. I don't want the executive branch trying to take over the judicial branch and silence the Congress; that's also against the Constitution.
I want to be able to trust my elected officials to put the beliefs and needs of their constituents first, not their own lust for personal glory or money or power.
I want to be able to trust my government to react swiftly, deliberately, efficiently and appropriately in times of national crisis when the lives and livelihoods of many citizens of my country are at stake. I know a lot of people say that one oughtn't to rely on one's government to help one out of every single bad situation-- that people ought to practice more self-sufficiency, and be more prepared in case of a disaster-- and I agree with that sentiment to a degree, but, at the same time, I believe the primary purpose of a government is to protect and serve its people. We can argue all we want about to what extent we want our government to protect and serve us, but that doesn't change the fact that to protect and serve its citizens, to whatever degree the majority of those citizens agree they need service and protection, is the primary purpose of a democratic government.
If we have a Central Intelligence Agency that can't keep track of intelligence on dangerous terrorists, well, then, why do we have a Central Intelligence Agency at all? If we have a Federal Emergency Management Agency that can't manage emergencies, what is the point to its even existing? I really don't think there is any excuse for the repeated recent failures of nearly every major government agency to perform even marginally in its supposed role. I feel like the majority of people working in government today have entirely forgotten that the taxpayers pay their salaries, and the people are their ultimate boss.
I also want other countries to be able to trust that the government of my country will deal honestly and fairly with other countries, and will always try to work for peace. I don't believe in covert support of coups or rebellions in other countries (that sort of thing is what got Osama Bin Laden trained by the CIA, after all), and I don't believe in preemptive war.
I know I'm quite an idealist, to even suggest that such a thing exists as one trustworthy politician, let alone enough of them to fill an entire executive branch. But I refuse to give up hope. I think I had, at one point, given up hope in progress and faith in the good of humanity, but motherhood has renewed my sense of optimism in that regard. A powerful paradigm shift takes place when you are suddenly offered the opportunity to imagine every single person on the planet as a person who was once an innocent child.
5. I know you're a vegetarian, and I know you like to cook as well. So what is your favorite dish to cook and eat and will you share the recipe?
Okay, I have a TON of favorite dishes. I am not at all a picky eater, aside from that little not eating dead animals issue I have. It was very hard for me to choose, but this particular dish is easy to make; enticingly exotic, I think, with its interesting combination of East Indian spices and a decidedly American vegetable; and, it has received rave reviews from my husband, who IS a picky eater:
This is modified from a recipe in The Vegetable Book, by Colin Spencer, which is an excellent book that everyone who ever cooks vegetables should own:
Curried Sweet Potatoes
three medium or two large sweet potatoes
one-two tablespoons peanut oil
1 tablespoon black mustard seeds (you can get these at an Indian grocery store)
1 1/2 tbsp garam masala (you SHOULD get this at the Indian grocery store, because the big generic grocery store will hose you on the price)
pinch chili powder (to taste)
pinch salt
2 tbsp chopped fresh cilantro
Boil the sweet potatoes in their skins for 15 minutes. They should be just cooked through, but not mushy. Drain them and let them cool. I mean, really, let them cool. You do not want to try to peel these when they are hot. Trust me on this one.
Once the potatoes have cooled, peel them. You should be able to just pull the skin off with your fingers. Slice the peeled potatoes into disks about 1/4 inch thick.
Heat the peanut oil in a non-stick pan. Add the mustard seeds. Swish them around with a spatula to coat them thoroughly with oil. When the mustard seeds start hopping in the pan, add the chili powder and the sweet potatoes. Lower to medium heat, and fry until the underside of the potatoes start to acquire spots of golden brown.
Sprinkle the garam masala evenly over the potatoes; flip them to make sure they get coated on all sides. Add the cilantro, and fry for a minute or three more until the cilantro has just wilted and it all looks crispy.
Serve with jasmine rice.
Bonus question: What is your favorite kind of cheese?
Lorraine swiss.
********
Now, who wants to be interviewed by me?
Saturday, March 24, 2007
Definitive Proof He Was Not Switched at Birth
Because I am really, really tired of strangers at the playground, the grocery store, and the gas station asking me, suspiciously, "Where did that boy get his red hair?" I would like to present the internets with the following old, dirty, grainy photo of myself in 1982, looking more excited about having acquired a little sister than I would again for the next decade (Word to my sis):
And while I was restoring this photo as part of my ongoing Scan the Family Album Before It Disintegrates Project, I realized it reminded me a whole lot of another photo, from 2006:
Me, age 23 months, with sister, three days old.
And while I was restoring this photo as part of my ongoing Scan the Family Album Before It Disintegrates Project, I realized it reminded me a whole lot of another photo, from 2006:
Isaac, age 24 months, unfortunately lacking a little sister for his birthday, but really excited about the DVD he got instead.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Thinking
So, Debbie of I Obsess awarded me one of them there fancy shiny Thinking Blogger Awards!
(Like, a whole week ago.
I am bad.)
I would like to thank Miss Little Debbie Snack kindly, and hereby pass the Thinking Blogger baton to:
Alanna at A Veggie Venture, because she thinks a lot about vegetables. Like, so that the rest of us can steal her ideas for new and exciting ways to cook vegetables. And I LOVES me some vegetables.
Dwight at Ruminations of a Misspent Youth. Because he not only recently finished a novel, which requires a good deal of thought, but he spends hours writing posts that encourage other people to finish novels. Even horrible, terrible people like me who promise to meet him sometime for a critique and then get too busy with moving and fixing up a new house and disappear. And also because I think he has one of the cleverest blog titles EVAH.
Benticore at Epic Black Villainy, because he can make a critique of a comic book character's story arc sound like a treatise on 18th century literature, in a GOOD way.
Melissa at Sugared Harpy, because sometimes she sneaks in an art history lesson on her blog and no one in her virtual class falls asleep.
And Slackermommy, because in a world where it seems mothers are constantly judged over the pettiest things, she reminds us to focus on the truly important aspects of parenting, and forget the crumbs on the floor.
(Like, a whole week ago.
I am bad.)
I would like to thank Miss Little Debbie Snack kindly, and hereby pass the Thinking Blogger baton to:
Alanna at A Veggie Venture, because she thinks a lot about vegetables. Like, so that the rest of us can steal her ideas for new and exciting ways to cook vegetables. And I LOVES me some vegetables.
Dwight at Ruminations of a Misspent Youth. Because he not only recently finished a novel, which requires a good deal of thought, but he spends hours writing posts that encourage other people to finish novels. Even horrible, terrible people like me who promise to meet him sometime for a critique and then get too busy with moving and fixing up a new house and disappear. And also because I think he has one of the cleverest blog titles EVAH.
Benticore at Epic Black Villainy, because he can make a critique of a comic book character's story arc sound like a treatise on 18th century literature, in a GOOD way.
Melissa at Sugared Harpy, because sometimes she sneaks in an art history lesson on her blog and no one in her virtual class falls asleep.
And Slackermommy, because in a world where it seems mothers are constantly judged over the pettiest things, she reminds us to focus on the truly important aspects of parenting, and forget the crumbs on the floor.
Mama's Still Got It
Yesterday, as I stepped out onto the front porch with Isaac to enjoy the lovely weather, a gaggle of pre-teen neighbor girls gathered in my front yard to ogle Isaac, offer small presents of leaves and rocks to Isaac, and ask whether they could pick Isaac up. His red hair has been quite a hit amongst the little girls of the neighborhood ever since we moved in.
One of them, who I hadn't met before, asked whether I was Isaac's babysitter.
"I'm the mom," I responded. "I'm 26."
She looked me up and down, eyes wide, and shook her head. "No. Way."
I'd like to thank Olay Daily Facials, jeans with added spandex, my sense of humor, and the fact that gray hairs blend when you're a dishwater blonde.
One of them, who I hadn't met before, asked whether I was Isaac's babysitter.
"I'm the mom," I responded. "I'm 26."
She looked me up and down, eyes wide, and shook her head. "No. Way."
I'd like to thank Olay Daily Facials, jeans with added spandex, my sense of humor, and the fact that gray hairs blend when you're a dishwater blonde.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Fixer-Upper
The best thing about your circa 1962 bathroom faucet kicking the bucket,
forcing you to the realization that you HAVE to buy yourself a new bathroom faucet, whether or not you just spent the annual GDP of some smaller third world country, or, to put it another way, your entire income tax return, getting a dangerous tree removed from your backyard,
is that if you're going to buy a new faucet you can't afford, damn it, then you might as well buy a SEXY new faucet. Maybe even one that, despite LOOKING circa 1940, actually ACTS like it was made in the 21st century.
So there.
(It helps if the new faucet is on sale.)
forcing you to the realization that you HAVE to buy yourself a new bathroom faucet, whether or not you just spent the annual GDP of some smaller third world country, or, to put it another way, your entire income tax return, getting a dangerous tree removed from your backyard,
is that if you're going to buy a new faucet you can't afford, damn it, then you might as well buy a SEXY new faucet. Maybe even one that, despite LOOKING circa 1940, actually ACTS like it was made in the 21st century.
So there.
(It helps if the new faucet is on sale.)
Monday, March 12, 2007
Blah
I haven't disappeared.
I was in the hospital over the weekend with a sudden, serious infection.
I am not dying, so don't get your knickers in a knot. And I am feeling much better now.
However, hospitals suck.
I intend to write about just how much my latest visit sucked, later, when it doesn't pain me to relive the experience.
My bathroom faucet broke. Now the old faucet and a new faucet are both in pieces in my bathroom, but there is still no faucet attached to my sink, because apparently we need some obscure sort of nut type thing to connect the new faucet to our decidedly not-new pipes.
Isaac ate a whole banana last week. A whole, fresh banana. He wouldn't touch the edible part of the banana directly with his fingers, but he ate the whole thing. With a smile on his face.
Ahhhhhhhhhhh.
I was in the hospital over the weekend with a sudden, serious infection.
I am not dying, so don't get your knickers in a knot. And I am feeling much better now.
However, hospitals suck.
I intend to write about just how much my latest visit sucked, later, when it doesn't pain me to relive the experience.
My bathroom faucet broke. Now the old faucet and a new faucet are both in pieces in my bathroom, but there is still no faucet attached to my sink, because apparently we need some obscure sort of nut type thing to connect the new faucet to our decidedly not-new pipes.
Isaac ate a whole banana last week. A whole, fresh banana. He wouldn't touch the edible part of the banana directly with his fingers, but he ate the whole thing. With a smile on his face.
Ahhhhhhhhhhh.
Saturday, March 03, 2007
I Think I Watched Too Many Bad Trading Spaces Episodes When I Was Pregnant
"Isaac, are you happy that we will be painting your room tomorrow?"
"No!"
"But isn't this such a pretty color blue? Don't you like it? Don't you remember when we picked it out at the store?"
"I not like blue. I want to paint my room ORANGE!"
(Not. Bloody. Likely.)
"No!"
"But isn't this such a pretty color blue? Don't you like it? Don't you remember when we picked it out at the store?"
"I not like blue. I want to paint my room ORANGE!"
(Not. Bloody. Likely.)
Hypocrisy
As a mixed-race person, with significant Cherokee ancestry, the fact that this has come up for a vote makes me absolutely furious with the current leadership of the Cherokee nation.
When are people going to learn that people like me cannot, and will not, be cut into halves or quarters, that we cannot be defined solely by some particular aspect of our physical appearance, that some portion of our ancestry cannot simply be erased just for the sake of convenience? I will always be German. I will always be English. I will always be Cherokee.
The freedmen will always be both black and Cherokee.
When your culture is in danger of dying out, the LAST THING you should do is allow superficial divisions of this sort to further fragment the scattered remains of your society.
Unfortunately, since I am not a registered member of the nation, I can't participate in this vote.
When are people going to learn that people like me cannot, and will not, be cut into halves or quarters, that we cannot be defined solely by some particular aspect of our physical appearance, that some portion of our ancestry cannot simply be erased just for the sake of convenience? I will always be German. I will always be English. I will always be Cherokee.
The freedmen will always be both black and Cherokee.
When your culture is in danger of dying out, the LAST THING you should do is allow superficial divisions of this sort to further fragment the scattered remains of your society.
Unfortunately, since I am not a registered member of the nation, I can't participate in this vote.
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