Locavore? Holy Crapavore.

Remember when I announced that I am taking on the Eat New England challenge this summer? The one where I eat only locally grown or made foods for two months?

Sixty days.

One hundred eighty meals.

I made my first grocery trip today with Eat Local in mind as I dutifully shopped the perimeter of the store.

And?

Holy crap, I'm pretty sure that I'm going to die a slow, torturous death of self-imposed starvation.

I returned home with one bag of granola, 4 containers of yogurt, a half gallon of milk, butter, maple syrup and beer.

I'm all set for breakfast and happy hour, but lunch and dinner look grim.

There was no locally grown produce to be found in my crappy suburban grocery store.

Nothing.

Nada.

Zilch.

No fresh bread. No cheese. No strawberries or lettuce. Even the corn was from New Jersey (exit 10).

I suppose I could have bought a lobster, but I was delirious with hunger and didn't have the heart to bring home a live crustacean, submerge it in boiling water and eat it when the boys are still mourning the death of their hermit crab, Comet.

*moment of silence*


I am hoping, dear God am I hoping, that tomorrow's farmers market will be plentiful.

Otherwise, I may be too weak to post much more in the coming weeks.

We Are What We Drive?

There is a signature in my high school yearbook, written by a friend I grew up with, that has stuck with me over the years. Two decades since graduation and I can still remember exactly what he wrote next to my senior picture.

It started out as the usual 'great knowing you, you're a great friend, good luck next year' blather, but then morphed into THIS: "...I believe that one day you'll meet that great guy with all the brains and money and you'll be driving a station wagon full of kids with a smile on your face".

WTF?

What 17 year old writes that in another 17 year old's yearbook?

A Station wagon? Full of kids? With a smile on my face?

He didn't know me At. All.

I had plans back then. Big Plans. Big Plans that did not include a family vehicle of any kind.

My BFF and I had crafted our future plans together during a field trip to the Metropolitan Museum of Art when we were 14. We were going to live in a loft in SoHo. We'd throw fancy Great-Gatsby parties with real cocktails in real glasses. She was going to be a fashion designer or actress, whichever was more lucrative. My career plans were up in the air, but I was definitely down with city loft living thing.

I'd do the chic city-girl gig during the week, but on the weekends I would free my car from the high priced parking garage (which I would be able to afford with my six figure imaginary job) and cruise down the turnpike to the Jersey Shore in this:



My Dream Car.

The I-Don't-Have-Any-Responsibilities JEEP. Shiny black. Soft top. Adventure ready.

The kind with a removable top and doors. The kind that is required to be driven with flip flops. The kind that can take you to the beach or four wheeling through mud. The kind that reminds you that you are young and not closing in on 40.

I was insulted by my friend's prediction. Who did he think I was?

Clearly, I was much more THIS


Than (God help me) THIS


I went off to college in upstate New York that fall, broke, clueless and car-less.

During summer breaks at home I drove my sister's used Dodge Omni* or, when my mother was feeling generous, her Acura to my summer job at Contempo Casuals in a quintessential New Jersey mall (and crossing off 'retail' from possible career choices).

By my Junior year I convinced my parents that I needed a car so I could live off campus closer to the bars drive myself the 3.5 hours to school, saving them a few trips a year.

They helped me buy one of these bad boys:



A boring practical 1987 Honda Civic** sedan. Not my Jeep, but it had 4 wheels and got me safely from Jersey to New York. It leaked oil every 100 miles, but the tape deck didn't tangle up my Born To Run cassette so it was all good.

After college I moved to Washington, DC, found myself gainfully employed, and out of touch with my Soho-Loft-friend. My '87 civic was starting to show signs of being not so reliable anymore so I spent my entry-level job paychecks on my first New Car.

mine didn't come with a palm tree. Or an ocean view.


Another practical Civic***. [Sigh] Black this time, but it was no free wheeling Jeep. City driving, as it turned out, was not 4x4 vehicle friendly.

The years went by, cars came and went. My pie in the sky Black Jeep was always in the back of my mind, but there never seemed to be a right time to add its' whimsical wheels to my life.

The Husband and I got married, moved a few more times and started a family. The cars were always sensible, fuel efficient and reliable. A Honda. A VW. A Toyota.

Not too long ago, we planted ourselves in New England suburbia with two kids to feed, a lawn to mow and a mortgage to pay.

And where I can currently be found driving around town in this



A Passat Wagon****. Full of kids. With a smile on my face most of the time.

How did he KNOW? Twenty years ago, how did he KNOW?

Did my 17 year old persona scream 'FUTURE STATION WAGON DRIVER'?

Was I that transparent?

I didn't think so.

But then people tend to see us differently than we see ourselves.

Maybe it was my spot on the tennis team that gave me away. Or my sensible chin-length bob. Or even the canvas LL Bean book bag I carried to school every day.

Whatever it was, it was the image I had chosen to show the world.

I guess I may have done a pretty good job of playing the Future-Domestic-Girl role on the outside, but on the inside I was, and still am, the ever hopeful Barefoot-Jeep-Driving Girl.

A girl can dream, can't she?


----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Someday I will get my Jeep*****. I may be the only flip flop wearing 85 year old at Sunset Farms Retirement Village driving one, and I may not be able to see where I'm going, but there I'll be, in the driver's seat, heading to the beach.



*caught on fire as I was driving to the mall (sorry, Kate!)
**traded in for mere pennies at the sleazy car dealership
*** totaled a week after it was sold by the teenager who bought it.
****no longer being held together with a binder clip and pony tail holder
*****waiting patiently for me

So? I'm Pushy. He'll Thank Me Later.

Once upon a time back when I was just a few green years into this mothering gig, I may have said some things. Things that I swore I would never do, as a parent.

I may have even written about one of those Things-I-Will-Never-Do right here, on this teeny tiny little blog.

Thinking back, I may have said something about how over scheduling kids is bad. Very, very bad.

But that was back when my oldest was 3 and could keep himself happily occupied with a shovel and a pile of dirt.

In those carefree, pliable days, he didn't need outside activities other than a few mornings of preschool and some jaunts to the local playground.

But now. Oh, dear Lord, now he is 7. And unless he is nudged, just a bit, he is content to spend his days with only his own thoughts (and maybe a lego guy or two) to keep him company.

He's a daydreamer, my son. An observer rather than a doer. He prefers the comforts of his own home, his own pillow and blue blanket. He watches the world around him with a keen eye, and has an amazing ability to recall the details.

And while there is nothing wrong with these traits, getting him to do something, to participate, can be an effort.

Want to go swimming?

No.

Want to paint? Go for a walk? Zoo? Disney World?

Nah. Nope. Not now. No thanks.

What does one do with a child who doesn't want to do anything?

And what does one do if there is another child, a sibling, who wants to do everything?

Who wins?

How much does one push a child, and how does one know when to let a child be?

Because when this First Grader is encouraged to try something, he usually likes it. And, although he would hesitate to admit it, he has fun.

Baseball, soccer, museums, hikes, camp. He likes these things. They're all good. He just doesn't know that he likes them.

Isn't it my responsibility as a parent to keep him interested and engaged?

I think it is.

And so I find myself scrutinizing our summer calendar trying to fill up those empty squares of days with THINGS FOR THE FIRST GRADER TO DO. To keep him active, to keep his body moving and his mind working.

I am googling "Activities For Low Key 7 Year Olds" hoping that the all knowing Internets will tell me what hobby will get this boy excited.

I am planning pool parties and tie dying parties, model airplane building, volcano erupting, day trips, overnight trips, and backyard camping. And friends. Lots and lots of good energy from friends. Maybe that's the most important element of all.

I never thought I'd be the Mother who schedules the free-form summer days. I guess we don't know who we will become until we arrive at a moment that requires us to be something else.

But if I don't make an effort to keep him busy he (and I) will slowly sink into a summer slump. And by summer slump I mean him whining for screen time and me uncorking the Pinot.

The thing is, I don't want him to miss out on adventures, things he might enjoy, because I didn't push him enough.

But I don't want to push him too much.

So here I am, once again, searching for balance.

And hoping that I get things right.

More Notes From The Top Bunk

"I like my brother, but I don't like him when he punches me."

The Cyst On My Wrist

I like to think that I do a pretty good job of taking care of my kids.

But when it comes to taking care of myself? I could do better.

Self care is not high on my list of priorities, not because I don't want to be healthy, but because the logistics of getting myself to a doctor can get complicated.

After all, I must find a place for these children so that I can leave the house. Alone.

Hiring a babysitter for a doctor's appointment or asking The Husband to take time off from work are not great solutions. And then the whole getting-to-a-doctor-ordeal becomes a hassle and I'm not good with hassles.

So if something health-wise comes up for me, my usual course of action is to follow the Wait And See approach. Otherwise known as the Ignore It And It Will Go Away approach.

More often than not, this works.

But sometimes it doesn't

When I noticed a teeny tiny lump (not the scary kind of lump that you think of when you read 'lump', but a little cyst-like bumpy lump) on my wrist last September I decided to ignore it.

I ignored it through October and November.

I ignored it when it doubled in size in January.

I even ignored it when it kept me from bending my wrist backwards (did I really need to do a full bridge in yoga? Nope.).

In February, when pain started shooting up the back of my hand, I consulted Dr. Google, who assured me it was a harmless cyst.

So I ignored it in March and April too.

But then along came May, and with it, warm short-sleeve kind of weather.

My disgusting little lump of a friend could no longer be ignored. People were starting to stare and I was getting uncomfortable wearing long sleeves in the hot sun at the playgrounds.

So I caved, unearthed my doctor's phone number and entered the health care maze.

Which is how I ended up at the hand surgeon's office on Tuesday.

The hand surgeon whose name was Dr. ALTER.

I kid you not.

Not a people person, that Dr. Alter.

He took one look at my hand, tossed me a pamphlet and muttered something like, "Read this. It's what you have".

After three normal looking x-rays of my hand were taken, he stuck a needle in my wrist and sucked out the fluid from the cyst.

Just like that, my little lump friend was gone.

Syringe in hand, he asked me if I wanted to SEE the fluid.

To which I shrugged my shoulders with a, "Sure".

And then I was kicking myself because I thought it would be just like the time my mid-wife asked me if I wanted to see the placenta after my son was born and, caught off guard by the question, I said, "Sure" and then almost threw up when she showed it to me.

Dr. Alter squirted out the clear looking gel taken from my hand onto a paper towel in front of me.

Happy that the sight of it didn't want to make me hurl, all I could think of to say was, "Gross".

"Yeah, that's what everybody says," he told me.

Then he ace-bandaged my wrist, speed-talked into his tape recorder to document my visit, and told me to come back in 4 weeks (at which point we would most likely do this little exercise again and THEN when my little lump friend comes back a 3rd time we would go for the gold and perform the big S word. Like in a hospital. With drugs and everything).

But for now I can wear short sleeves again.

Bean Bounty

Our first garden harvest!



Obviously, I am not relying on my backyard for nourishment during this summer's Eat New England challenge.


Our first garden pest!





Any idea how to evict the slugs from my lettuce leaves?

*words are scarce today due to a visit to the hand surgeon...more on that when I can type again with all ten fingers.

Scenes From The Station Wagon

This was the weekend of our annual visit to The In-Laws. We do, in fact, see them more than once a year, but us going there is so much more of a hassle than them coming here.

The drive from Massachusetts to New York with kids? Not so much fun. Inevitably, we sit in traffic in Hartford, Connecticut where there is always ongoing road construction on the same stretch of highway. And then more bumper to bumper fun a few miles later in Waterbury, where it is always rush hour. Really? Rush hour in Waterbury?

Plus, I have to pack endless amounts of snacks and games and other distractions, and all of those bags somehow find their way under my feet.



(notice there is nothing under the Four Year Old's feet other than his itty bitty shoes)



The In-Law visit was uneventful. The kids got to see their grandparents. The Husband got to argue politics with his father (which is puzzling because they are on the same side). And I got to drink a lot of wine.

We made an outing to the Bronx Zoo where we saw an inactive polar bear



and a few amphibians.


(oh, look, there I am in the background pretending to be interested in whatever reptile was behind that glass cage)

And then the deluge came and we were forced to walk a quarter of a mile back to the car without the foresight to bring, like, an umbrella. Or a hat. Or sensible shoes.


This morning we packed up our 52 bags, left our Tri-State area roots behind, and headed back to the Boston 'burbs.

All was well and good in the Boy Town station wagon as we drove north out of Westchester County. The First Grader was zoned out in front of GameBoy and the Four Year Old was busy picking his nose.

And then we heard It. Clump Clump Clump Clump. Not exactly the sound of a flat tire, but close.

We pulled over (pulling over onto the shoulder of a major highway? kind of scary), looked under the front of the car and found a large sheet of plastic half dragging on the road and half still attached to the car. According to the manual, it was some Guard Shield Thing that keeps rocks and shit from hitting the engine.

My first thought was to call everyone we knew to let them know were stranded on the side of the road, but The Husband knows how to actually fix stuff, so he went to work reattaching the Guard Shield Thing.

Except we didn't have any extra screws or bolts lying around the car so we had to forage for some other twisty-clip-screw-like-tools to do the job.

Which turned out to be a ponytail holder (taken from my own head!)



and a binder clip.



I'm pretty sure The Husband has earned his resourcefulness badge with his car-fixing brilliance.



Aaaand we were on our way again.


Whenever The Husband is driving



I like to be in charge of monitoring the speedometer (this is a great way to build a strong marriage).

So I noticed our speed.



Then I noticed the speed limit.



And then I pointed out the disparity to The Husband,



who, after 10 years of marriage, is a really effective communicator.


After a few more snacks





a few tunes

(actually, I was outvoted - we listened to three U2 songs on repeat for the entire trip)

and a few games of hide and seek (not much of a challenge in the car)





we finally made it home.

Choices

You've got to get yourself together
You've got stuck in a moment
And now you can't get out of it

U2



"Ooooowwwww," The Four Year Old wailed.

He had run too quickly, with light saber in hand, and had smacked his knee on the hard edge of the coffee table.

There were tears.

There were hugs and magic Mama Kisses.

Still he cried. I urged him to keep going, to pick up the light saber and continue on into his four year old world.

But he was stuck, unable to let go of the remnants of the throbbing knee.

After a few more minutes on my lap, the hiccups of pain finally subsided.

"ONE more kiss and then it will be better," he announced.

One more kiss.

The tears dried and he was back on his feet, forging ahead to fight the good fight in whatever battles awaited him.

He came back a little while later bursting with giggles and new tales to tell me.

He had made a choice. A small, four year old choice to let go. And move on.

Every day we make choices.

We choose whose company we keep.

We choose what words we use.

We choose which direction we turn the wheel.

We choose to be brave and we choose to be cowardly.

We choose to take risks and we choose to play by the rules.

Sometimes we choose to do nothing at all.

And sometimes, when the spirit moves us, we choose to let go.

We splash cold water on our tired faces, wake up and move past our banged up knees.

And when this happens, when we feel just brave enough to uproot ourselves from whatever moment we are stuck in, we find ourselves happily fighting the next good fight, light saber in hand.

And we find that it's so worth the effort.

Just ask The Four Year Old.

It Is So NOT The Swine Flu

It all started yesterday afternoon when The First Grader stumbled off the school bus complaining of a headache.

I did the usual Mother Thing and felt his head, which, you guessed it, was warm.

He spent the next two hours on the couch in a deep, sweaty sleep.

After dinnertime he woke up groggy and still feverish, but managed to choke down a bowl of cheerios with a Motrin chaser.

This morning? He bounded down the stairs symptom free. No fever. No headache. Not even his usual school-morning grumpiness.

But following the 24-hour-symptom-free rule, I KEPT HIM HOME ANYWAY. I didn't want to be a rule breaker or anything.

All was well and good in Boy Town until the school nurse called.

I'm following up on The First Grader. How is he feeling? What does he have? she asked so slyly sweetly.

Oh, he's fine today. He just had a little fever yesterday afternoon. He'll be in tomorrow.

How high did his fever get? she asked with the same urgency one would use when inquiring about the weather.

Her nonchalant tone THREW ME OFF. I didn't have time to formulate an appropriate lie response.

Oh, about 102, I told her.

Well, in that case he'll have to be out of school for 7 days. So today is Tuesday...he can come back on Monday, she informed me. Cheerfully, I might add.

You gotta' be effing kidding me.

I would refer you to the health notice that came home with your child last week, which clearly states that any child with a fever will be required to be out of school for 7 days.

You mean the flyer I threw away because it didn't apply to me?

Yes, that one.

So, holy crap, my kid has to be quarantined for a week because he had a 3 hour fever (and here's the kicker) a week and a half before school ends.

I even called the town health department because, surely, someone there will bend the rules for me, no? The extremely sympathetic public health RN I talked to basically told me they are following state guidelines and even though she very cleverly made it sound like there was something she could do, there's really nothing she could do.

So here we are. Home for a week. Without even the Swine Flu to show for it.

The Locavore Challenge

I have written before about the brilliance of Barbara Kingsolver. Humor me one more time, if you will. Have you read Animal, Vegetable, Miracle? In the book, Kingsolver chronicles her family's year long food journey in which they move across the country from the desert to a farm and commit to eating only locally grown food.

Sounds boring, I know, but it really really is not at all. It changed the way I think about food.

About a month ago I was challenged by a friend to Eat Local this summer.

[This is the same friend who invited me on a 4 day girls weekend in Canada last November where we became unexpected fans of Cat Stevens cover bands, bar hopped like we were 20, and submerged ourselves in a RIVER in NOVEMBER in QUEBEC which turned out to be one of the most amazing times EVAH and I meant to blog about it then but I was on a blogging break and so I didn't but I think I will now]

So, surprising even myself, I have accepted her Locavore Challenge (I figure it might be like the Canadian River thing where I thought it was going to be awful, but it really wasn't).

I will admit to having second thoughts when I realized I would have to give up bananas and avocados. And coffee. And citrus. And my daily morning bowl of Kashi. And pretty much all store bought snack items. Oh God, is there local chocolate?

Alcohol won't be a problem since we mostly buy local beer anyway, and I can suffer through two months without a martini (unless someone knows of a local vodka distillery?).

Meat shouldn't be an issue either since I have been off land animal meat since last July. Which is lucky for me as I won't have to go out and shoot any suburban deer or squirrel in my back yard for daily protein requirements.

The thought was to start the Locavore Challenge in June, but since my veggie garden currently looks like this

(have I mentioned that I've never before grown vegetables?)

and our farmer's market doesn't begin until the end of the month, I've pushed back my start date to July 1.

Which happens to coincide with my annual two week retreat to Maine where I can now eat as much lobster as I want. You can't find a much more local food source than lobstah in Maine.

My culinary skills will be challenged, which will no doubt thrill The Husband who probably can't stomach another meal of Trader Joe's veggie meatballs and whole wheat pasta. But I have a feeling he'll be hunkering for a thick, hearty garden burger after a few sparse meals of home grown cucumbers, a lettuce leaf and a few deformed carrots.

I will spare the children this experiment since I'm pretty sure the First Grader would literally starve.

But I figure if Barbara Kingsolver can move her family of four to a remote farm and eat only what they grow (or slaughter) themselves for an entire year (she even made her own cheese, for God's sake) then I can manage two months (60 days!) of locavorism (I just made that word up).

I will write more about this as I enter full fledged Project Local Starving Eating. But if you haven't heard from me for awhile then you'll know I died of starvation while trying to chew off my own arm.

What About You?

I was at my weekly playgroup this morning (that sounds so classic suburban-motherish, doesn't it?) at the usual playground with the usual suspects.

Unfortunately, there was no sign of any coffee (or cocktail) trucks so I had to sip my own home-brewed luke warm half decaf cuppa' joe.

The hot topic of conversation around the sandbox today was The Summer Agenda.

As in "what are you doing to occupy your children for the next 69 days"?

We rattled off the usual summer activities: swimming lessons, science camp, soccer camp, rainbow fairy princess camp (not making that one up), trips to the cape and Maine and New Hampshire.

Same old, same old.

"What are you doing for yourself this summer?" my friend asked me.*

My blank stare forced her to repeat the question.

"What are you doing for yourself," she asked again.

Myself?

We're allowed to do that?

That was the first time anyone had ever asked me that question, so, as you can imagine, I was stumped.

I was pretty sure she meant something other than 'put the kids in front of the tv and fuel my internet addiction' so I had to take a minute to think of an appropriate response.

I stumbled and stuttered a bit and then finally remembered an anniversary trip my husband has planned for us this summer.

Relieved that I had thought of something, I asked her the same question.

And then one of our kids fell or got sand in their eyes or wanted attention (which kind of defeats the whole POINT of playgroup) so I don't remember what her answer was.**

But I've been thinking about the question all afternoon.

Such a simple question, really.

What are you doing for yourself?

Maybe if I asked myself this on a regular basis I wouldn't sink into the quicksand of Motherhood.

So here's what's going to happen:

I'm going to do one thing A DAY (I know, nutty) just for me this summer. Things that don't involve craft supplies or erupting volcanoes or making play dough worms.

Things like -

Buy a latte

Run a mile (or two? really, me?)

Write

Read

Cook a meal that doesn't involve pig flesh.

Paint my toenails

Unplug or plug. Whatever. It's all about me, right?



So what about you?

Hit me with it.

What's on your Summer Agenda? For yourself?





* thank you for asking
** I really was listening, I swear.

My Multi Million Dollar Idea

For the first time this year, we heard the familiar tune of the ice cream truck rolling down our street the other day. The kids ran out of the house all crazy screaming "ICE CREAM TRUCK! ICE CREAM TRUCK". The First Grader, madly waving his hands over his head, sprinted down to the end of the driveway and flagged down that magical white truck with enthusiasm I haven't seen from him since Christmas morning.

Do you remember the pure joy of hearing that ice cream truck coming around the corner to YOUR HOUSE? And begging your mother for spare change so you could buy yourself an artificially flavored Good Humor chocolate dipped sugar cone?



Summertime bliss, baby.

So the ICE CREAM TRUCK incident got me thinking, see.

Which is how I came up with my best idea EVER.


Picture this:


It's an early weekday morning in suburbia. Sleep deprived mothers (and fathers, but let's be honest, it's mostly mothers) are waiting with their darling school aged children at corner bus stops. Some are gossiping with their neighbors. Some are giving their kids a last minute breakfast of cold pop tarts. Some are spit washing the dried toothpaste off their kids' mouths.

Most of them are already exhausted from the weekday morning routine they have already endured this morning. And most didn't have time to slug back any caffeine yet today, which, quite honestly, shows by the already exasperated and dazed looks on their faces.

But wait! What's that sound?

[cue music...something perky and fun like a little Lennon/McCarthy Good Day Sunshine action]

It's the COFFEE TRUCK!

THE! COFFEE! TRUCK!

HallelujahSweetJesusPraiseTheLord THEY ARE SAVED.

Suddenly, every suburban door on the street flies open as mothers and fathers and nannies and grandparents run out of their homes and down their driveways, madly waving their arms over their heads calling "COFFEE TRUCK! COFFEE TRUCK! OVER HERE!" They flag down that magical espresso colored truck with enthusiasm they haven't shown since the last time they got a babysitter.

Those weary mothers at the bus stop are suddenly alert with excitement as they dig in the crevices of their Siennas and Highlanders for loose change hoping they scrounge up enough coinage for a tall skinny latte.

The traveling Barista happily brews and froths cappuccinos and mochas. She knows her clientele and, after the school bus carries off the children, offers up sweet, warm buttery croissants and pastries filled with gooey chocolate goodness.

And those once bleary eyed mothers? They have found joy this morning.

And there is peace and harmony forever more in suburbia.

Amen.




Can you picture it?

How AWESOME would it be to have a COFFEE TRUCK drive through your neighborhood every morning?

Pretty. Effing. Awesome.

And this, my friends, is how I will make my millions.

I just need some investors. And a traveling barista. And a truck.