Eating is a Celebration of Life?

We've always been relatively healthy eaters in our house. I have a good relationship with food, which I realize is not always the case for many adults. Food serves two purposes for me: fuel for my body and an opportunity to enjoy my relationships. I've always believed that eating can be an expression of gratitude for life's gifts and pleasures. But lately, I'm starting to wonder. Don't get me wrong, I still find joy in food: preparing it, sharing it, and eating it! It's just that lately, the more I read about food - where it comes from, how much it is changed before it reaches my local grocery store, and how those changes can affect our health - the more I begin to freak out!

Ever since joining our meat CSA last March, the issue of how our family's food is "handled" has become pretty interesting to me. It's not that we've completely confined our focus to meat - we've been trying to buy organic or hormone-free milk for a few years now. We really do try to minimize processed foods, too. Just yesterday, the Talker announced over a picnic lunch that he does not eat store-bought cookies anymore. "I just don't like them," he said. I don't like them, either, and I've only occasionally bought cookies over the last few years. All those preservatives gross me out! Do we just go without cookies, you ask? ABSOLUTELY NOT! I make them, and we eat them with great pleasure! Yes, I realize that many of the ingredients in homemade cookies have been processed in one way or another, but it's the freshness factor that makes it okay for me. The thing that gets to me is all the marketing by food companies to tout their products' health benefits, when really, we should just choose an apple with peanut butter over that FiberOne bar! The poor apple doesn't have the help of advertising gurus slapping labels all over its skin to tell you about its health benefits.

So, when I was contacted by Stonyfield Farm to attend a luncheon with mom and food activist Robyn O'Brien, I jumped at the chance. Thanks to my new Kindle, I was able to read about half of her book, The Unhealthy Truth, before meeting her last week at NAHA in Chicago.  Her story is incredible, really.  As a mother of four small children, Robyn was forced to pay attention to toxins in her family's foods when her youngest child had an allergic reaction to eggs.   Distressed that her child would have to be protected from a food that she had assumed was safe, Robyn began researching food allergies.  Tapping into her experiences as an equity analyst, she dove in to the world of corporate profits and government oversight (or lack of it).  She is clear in her understanding of what drives the food industry (money!), and because of her background she has a healthy respect for capitalism.  She gets that corporations are all about the bottom line, and that it is the consumers’ right and responsibility to be informed about food products before buying them.  It’s the lack of information that irritates her.

Think: Can you identify and recognize all ingredients are in your sandwich bread?  How about the hormones and antibiotics in your glass of cold milk?  (The hormones are to increase milk production and the antibiotics are for when the hormones make the cows sick. They tend to get mastitis. Yep, cows get it, too!)  Oh, my: what about your coffee creamer? I was an International Delight addict until I gave the stuff up for Lent this spring. That was a tough one!  I thought I was all good with my White Chocolate Macadamia Nut creamer because it was transfat free.  Nope, it’s full of high-sugar soy, which, interestingly, is fed to pigs to fatten them quickly for slaughter.  My plain ol’ half-and-half tastes quite good these days, thank you very much.
Now think again: of those ingredients you can identify as corn or soy based (because they are in almost everything that has been processed in one way or another), how many can you identify as genetically modified foods?  Yeah, none?  Me, neither.  That’s because the FDA doesn’t require food manufacturers to label genetically modified foods as such.  I suppose that would be okay, if the safety of genetically modified foods had been proven, which, you guess it: it hasn’t.

As I think and write about this, I realize that it sounds a bit like a conspiracy theory.  For the longest time I thought the whole “organic thing” was a load of bull.  I mean, a peach is a peach, right?  But the more I discover about the current state of conventional farming, the scarier it all gets.

Last weekend I was driving out to our meat farm, Walnut Acres, in central Illinois.  Walnut Acres is a small livestock farm thriving in the shadow of conventional corn and soybean farms.  As much as I enjoyed driving through the nation’s breadbasket, a few scenes gave me pause. The most dramatic was the low-flying airplane that was about 25 feet above our car.  A crop-sprayer, no doubt.  When I was a kid, I thought crop-sprayers were super cool; it was a job that looked fun!  But at that moment, all I could think about was the pesticides that were being sprayed on corn that had been genetically modified to withstand giant doses of incesticide. Pesticides that could, in all reality, end up in the small bodies of the sweet children all strapped in behind me. Besides feeling grossed out, I also felt guilty for the toxins that are, in all likelihood, already floating around under their soft skin.

So, what now?  Honestly, I don’t know.  As I mentioned, we’re already doing our best to eliminate as many processed foods as possible. At the very least, we’re committed to buying milk with the rBGH-free farmer pledge. Last week, I bought organic half-and-half for my coffee, and at this moment we have only organic yogurt in the fridge. Our favorite pasta is an organic, whole wheat variety, and we stock up when it goes on sale at the grocery store. We try to stick to meat and eggs from Walnut Acres, though we do buy conventional meat on occasion. So I suppose we’re off to a good start. 

Despite all the health and environmental benefits of going organic, such a commitment is still an expensive one.  Believe me, that is a concern for us!  I am still trying to figure out how to budget for organic food in our life, but at the same time, in the face of all this information, I’m not sure how I can turn away from such a commitment.  If it were just me, then maybe I wouldn’t worry so much.  But with three small kids who have their whole beautiful lives ahead of them, I know we owe it to them to give them safe foods to eat.
And lest you think, “Hey, I grew up on conventional produce and regular milk! What’s the big deal??” I get that. I was thinking the same thing until I read Robyn’s book. As it turns out, cows weren’t given hormones until the mid-1990s, and I’d done most of my growing by then. Genetically modified corn and soy are recent additions to the fields, too. So yes, we DID grow up on conventionally farmed foods – but folks, those seem to be long-gone.  We all know there are issues in our American food landscape: obesity, allergies, childhood disorders like autism and ADHD – issues that are on the rise just in the last 15 years.  Is it coincidence that all of these altered foods hit the shelves beginning around this time? Though it’s impossible to prove causation, I’m not sure I want to take chances with my kids’ futures.

Meanwhile, We Actually Have a Good Vocabulary

The Talker is using two new words in his up-to-the-minute lingo: actually and meanwhile.

The scary thing?  He worked meanwhile into a sentence today - correctly.

I don't use meanwhile, like, EVER.  I do use actually.  I'm wondering where meanwhile came from.  For a four year old, meanwhile is a 10-cent word!  I think actually is worth at least 8 cents.  Perhaps they show up in Charlotte's Web, The Talker's favorite rainy day book.  (Who am I kidding? He reads it on sunny, warm days, too, when he should be hankering to go outside!)

On our way home from school I told him, "You have quite a vocabulary, young man."

"What's a vocabulary, Mom?"

"Hmmm...a vocabulary is all the words that you know and use when you talk or write."

"Oh. Actually, I knew that already."

Okay, maybe he didn't say that last bit, but I often feel pretty humbled by this boy's facility with language and his enjoyment of storing and classifying large quantities of information. Actually, humbled is way too generous.  I need to start doing more crossword puzzles in my "free time."  Maybe Nana could help me out with this one.  The Talker's vocabulary is getting a little too big for my comfort zone!  But of course we can't stifle this - it's a sign of good things to come, right?

But this varied and expansive vocabulary is not without its 2-cent words.Yesterday he stepped out on to our front steps with his awesome firetruck rain slicker on and announced, "Oh, crap! It's raining out here!"  The Runner informed me that The Talker sounded just like his sweet mommy.

Oh, crap. 

I suppose it's better than the alternative, right?

Sleep Training: Confessions in the Night

Hi Family! Hi Friends! 

You can find me over at Chicago Moms Blog today, stressing over sleep training Miss Rosie. Last night she was up at 4am, same as the night before! Her sweet Daddy took care of her so I could rest before my big triathlon workout this morning: all three disciplines - and with a friend, too!  If you have tips on how to keep her asleep until at least the six o'clock hour, I am ALL ears.

Home Depot

Our Big Talker sometimes has trouble closing his mouth and getting himself ready to go somewhere.  For anyone who knows our family, this sounds familiar, doesn't it?  We are genetically hardwired as talkers.  Poor Big T is also saddled with a significant amount of Irish blood, which consequently puts him on "Irish Time."  Irish Time is a danger to all things punctual.  And believe me, the Talker and I both struggle with punctual.

Getting ready for school the other day, I decided that urging him with sound bytes rather than full on directions was the way to go.  He needed to get his shoes on so we could make it to school on time, but he couldn't do the shoes AND tell me about the diet of a gigantosaurus at the same time.  (Geez, Mom!)  I was getting flustered trying to twart Irish Time for the 483rd time that week.  It was only Tuesday.

The short conversation went like this:

"Less talking, more DOING, buddy."

"More doing, Mom. That's the power of the Home Depot."

Irish Time be damned; unintentional preschooler humor wins again!

Givin' it up: for Lent

Last week we marked the beginning of Lent (literally) by attending an Ash Wednesday service.  Miss Rosie wiggled and fussed while RT flopped on the floor of the narthex. I attempted to focus on the priest's words while sweating profusely after administering a timeout near a potted plant RT for said flopping.

Ahhh, Church.  Anyone with small children knows how unholy it can make you feel.  Trying to get the kids out the door on time, coaxing them to behave "properly" during the service, and making game-time decisions about how much noise from your 7 month old is too much noise, even though she IS a baptized member of the congregation are all part of the worshipping process.

Mercifully, this wasn't a Mass, so it was considerably shorter for the kids.  I'd explained to RT about the ashes - and he understood where they came from.  (Thank you NBC5 Chicago for showing the ceremony of burning the palms at the cathedral on afternoon news!)  I thought for sure that he would want to participate in the wearing of ashes this year; he showed all the signs of readiness: asking questions, understanding that the ashes don't hurt your forehead...

So we get in line to receive our ashes, and RT starts the wet noodle trick - also known as "going boneless."  Holding Miss Rosie securely on my right hip, I attempt to guide him into the ashes line, and his arms slips from my (firm but gentle!) grasp, and he slides to the floor.  I start sweating again.  With an attempt at saintly patience, I redouble my efforts ,and we make it to the front of the line, just in time for RT to clamp his chubby hands over his forehead.  Ashes denied!

The woman dispensing the ashes also tries to coax him to receive them.  At this point I don't care whether or not he wears them, I just want to go hide in my car.  To show him that the ashes don't hurt, she anoints Rosie with them (yikes! she's only 7 months!), and then sneaks her hand near his hairline and slips him the goods.  He immediately starts rubbing his head saying (loudly), "But I don't want these ashes! They are yucky!"

By now I have soaked through my button down, and my fleece jacket is starting to feel damp.  We make it to the car, RT rubbing his forehead the entire way.  Looking around me, I am relieved to note that I am not the only parent who struggled in her attempt at sainthood today.  All that sweat starts to cool me off, and I start feeling like I can speak kindly again.

On the way home, I explain how people give things up for Lent - things that they enjoy.  They don't eat certain favorite foods or do a favorite activity, from now until Easter.  I told him that I'm giving up ice cream this year and Daddy's giving up beer. (BEER!!)  RT annouces, "Mom, I would like to give up computer games for Lent."

WHOA, hold the presses.  COMPUTER GAMES?!

Maybe my boy will become a saint someday.

One can only hope.  Until then, I think I'll be washing some more sweaty laundry.

Diabetes

Over Christmas we were "home" in Ktown for a nice visit, during which we had Miss Rosie baptized at HR.  The trip was a total whirlwind, and of course we didn't get to see everyone that we'd wanted to, but I supposed we've grown used to that a bit by now.

The baptism was scheduled for 1pm on the 27th, and we planned to have a small gathering afterwards - just a few friends and neighbors.  After much deliberation, my mother decided on a dessert-and-coffee kind of spread - which was a-okay by me.  By 12N, the gigantic coffee urn was perking on the dining room table (this thing could caffinate the entire parish in a single brew) and we'd sweetly arranged various desserts around it.  I was hustling to get M cleaned up & into her christening gown, which I wanted to be extra careful with since my late Nana made it for my baptism 31 years ago.  Since we all operate on Irish time (except for my punctual hubby), we were just kicking it into high gear to get out the door ASAP.

In the rush to get everything organized, my oh-so self-reliant 21 year-old brother (and MR's godfather) floats into the kitchen and asks, "Hey Mom, what's for lunch?"  My mom - barely skipping a beat - looks at him and says, " Geez, I don't know.  There's all kinds of stuff on the dining room table.  Help yourself."

The Godfather meaneders into the dining room, probably hoping to find a ham sandwich and some chips.  Seeing the sugary spread, he returns to the kitchen and deadpans: "Um, Mom, I wanted lunch. Not diabetes."

*****

Cut to our kitchen, this afternoon.  RT has just scored a bag of V-day candy from the neighbors, who are super generous and tons of fun. We love them.  The Talker is tearing through the bag, checking everything out and settling on a lollipop (yes, this is his third one in 6 hours, not counting the small bag of M&Ms he snuck by me).  He doesn't ask for permission.  He just digs in.  I start wondering out loud - "I wonder if there is diabetes in there with your candy?"  The Talker, whose middle name is Persistant, is now following me around the house saying, "hey Mom, where are the diabetes?  Did I get any in my Valentine's Day candy from school?  I want diabetes!"

Happy Valentine's Day, everyone!  Sending you love and diabetes.