No-Poo Resolution

UPDATE: It is almost one year after writing this post and I jumped off the "no-poo" bandwagon months ago. I tried. I really did. For more than five months. But, here's the thing. I developed dandruff. My scalp started to itch like it was infested with fire ants. One of my students came to school with lice. I was convinced that I had contracted the little buggers. I made my husband check my head. All the time. He begged me to leave him alone, "I don't know what the hell I'm looking at honey! Please stop making me do this." I sat in front of the mirror with a fine tooth comb and studied my hair for hours. Is that a nit egg? Dander? Baking soda residue? Glitter? Only God knows. Anyway, I decided to wave the white flag and buy some good old fashioned yes-poo. Problem solved. I did not have nits. Just a sensitive scalp and hypochondria. 

Original post date: January 9, 2014 (Moving my content from one blog to another. It just feels right.)

My suspicion of the ingredients in many commercial foods and products is nothing new. But my recent zealotry with DIY beauty products is new. In fact, I had this idea to replace EVERY health and beauty product I own with its all-natural DIY equivalent throughout 2014. A resolution of sorts. Fun, right?

Here's where I hesitate. Mascara. I love that stuff. I love the way my lashes look curled and painted. I love the way I can't close my mouth when I apply it. I love the way it documents the tracks of my tears. (I know, I'm in a super weird mood right now.)

But I can cross that bridge later. For now, it's time to forge on with my homemade deodorant. It's been a couple weeks now and I'm still on board. I think it kind of loses it's steam in the afternoon, requiring occasional reapplication, but that's not a biggie. I've also discovered that game-changer--lavender essential oil. A couple drops of lavender in my deodorant and... bam! I'm on the floor taking a nap! JUST KIDDING! Like my children would actually let me sleep!

I'm also trying that no shampoo thing. You've probably seen it on Pinterest. Instead of shampoo and conditioner, I'm using baking soda and apple cider vinegar, also known as ACV to the cool kids in the know.

So I mix baking soda and water together and rub it all over my scalp. Then I rinse. Then I douse my hair with a mix of ACV and water (3:1 ratio) and rinse again. I thought that vinegar would make my hair smelly and tangled, but the smell rinses out and it actually makes my hair softer.

But here's the thing, my hair looks pretty greasy. If you saw me right now you might be inclined to say,

"Hey friend, maybe you need to lather, rinse, and repeat."

And I might respond with,

"This is my personal journey for 2014. This is me walking away from parabens and phthalates and walking toward a toxin-free beauty product nirvana. This is me embracing a homesteading hippie lifestyle and fighting the cosmetic man. This is me paving a healthy lifestyle for my offspring and teaching them that there are few problems you can't solve without a little coconut oil and vinegar. This is me..."

At this point you've already walked away and I am ranting to myself.

The organic mommy blogs reassure me that this greasy phase is simply that--a phase. My body needs to detox and relearn how to produce my natural oils at the proper rate. This phase is supposed to pass and from it I will emerge--a clean, shiny-haired phoenix, startling the world with my lustrous locks, bouncing in the breeze.

In the meantime, I kind of look gross.

So this is it. My resolution. Goodbye drug store and hello goat. I am going to milk you and carefully craft soaps and lotions from your life-giving manna. Then I will gently brush you and sing you Cat Steven's songs to thank you for your contribution to my life.

Maaaaaaa. Happy new year.

Pic from www.liveleak.com, because let's be real, I don't actually have a goat.

Letter for My Four-Year-Old

Original post date: February 24, 2014 (Moving my content from one blog to another. It just feels right.)

I wrote emotional birthday letters to my son for his first and second birthdays. Then his third birthday passed. I was pregnant, overwhelmed at work, in the process of selling the house, etc. etc. There was no letter for that birthday.

Now, quick as a wink, he's four. I think I want to write him another letter.

Dear Little JAR,

You turned four last month and I'm pretty sure motherhood has turned my life into an evil time warp with the clock moving faster and faster. It's funny, because the time between Christmas and your birthday felt so long to you. Ages, eons, practically centuries. For me? A moment. Either way, it happened. You're four.

Most traces of baby are completely gone now. Your feet are strong with arches and you have visible knuckles instead of dimples on your hand. Your once round baby belly is mostly flat. You still have your baby curls because you're not old enough to beg me for a short haircut. I'm sure it's coming.

This year was full of change and you don't like change. Your baby sister was born in April and we moved to a new city and house in June.

I will never forget the moment you met your sister. We carefully planned it, putting the baby in your Auntie's arms so you wouldn't feel too jealous. I sat alone in the hospital bed, my arms wide open, waiting for you to dive in. You ran right past me, straight to your sister, and just stared at her with big eyes. You adored her from that moment on. Learning how to share our attention was not easy for you, but you never blamed your sister for  it. Ten months later and you are still excited to see her every morning.

I will also never forget moving. I brought you, at nap time, to the new house to drop off some plants. You sat on our new deck and sobbed. "This is not our house. Our flowers don't go here. I don't want to move. Don't make me move!" Then your sister blew out her diaper and I cried too. I'm sorry I wasn't better for you then.

But time is the universal salve and we settled. We spent the summer in our new backyard, dipping our toes in your wading pool and talking about life -- the butterfly life cycle, the food chain, where your sister came from -- you are so curious. I hope you always ask questions and continue to learn.

You are the funniest person I know. It's amazing to watch you develop all of these ideas and opinions. You love to eat dark chocolate and bowls of feta cheese. The doctor thinks you have a dairy allergy, so that's a bummer of a lifestyle change. We're in the middle of your dairy elimination diet/test and you're pretty hilarious. Food allergies/sensitivities are pretty much the norm these days, so while you miss your cheese, you also think it's pretty cool to be in the "allergy club." You clutch your pirate lunchbox and proudly exclaim, "I have a special lunch because I'm allergic to dairy!" It makes me laugh.

I used to worry because you didn't like to play on your own. That worry (like most of them) was unnecessary because turning four has really ignited your imagination. You play all day long and I love it. My participation is required for important guest roles, such as exhausted mama polar bear -- my favorite role, probably because I just have to lay in my den and wait for you to feed me penguins. I love to watch you. You get excited and pace around the room, waving your hands for emphasis.as you break it down. "Mommy, I'm the brother polar bear and I have to go on a trip to catch baby penguins and you're the momma, so you get the picnic ready. Okay? Okay?!" (Last night, you threw a blue blanket on the floor, put on your swim trunks and a ski cap, and practiced diving from the top of your Sit & Spin into the "water." So cute. You also carefully arranged a bunch of rocks and sea glass on "shore," but then your sister crawled over, stuck sea glass in her mouth, and that was the end of that. Thanks for your patience. I know it can be hard buddy.)

You are also testing your limits and trying on a bit of an attitude. Daddy says that you scowl just like I do. You love your baby sister, but you still miss being the exclusive center of our universe. Your attention seeking behaviors are unique and always effective. One morning, you took about twenty picture books off of the shelf and arranged them in a path leading from the kitchen back to the shelf. You grabbed my hand and said, "Mommy! Follow the path to my bad choice!" So I followed the path to the bookcase, now covered in carefully drawn curlicues and J's -- on EVERY exposed surface. I swallowed my laughter and sternly handed you a sponge to clean up your mess. (The truth? I was kind of proud of your creativity.)

Jackson, you are such an amazing little person. Every day, I thank God for picking me to be your mama. I love you. Forever, for always, no matter what.

Mommy

30 Day Internet Cleanse

Original post date: January 21, 2014 (Moving my content from one blog to another. It just feels right.)

My constant access to Wi-Fi is making me insane -- a fact that we established with my last post. So instead of whining about it again, I'm going to do something about it.

I quit.

You hear me internet?! I quit!! (For 30 days, with stipulations and exceptions, because I'm not a complete caveman.)

Here's why:

1. I love to read. I was the kid that stayed up way too late squinting in front of her nightlight, trying to finish Little House on the Prairie before dawn. But since iPhone came into my life, I'm reading less and scrolling and tapping more. Unacceptable.

2. Facebook makes me feel weird. I'm too neurotic and too much of an overthinker for this stuff. Like, "Hey, I think we're friends in real life, but how come we're not virtual friends? We haven't asked each other yet, is there a reason for that? Maybe you have pictures of your cat that you don't want me to see? That's cool. I respect your privacy, but is it weird that we bump into each other via the comments section? Should I just click "add friend?" I don't know how to handle myself in this complicated social arena!!!!" (That said, there are some lovely people that I just love, love, love and facebook is our main vehicle for communication due to distance and/or busy lives. Tricky.)

3. My four-year-old pulls his "tricks" (you know, jumping up and down, going into downward facing dog and then waving one leg in the air, jumping off the back of the couch, etc.) out the "app store in his foot." This probably isn't a real problem but it does remind me of our vast generational gap, made larger by the time warp that is technology.

4. Pinterest. Oh Pinterest, you evil seductress with all of your life-enhancing possibilities. Crockpot meals for $2.00? How to get shiny hair in 5 minutes? The perfect sensory dough to occupy my child for hours of screen-free engagement? Yes please. Here's the problem. Pinterest also reminds me on a daily basis that:

a. My crafts always look mediocre. b. My cakes typically sink in the middle. c. My outfits are never that put together. d. Nothing in my house matches except the dirt.

So, my dear Pinterest. I will no longer let you set the bar for my perceived level of awesomeness. My cakes might look like crap, but they are so delicious. We need a break, because, at this point in my life, I feel better without you. (However, I would like to thank you for DIY lotion bars, DIY baby wipes, and Ritz crackers with Rolos melted inside. Life changing.)

5. Breastfeeding. I often find myself breastfeeding while balancing my iPhone on my sweet baby's head. Enough. That is simply enough.

So for 30 days I will quit facebook, pinterest, google searches (unless work-related), basically everything online, with the exception of:

-Email (because my boss wouldn't find my technology cleanse amusing)

-My articles (because they pay me, duh)

-This blog (because going tippity-tap at the keyboard soothes my soul)

It starts tonight. Goodbye internet.

Parenting in the Age of Information, Or Google Exacerbates My Neuroses

Call yourself a good parent? Click. Click. Sucker. I'll show you. Click. Click.

Original post date: January 13, 2014 (Moving my content from one blog to another. It just feels right.)

With the click of a mouse I can access immediate information on virtually any topic in the world. I no longer feel the need to ponder or wonder. Google can answer all of my questions. They say that knowledge is power and I personally feel like I have heaps of power, pressing down on my shoulders, watching my every move. This adds an interesting burden to my life. A burden I couldn't have imagined in 1993, as I happily purchased bags of flour and extra wagon wheels on the virtual Oregon Trail. (That was the peak of technology as far as I'm concerned. We should have stopped there.)

More specifically, this burden of knowledge has turned me into "neurotic mommy" or "the mommy who knows too much" or more accurately, "the mommy who has mere surface knowledge of many topics, turning her into a terrified, ranting maniac."

Observe.

1. Dropping my three-year-old off at school.

Me: "Bye honey, I love you. Be good. Listen to your teachers!"

Google: Wrong. What is the matter with you? Are you trying to get your child abducted? Telling your child to "be good" and to "listen" implies that they should blindly comply with all adult directions, making them more susceptible to potential pedophiles, creepies, and villains in general. Come on now!

Me: "Um, okay, don't be good, be um, assertive and discerning and watch out for weirdos in vans? Forget it. Just have a great day."

Do. Not. Get. Into. Van. Ever.

2. Feeding my baby solid food.

Me: "Kootchie kootchie koo, baby girl! Do you want some yum-yums? Yes!! You want yum-yums!! Mommy getchyou yum-yums!

How about some yummy, yummy rice cereal?"

Google: Nope. Rice is teeming with arsenic. Carcinogen. Try again.

Me: "How about some yummy chicken? Protein!"

Google: Okay, super-mom. That cutlet is laced with antibiotics and hormones. Do you want her to grow breasts in time for kindergarten?

Me: "Um, okay. How about a banana? That's not even on the Environmental Working Group's Dirty Dozen list."

Google: Sure, the thick peel may protect the fruit from most of the pesticides, but did you ever think about the 8-year-old Ecuadorian child picking the fruit as she is working the fields, getting doused with said pesticides? It's not just about your baby, ya selfish Sally. Think globally.

Me: "Christ almighty! I'm exhausted. Let's just have a nice, cool glass of tap water."

Google: Idiot.

3. Cleaning my house.

Me: "Well, I only clean my house with vinegar, baking soda and essential oils, so I'm sure that I'm getting this one right."

Google's BFF Pinterest: You're going to clean your house instead of chasing rainbows with your precious children? Monster.

Me: "But, but, but... Have you seen my house?"

These are really my dishes. This is what my sink looks like. Right now.

Google: Sure. Wash those dishes. But soon you'll be a lonely old woman with an empty womb in an empty house. You can just sit in your rocking chair and remember washing dishes. Alone.

Google: Alone. All alone. With just your memories of dishes, laundry, and baking soda in the toilet. But go ahead, don't let me stop you.

Aren't you glad you neglected your children so you could wash those dishes?

Me: "Oh God." (Sobbing quietly.)

4. Reacting to my son's tantrum. 

Me: "For the love of God buddy. You're being ridiculous. This cup is too yellow? Is that even a thing? Give me a break." (Sigh loudly. Look longingly at wine bottle. Remind self that it is 10:30 in the morning.)

Google: Nice job. You're probably creating a future sociopath. Belittling his problems. Failing to really listen and empathize. Research shows that an effectively empathetic response to his tantrums now will reduce the frequency of tantrums in the future. Furthermore, his prefrontal cortex (that little part of his brain that controls social behavior and regulates emotions) is not yet developed at this age. Are you really chastising him for his typical development? Hey, hey! Are you even listening to me?! Focus! Quit looking at that wine bottle!!

Me: Glug, glug, gulp.

So. As you can see, the Internet has turned me into a raving lunatic who may or may not drink wine before Sesame Street is over.

Screw you Google.

Live the Dream. DIY Deodorant.

Original post date: December 29, 2013 (Moving my content from one blog to another. It just feels right.)

Like many, I share the new American dream. You know the one? The one where I live in a beautiful cabin in the woods with Wi-Fi and an expensive coffee maker. I wear adorable Fair Isle sweaters and galoshes while I milk my goats and gather eggs from my chicken coop. I never go to Winco or Albertsons, cause girl, I grow my own damn tomatoes. They're organic. They're delicious. I even grow them during winter in the greenhouse my sexy husband made me. He has a beard (true). He writes poetry about how cute I am in my sweaters (false).

Anyhoo.

The dream is not quite realized, but I'm working on it. My latest revelation is... wait for it... get ready...

HOMEMADE DEODORANT!!!

It's natural. It's aluminum-free. I made it in my kitchen while drinking cheap wine. And best of all, it actually works! For real.

I put it to the test on Christmas Eve and Christmas. I figured if it could stand up to the rigors of frantic present-wrapping, Santa impersonations, late-night meltdowns, hours of cream-based casserole cooking, in-laws, and our Christmas day relay race through Western Washington, it was a winner.

And it is. A winner.

In fact, I think it works better than commercial deodorant.

Want to try it? Of course you do.

1/4 cup coconut oil

2 tablespoons cornstarch

1 1/2 tablespoons baking soda

Essential oil if you so desire

I globbed a quarter cup of coconut oil into my small glass jar. (This jar used to house Hot and Sweet Pepper Jelly which is probably one of my favorite things to eat with cream cheese.)

Be sure to write "deodorant" and draw a smiley face somewhere on the jar, lest you become confused and smear it on a cracker.

I put the lid on, threw it in a saucepan of water, and heated the water until the coconut oil melted. Then I threw in the cornstarch and baking soda and stirred until smooth. I added a few drops of peppermint and vanilla essential oils because I love to smell of candy canes. I gave it a couple hours to solidify and... that's it. Deodorant!

Now, I just dip my finger in the jar, smear a bit onto my underarms and I'm ready to milk a goat! Super easy.

Thanks to my extensive research (poking around Pinterest while nursing my baby), I know that some people can be sensitive to the baking soda. If that's the case, just reduce the amount a bit. I've personally had zero issues, but you never know. Maybe I'm just insensitive.

This Cobbler is Delicious.

Original post date: August 24, 2014 (Moving my content from one blog to another. It just feels right.)

I ate an entire 9 x 13 pan of blackberry cobbler in less than 24 hours.

It was that good. Chewy, buttery crust, gooey blackberries...

In the mood to binge eat the world's best cobbler? You too can eat yourself into oblivion by following a few simple steps.

1. Pick a bowl of wild blackberries with your 3-year-old. Talk about pollination, the meaning of the word jealous, and whether or not Spiderman has a penis. (Really, I am not equipped to handle the questions of a 3-year-old.)

2. Put the baby on a blanket in the grass and watch her wave her chubby fists at the sky and talk to trees. Make goo-goo noises and cluck your tongue at her.

3. Bring berries and children inside and turn the oven to 350.

4. Put a stick of butter in a 9 x 13 pan and put butter and pan in the heating oven.

5. In a large bowl combine 2 cups self-rising flour, 2 cups white sugar, and 2 cups milk. Stir until combined. Will be lumpy.

6. Take the 9 x 13 pan out of the oven when the butter is melted. Pour the lumpy batter on top of it. Do not mix them together.

7. Feed your 3-year-old blackberries in manner of mama and baby bird. He will reciprocate and laugh maniacally when he feeds you a blackberry with a little spider on it.

8. Pretend that you don't care that you just ate a spider.

9. Sprinkle 3-4 cups of blackberries on top of the batter.

10. Bake for 50-60 minutes, until golden brown.

Enjoy! I recommend eating it directly out of the pan with a spoon while small people pull at your yoga pants and demand things. Delicious.

Three Best Reasons to be a Teacher: June, July, August!

Original post date: August 21, 2013 (I'm moving my content from one blog to another. It just feels right.)

I have a confession to make. I accidentally/on purpose stole this mug. It used to live in the staff lounge. Then I used it for coffee and it moved to my classroom. There it lived, buried behind the Jack-o-lantern bowl and paintbrushes for a few months. Spring cleaning unearthed said mug and I decided to borrow it for the summer. Kind of like taking the class hamsters home over vacation. (Speaking of, I won that lottery in 1989. I felt so lucky. I felt even luckier when the allegedly female hamsters had a baby together and my horrified mother agreed to let me keep it. I named the baby Squeaky. This was a clever name because it squeaked a lot. In retrospect I think something was terribly wrong with it. We went to the grocery store and when we came back Squeaky was gone. Vanished without a trace. That was a difficult time in my life. Filial cannibalism is a hard concept for a second grader.) Anyway, I told myself I'd return the mug in the fall but this is my second year with it and I can't seem to let go. It holds my life-sustaining coffee every morning. It holds cheap red wine on sunny afternoons. I like to sit on the deck with my mug of wine and sing songs from high school. "Today is gonna be the day that they're gonna throw it back to you."

All that to say, I love my stolen mug.

The mug is kind of ironic, so that makes me feel hipster-cool. It's also kind of true, so that makes me feel authentic. These are good feelings. The truth in the mug is that summer is a really good time for me. The only kids I have to worry about are mine. That streamlines things a bit. I like streamlining. So now, August is quickly ticking by and I am in my end of summer mourning period. It's worse this year because I have a new sweet baby. She smells like milk and she looks at me like I'm the sun. Tell me. How am I supposed to leave this?

Another Birth Story. Because the Internet Needs More.

Original post date: July 19, 2013 (Moving my content from one blog to another. It just feels right.)

I had a baby. Her initials are not JAR. This is bothersome because it breaks the pattern. However. I refused to name her Jessica or Jezebel. So she's baby DLR? Not catchy. But the truth often isn't. No matter. She's a keeper anyway.

So baby DLR was born three months ago. Already, the memories of pain and suffering have diminished with time. I can nuzzle my face in the nape of her neck and sigh, "it wasn't so bad," her heady scent rendering me drunk with new baby love. Those mommy hormones don't mess around.

But if I really concentrate, I seem to remember hours of searing pain, intense vomiting and wishing that someone would punch me in the back. (That seemed like a great solution at the time... a sort of counter-pain? No one was willing. The nurse seemed to think it would be some sort of liability. Modern medicine. Puh!)

I'm not really interested in writing about all of the details. Centimeters, effacement, contractions. Boring. What I really remember are just a handful of moments. Moments I hope to hold on to forever.

My daughter took twice as long as my son. We all expected her to arrive in the car or parking lot with lots of screaming and excitement. That's not her style. She took her sweet, sweet time. What's that phase of labor that comes right before pushing? The really terrible one? Transition or something? Well during that phase I remember bending over the hospital bed pressing the side of my face into the mattress. The back labor was excruciating. I had to completely succumb to the pain and try not to die. I couldn't move. I could barely breathe. I just stared vacantly, drool trickling from the side of my mouth.

Big JAR says to my mom, "oh look, she's sleeping."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, her eyes are twitching."

They stare at me tenderly. Poor, exhausted thing.

I must be suffering from temporary locked in syndrome. I can hear them, but I can't respond. I want to scream. "I'm awake you morons! Who on God's green earth could sleep through such shattering pain?! Of course I'm twitching!! My bones are separating to make room for a freakin' person!!! " Instead this comes out as a soft whimper and my husband rubs my back lovingly. Whatever. Probably better for our marriage that I can't speak.

So that's a moment.

When it gets close to pushing time, I haul myself into the birthing tub. The water feels heavenly. I just bob around like mother Earth. I'm between contractions. I stretch out, close my eyes and feel completely present. My birthing mix is softly playing from my iPod. Moon River.

My midwife says, "you know, you really have a beautiful pregnant belly."

My mom says, "Venus de Milo." (Although Venus' stomach is actually pretty flat, I appreciate the sentiment.)

I don't care how much trauma my body endures. I still love a compliment. Even if it's bologna. Keep talking ladies.

That was a moment.

Now it's time to push. My husband sits behind me. My midwife sits in front of me, sipping a ginger ale. She tells me, "your body knows what to do." That's the extent of her coaching. I dig it. I do know what to do. My hips were made for this. I am Ixchel, Lucina or any other fertility deity. So I push. While I push, I scream. Like a maniac, banshee and/or wounded animal.

Once I can feel the top of her head, I shift my inarticulate shrieks into a two-word mantra -- "my baby, my baby, my baby, my baby" until she arrives. Slick with vernix, red and screaming, absolute perfection. I hold her and sob with joy, relief, and ferocious love.

That was the moment.