...and the little one said, "roll over!"

It starts out innocently enough: a nap here, a snuggle there. Except it doesn't end. You wake up in this freaky Twilight Zone where a toddler apocalypse reins - a world where parents resemble zombies, deep shadows beneath their eyes as they walk the earth in a trance. You know these parents well. The mommy who stares off into space, pouring milk as the glass spills over. The dad who weeps at the the sight of his PJ clad tyke. Whispers of "no sex" and "lost intimacy" can be heard at Mommy and Me Baby Yoga.

That's right: CO-SLEEPING (or at least involuntary forms of it).

Hey, it may work for some families. I recognize there are several studies that cite the benefits of co-sleeping; I respect those studies and the choices such families make. It came out of your uterus, so do as you wish with your little one. No judgements here.

However, I also deeply respect the fact we're not co-sleepers, and I'm fairly certain Emma's  450 dollar IKEA  bed is a clear indication of that. Why? The hubster and I are a wee bit selfish.  We like our space. He likes his pillow, dubbed the side sleeper deluxe. I like being indecent past 10 p.m.,  quite possibly sleeping nude. I also like to get laid. He likes to roll over without fear of crushing the fruit of his loins. Emma snores, and I'm a light sleeper.  It-just-doesn't-work. Kind of like communism. Or open relationships. Or those kitchen gadgets you buy on the 2 a.m. infomercials. Or the dress that looked good on the mannequin.

And yet we're in the middle of effing co-sleeping. Where the hell is the autonomy of being Mom and Dad?

Every morning Kevin says, "We've got to do something about this." Each night we try. We follow a strict bedtime routine. Bath, pj's, reading books. We leave a nightlight on. We say 427207420874234 "I love you's," and "see you in the morning!". Somehow, like a thief in the night, Emma makes her way to our bed. She is a stealthy toddler minx - sliding in at the foot. She stalks us, her prey, making her way to the crook of my arm, holding onto my neck. Usually I don't notice, as I'm so tired from being a domestic goddess...UNTIL HER FEET ARE DIGGING INTO MY SPINE OR HER ASS IS IN MY FACE. That's right: no one tells you that your little bundle of joy can, whilst sleeping, perform positions and gravity defying acts that put Cirque du Soleil to shame.

So, like the responsible (and semi selfish) parents we are, we purchased  a a child-proof doorknob; basically some cheap ass plastic thing that covers the doorknob so your kiddo can have their own personal Alcatraz. Awww : - )

EXCEPT IT DIDN'T WORK. Yeah, the manufacture's of that junk didn't bother to mention if you're a (semi) responsible parent, like myself (duh), who works on fine motor skill activities with her toddler, this product is moot. Your little Einstein is soooo going to make that door handle their bitch.  Kind of like chimps, you know, with those pesky opposable thumbs. That night, I awoke to about 1/4 inch of room on my bed while Kevin was practicably crushing me with all 162 pounds of his weight. It felt like more - I swear!

Onto Plan B: A Baby Gate. We yet again made a Target run, hoping this would do the trick. EXCEPT IT DIDN'T. And here I was, all smug and doing the moonwalk in joy. This morning I awoke to my neck aching, half way hanging off the side of my bed, Emma snoring beside me, and Kevin's arm squishing my face.

How did she do it?! How did Emma get over the Legendary Baby Gate? Clearly, by day Emma is a tyrannical toddler, but by night she is Emma The Secret Sneaky Ninja Agent. Proof of my child's magical and devious powers:

 

That's right: She put the blue chair over the gate, and the used the red chair to scale the damn Wall of China to the Holy Grail - AKA our bed. So she could snore. And steal my pillow. And ensure I am a victim of the toddler apocalypse. 

Emma - 2

(Semi) Responsibly Parents - 0

Paleo Soup for the Soul

“It seems to me that our three basic needs, for food and security and love, are so mixed and mingled and entwined that we cannot straightly think of one without the others. So it happens that when I write of hunger, I am really writing about love and the hunger for it, and warmth and the love of it and the hunger for it… and then the warmth and richness and fine reality of hunger satisfied… and it is all one.”

― M.F.K. Fisher, The Art of Eating: 50th Anniversary Edition 

Last night, I dreamed of soup. I dreamed of mincing garlic, chopping onions, adding stock. I dreamed of the scent rising from the pot, a steam facial for my pallet. I dreamed of making something tangible out of nothing. I dreamed of being full.

This morning when I awoke, a calm sense of determination surrounded me. In the world of motherhood, calm moments are rare. There is a fine balance, the scale often favoring controlled chaos. But I was lucky to wake in the eye of the hurricane; sweet serenity encompassing my breathing. I didn't care that it was 7:34 in the morning - I had cooking to do.

Armed with my vegetable drawer and non-stick cookware, I set to prepping. I peeled, chopped, diced. I caramelized, minced, and shredded. I julienned and quartered. I hunted through cabinets. I roasted spices. I cooked with love, searching for comfort; seeking a concrete product to counter the dull ache of loss. That's what I'm feeding - not my bones or stomach,  but the grief I thought I left behind.

It's been nearly three months since the miscarriage. There hasn't been a single day I don't think about it. Inevitably, however, I know it'll become less raw. It's already happening. What does that mean when a day passes and Baby Borchgrevink doesn't cross my mind? What does that say if I can push the thoughts away from my subconscious? On one hand, the humanity in me wants to heal, to forget - to stop dwelling. And yet the grief inside my heart stamps their foot - they demand my attention because what sort of mother can not ponder their hopes and dreams? How can I not always carry the, "what if...." with me?

This is my offering. Broken for you. This is my act of love. This is making something out of nothing - concentrating on what I have and not what I am lacking. Focusing on the good, the pure. Reminding myself that a recipe, a plan, does not ensure perfection. This is me celebrating a simple joy in life, home made soup -this is me making due with what I have.

Showing my age: VHS tapes

My father recently gave me my childhood collection of VHS Walt Disney tapes. Of course, my generation is probably the last one to recognize these cumbersome black boxes in comparison to the sleek DVD's our children of today know. Why he gave them to me is unknown. He simply handed over four brown paper bags of my childhood heros, muttering something about no longer having room for them.

My father is not a man of many words - when he speaks it's to say what is needed. Unlike me, his words are not meant to fill silence or chat about the mundane events within life. As extroverted and gregarious as I am, he is somber and reflective.

Why he kept them, however, for so many years speaks volumes. They represent the innocence of my youth. They're a time in which children regard their father's as a superhero - a man without weakness; a soul without an Achilles heel. It's the moment when little girls truly believe in fairy tales, before we see the harsh ugliness of the world. Before we come to see that Sleeping Beauty probably suffered from a case of stale morning breath; that knights in shining armor more than often turn out to be losers in tin foil. And once upon a time, well - times such as those in a land far away are simply nonexistent.

These tapes are not contrite, though. They're a marvelous novelty. They're a formula - the y=mx+b of the world, the balance of good and evil. The cliche that gives hope and comfort to hearts. They're proof that the good guys are supposed to win; that the superfluous plans of evil can be thwarted. That there is a happily ever after. There is a silver lining. Paired with a powerful ensemble of catchy tunes, little one's are filled with joy and security - and we laugh in the face of danger!

In addition, however, to the Disney VHS tapes, my dad also gave me an ancient VCR. That's right - it works! Though 20 years old, it somehow works - further proof from the universe that I, Sarah, am meant to watch them.

So I did. I am. All this past week, Emma and I have cuddled up in bed, wrapped in the afghan her grandmother knitted for her. We dove into Cinderella, swam with Ariel, cried with the Seven Dwarfs, and stood by Mulan's side as she faced oppression. We sang along with Aladdin, rooted for the Fox and the Hound, and sobbed for Bambi's mother. We painted with the colors of the wind - feeling the burden of Pocahontas and her people. The list goes on. I find myself being lost in the magic, enthralled by the marvelous Wonder-White-Bread and wholesome feel good moments.

Despite hundreds of previous views, it's as if I am seeing these films for the first time. Without the blind innocence of my childhood goggles, I see what I missed. There are dark undertones and sadness. There is loss and grief. There are moments in which the protagonist suffers -  and justice is not fully served. How did I miss this? How did I remain ignorant? How did I not see how heinous the death scene of Mufaso is? How did I not sob when Todd, from the Fox and the Hound, is abandoned? How did I not raise my toddler fist in outrage when Dumbo's mother is quarantined? As an adult, these scenes don't appear to novelty of my former childhood self, but the humanity I've gained as a wife and mother.

I realize Disney film's are often criticized for a plethora of reasons - those of which I won't elaborate on because they're subjective and depend on the viewer's perception. Criticism aside, I am finding little gems of wisdom in the most precarious and peculiar places - the VHS films my father gave me. Perhaps I am biased as I am secretly pleased my father kept them for me, but more so - beneath the showtunes and archetypes, I am connecting with my inner child, seeing that it's okay to take risks (Little Mermaid). Isn't that all part of being an adult? Isn't that part of life?

Quite simply: it's as if my grief has allowed me to see shades to the world I didn't know existed. I look for meaning in everything - even VHS tapes that were once a novelty.

I'm not sure how to end this post - it's mostly just ramblings and things I need to get off my chest. I'll work on a more graceful exit later - but for now, this is what it is.

Farmer's Market Family Excursion

As humans, we all have eating patterns and our own individual relationship with food. However, as modern citizens, we often are disconnected from our food: we stroll into brightly lit and sterile grocery stores. We eye the pleasing marketing campaigns, sleek labels, and cellophane packages. Behind this veil, every product has a story, and yet we forget to question the integrity of our food.

In this era of convenience,  we are victims of Stockholm Syndrome. We choose ready made meals or one stop shops in order to fulfill our dietary needs. We want instant gratification - to be mollycoddled. We often chose quickness over quality. A step back into the darkness is occurring.

Visiting the local farmers market was grand.  Imagine, the wind is blowing, the sun shining. The urban Heights area is bustling with an eclectic mixture of shoppers and vendors. Activity creates a gentle hum, and vibrant colors of local produce fills every corner. Rows and rows of vendor booths with honest smiles and rough hands welcome you to their booth. The scent of rain, earth, and food fills your nostrils. It's an experience - an inspiring one. It's more than a transaction, one person to another, but a human connection filling the most inherent and primal needs.

Why I choose to buy local:

1)  I like knowing my food is grown nearby, and was picked at it's peak. I like knowing my food is from my geographic environment, where it has perfectly-created nutrients for my specific climate.

2) It's cheaper! The variety of fresh and organic produce is much more affordable when compared to a supermarket (Whole Foods, Central Market, Trader Joes). More so, even if the produce is not USDA certified organic (as this is rather costly to ensure), the local produce is lower priced, but is also pesticide and herbicide free. Sounds like a win to me.

3) I like supporting local agriculture and farmers. Instead of supporting massive GMO food factories, I meet human beings - beings who greet me warmly and share their worth with me. The money I spend supports my local economy, and I enjoy the direct interaction. I like removing the sterile and cold experience of a supermarket.

4) Fresher fruits and veggies rock. The products from a farmers market is much fresher. Because it was grown locally, there is a good chance that the apple you buy from the farmer was picked a few days ago. This is virtually impossible in a big supermarket.

5) The taste is yummy - more so than the supermarket. There is no doubt that locally-grown foods just simply taste better. You will never be able to eat a carrot from the grocery store again!

6) Local food preserves genetic diversity.  Local farms grow a huge number of varieties to provide a long growing season of crops with an army of eye-catching colors and the best flavor. Many of these varieties are passed down from generation to generation and continue to be grown because they taste good.

7) Local food builds a stronger community.  When you buy direct from a farmer, you are re-establishing a time-honored connection between the eater and the grower. Knowing the farmers gives you insight into the seasons, the weather, and the miracle of raising food.

8) It's fun! I had a great time with Emma. We talked about colors, and she held Kevin's hand. At first she was nervous, shyly smiling at the vendors, but by the end of our trip, we excitedly handed money to the vendors.  Kevin, more so, was in awe at the selection. I also found it endearing that he explained different produce and items to Emma.

I'm attaching the photos from this afternoon. We finished the afternoon up with a trip to a local bakery (photos attached as well). I hope that by viewing these photos, you'll see all that the farmer's market has to offer. I truly hope you'll make the trip to see the difference.