How Buying Organic Food Affects My Self Worth

I just opened my fridge to get more milk for the little guy; even if he had already imbibed twelve gallons of milk already, I would be physically unable to say no to the words "Pease, Mulk" in his ridiculously adorable little voice. I promise you wouldn't be able to either.

Anyway, as I reached in for the milk, I surveyed my semi-orderly fridge (we had company coming and I was somewhat influenced by the unnaturally neat fridges I'd observed on MTV's Cribs at some point in the past). As I glanced around for about 6.5 seconds, I felt myself feeling oddly affirmed by the choices I had made at the local Ingles the day before. Organic milk, organic yogurt, organic butter, organic apples, etc. I mean, despite some mistakes like the genetically-altered pancake syrup in the side door and maybe a box of pre-cooked bacon (this probably should not exist in the natural order of things), I had done a pretty good job of keeping my family hormone and high-fructose corn syrup free. Mental pat on the back. She shoots, she scores! Fist bumps all around. I felt like super-mom/wife/person for a minute there.

I bet you're assuming that I've been in the house too long (again) or perhaps have been sniffing the glue I used to re-attach the handle to my Crock Pot lid yesterday (which, oddly enough, fell on my head and broke the night before). Or, maybe you're just as guilty as I am about assessing your value as a producer and raiser of children by how organic your groceries are. It's hard not to let this happen. Every parenting magazine, mom website, mom blog, local CSA nutritional magazine that you see at the door of Whole Foods, they all say the same thing: If you don't buy organic, your children's brains won't develop to their full potential OR you could die from some unnamed toxin that was sprayed on your vegetables in some Latin American country before you innocently bought them in Bi-Lo's innocuous produce aisle.

It's hard being a mom. It gives you about 4,508 more reasons to be anxious throughout any given day. I've recently decided not to renew my subscription to Parents magazine (despite the low, low price of $7.99 a year) because their editors have apparently determined that good articles and fear-mongering are the same thing. I seriously cannot read another article about all the communicable diseases that are on their way to becoming resistant to antibiotics. OR, how many ways your child could be accidentally maimed and/or killed by unassuming objects in your own home. It's enough to make one give those 1950's mothers' popping Valium a nod of sympathetic understanding.

And so, I fight back. I babyproof my house and I buy organic. And, then I feel awesome. Sort of.

But, what's the deal with organic food's impact on my identity and sense of self? I'm a little surprised and maybe slightly humored by the things that affect the lens I see myself through now that I'm a mom. It's a little overwhelming at times navigating through the parenting process and wondering if some small thing will upset the whole apple cart (and find Sam getting his GED years later and making a career out of grocery-bagging).

Well, there you have it. I value myself based on my produce selection and I worry that Sam will lose an arm in some freak accident involving our vacuum cleaner. Who knew motherhood could create such neurosis? This, my friends, is what drives me to Nutella, which is basically a chocolate/hazelnut version of Valium. With more calories. But without those pesky side effects of rage and hysteria.

I think I could use a spoonful right now.

How to Make Fancy New Year's Resolutions

It's my third day in a row at home on a rainy day with a little boy and his cold. The mountain we live on is currently being engulfed by a cloud and so visibility is somewhat low (as in, I'm starting to feel like Sam and I are the only people left on the planet). There's been what looks like a hostile takeover of my living room floor by Thomas the Train and his minions and I'm wondering if it's time to introduce Sam to Barney. Obviously this means that the isolation is getting to me, which means it's time to sit down, drink some tea and ponder life with you, dear readers.

I just took my first shower of the last forty-eight hours and so I'm feeling a little more like a real person, which is nice. (However, my hair is still wet and I'm still wearing yoga pants, so don't be too proud of me.) I'm also spending some quality time with the banana bread I just baked, which I think has something to do with having dumped chocolate chips indiscriminately into the batter. Unfortunately, that removed any of the health benefits from making the low-fat version of Miss Daisy's Banana Bread recipe. Oh well.

I've been occasionally pondering the fact that it's two weeks past New Year's and I haven't made any resolutions. I'm thinking that the time to make any has likely past and if I make them now, they probably shouldn't count as new year's resolutions. They'd just be generic ones and that's not very motivating. To be honest, I did make a few vague resolutions, but their vagueness makes them slightly less like resolutions and more like wishful thinking. I'll list them for you here and you can decide:

1. Write a book.
2. Have a baby.
3. Clean out the refrigerator
4. Download the 124,347 pictures from my old computer to my new computer.

And there you have it. I am not a realistic resolution-er.

I must say, however, that in the past, I was very earnest in my resolution making. I can even remember one particular year coming across some parchment paper and my old calligraphy pens (a late middle school hobby) and deciding to write down my resolutions in a very official, very unnecessarily dramatic way. I'm sure I still have that fancily written list somewhere in my childhood room where other treasures such as the romance novel I wrote as a 14 year old (I also did the cover art, which I thought made my chances for publication that much more probable) are tucked away in my old desk for my grandchildren to come across years from now and publish and then become independently wealthy on the fantastic royalties.

I can't remember what that particular year's resolutions included, but I remember there being at least 10, which if we're being honest, is reaching a little. Really, three or four is about all one should commit to, don't you think? I'm absently wondering now where those are and need to make a note to hunt for them next time I'm back at my parents'. If I find them, I'll be sure to share them here as they're sure to inspire you and very probably put your less fancy new year's resolutions to shame.

In addition to taking occasional showers, pondering my lack of new year's resolutions and baking bread with an indecent amount of chocolate chips, I must also tell you that I've spent some quality time watching the show I cannot quit, The Bachelor. You may judge me now. (Pause) OK, now that you've judged, I have to confess, I enjoyed every single ridiculous minute of that show and am already looking forward to the next episode on Monday night. I can't decide what this says about me as a person and what exactly this means about my ability to make good decisions about how I spend my time. But, people, it's Ben. And, I want to see Ben find love. And make wine. And wear his cut-off shorts and shaggy hair while swirling said wine with his lady love on a windswept field in the romantic California wine country.

So, I also enjoy the drama, which is unexpected, because I loathe drama in real life. There's just something so entertaining about observing a weird little microcosm of society where twenty-five women hang out in a fabulously gaudy house in their fancy duds and spend their days mooning/pining/girlfighting over one lone, somewhat clueless man. It's fascinating and I love it. There. I said it. I love The Bachelor and I don't care who knows it.

In other news: Perhaps you're wondering what's going on with Sam since you last heard tell of him. Well, I've compiled a list of his goings on and such for you. And here you go:

-Sam recently had his first official haircut in an old-time barbershop with a number of eighty-year old observers/cheerleaders. It was lovely and a blow-pop was the key to the success of this milestone. Keep in mind that if you try this with your little one, the blow-pop will get a little hairy. It's just part of the deal.

-Sam received a number of large, very fun toys for Christmas. We left all of them somewhere else. Sam has no memory of ever receiving them, which is one of the lovely things about having a two-year old who lives very intensely in the moment.

-During the holidays, Sam got to go on the Polar Express train ride in Chattanooga. While riding inside the train, Sam looked around with a concerned look on his face and asked, "Where train go?" It was hard to explain that we were, in fact, inside of it.

-Sam likes to recite the names of Thomas the Train and his friends on occasion (or all the time). "Edward, Thomas, Gordon, James, Duncan, Percy, etc." He also likes to call for them, too, which is nice. Sometimes he'll shout, "Thomas!" up the stairs. Yet another example of how Thomas the Train is slowly taking over our lives.

Well, my hair is drying awkwardly and slowly but surely becoming something no one should have to witness, so I'd better go and spend the last few minutes of Sam's nap making myself look a little less like a stay-at-homeless mom. That was too much of a stretch, wasn't it. I blame Thomas. And the creepy fog outside my house. And the overdose of banana bread that just happened.

And, now, since you've made it this far, I'll share with you a rare shot of Sam and his stylist.