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.

Suburban Outlaw

So, perhaps you've been wondering what I'm up to lately on this mountain where we live. And, perhaps you've had other, more-relevant-to-your-life things on your mind. Well, regardless of your thinking of me or not thinking of me, here's a little of what we're doing these days.

Today included laundry (obviously), diaper changes (obviously) and a run-in with the law (less obvious). On my way to the post office to drop off a Netflix I happened to be the unlucky driver of the day who was awarded the blue light special. It was unexpected and I must say that when I pulled over, I wasn't really pulling over. I was merely parking at our local post office, minding my own business, and then there they were, rotating blue lights in my rearview mirror. Shoot. It's been about, oh, 11years since I've been pulled over for speeding. And that time, oddly enough, found me traveling at around the same speed I was going today, which was: 44. Part of me kind of wishes that if I'm going to get caught speeding, I could atleast be going somewhere above 65. Oh well. I don't aspire to be Steve McQueen.

Once I realized that there was an officer pulling in behind me, I turned to look back at Sam and wondered what the lasting impact of my 1 year old seeing his mother being interrogated (i.e. asked a few questions regarding speed limits and such) by the po-po would be. The officer made his way to my window and politely asked if I knew how fast I was going. I guessed 40. But, I was, in fact, going 44 speedy miles a hour. However, in a 25 mph zone, this is 1 mile away from "reckless driving," which obviously means I live on the edge of danger or obliviousness.

I glanced back to see what Sam was doing, hoping this little incident wasn't scarring him for life, imagining him remembering me later as a hardened criminal, a suburban outlaw who drove fast in school zones and texted while driving with her knees (this doesn't really happen). Instead, Sam had a big, toothy (all 8 of them) smile on his face and was waving excitedly at the officer at my window. This may have won me some points with the sergeant.

After handing over all the information pertaining to my right to drive, I was left to think about what I'd done. And then he was back from his patrol car, letting me know that I was off the hook, for today, that is. Sigh.of.relief. I think a combination of being new in town and Sam being so darn friendly gave me a getoutofjailfree card.

So, what I'm hoping now is that Sam doesn't remember this little incident when he's 16 and getting a license to drive. Odds are, he won't. But, it definitely makes you think when you find yourself on the wrong side of the law (exaggeration here) with your child watching in their carseat behind you. I can't help but wonder how much he's taking in of my bad behavior (eg: that cowboy word I said under my breath the other day when I pinched my finger in the drawer, the 5 cookies I had for lunch, the 2 hours of television we watched today instead of cleaning up the kitchen, etc.) and where that might show up later. Hm. Obviously, these aren't jail-worthy, but I can't help but think about what Sam might be learning from me when I'm not paying attention...

Well, that's about it. Other than my finishing off a jar of Nutella by myself and Sam having just discovered that being outside is way more fun than being inside, that's all the news we've got. Tune in next time for "Renegade Moms Who Run With Scissors" and other cautionary tales of mothers who speed in their spare time.