We'll always find something to worry about.

Dearest Daughters,

We eat fairly "clean." Actually, I don't know what that means. It's just a trendy word right now. The definition that I've construed is: eating things as close to their natural state as possible. For us, that means lots of fruits and veggies, locally grown, recently picked and nutrients not cooked to death; and a little bit of eggs and meat, as responsibly and organically raised as possible. Throw in some whole grains and we're set. We eat dairy products too; milk, yogurt and cheese; not sure where that fits into the official definition of "eating clean", but at least it's not Velveeta.

So, big whoops: in examining our relatively small pantry, I've realized that the processed foods that we do have, mostly convenience foods, are the foods we throw at you, Babybel. Goldfish crackers, macaroni and cheese, chicken nuggets! Delish. I mean, yuck. Right, yuck. It's not as if we feed you these and only these foods. In fact, both of you girls eat mostly anything set before you: spinach, fish, cauliflower, broccoli's always been a favorite of Babybel's.

Right now, I still make Danjo's baby food. Usually with the same stuff I've picked up at the farmers market, just a pureed version. For you, Babybel, it's just so hard to escape those conveniently packaged fruit snacks, organic though they may be! Almost as easy to throw into the diaper bag as actual fruit! Oh, snap. Again, certainly nothing near the Hot Cheetos that students came to school with, eating them for breakfast, when I taught high school.

I do my best, simply, by rarely to never shopping in an actual grocery store. While this means our kitchen is filled with fruits, veggies and organic chicken from a butcher, it also means that once in awhile, I feed you fruit snacks and popcorn, because just the thought of putting a meal together from scratch out of actual ingredients (though decidedly one of my favorite activities) makes me exhausted.

I often inappropriately fantasize (no, not like that) about living in a developing country or in a different era, where I wouldn't have to fight you, Babybel, every morning about which of your ten pairs of shoes to wear. Where the only thing I'd have to do all day was to worry about feeding my children, walking to get water, tending to a garden, dropping off a meal at the community oven. Shame on you, Mommy! For romanticizing the difficult lives of real women across the globe. But, at the end of the day, isn't that still what it's all about? Putting food in our babies' mouths?

I don't work to roll around in heaps of diamonds. I don't live for my five minutes of fame. I don't even have an archetypal dream that I'm pursuing at the moment. I don't want to run the rat race. I would like to milk a rat though and make rat milk yogurt in the sun. Kidding. For reals: in some ways, it would be a relief if all I had to do all day was to take care of you two and cook a meal. Wait. Isn't that what you do, Mommy?

Hmmmm.

Well, I do work at an office a bit. So, there's that. But, the truth is that the less complicated the business of living has become, the more complicated it gets. Say whaaa? With technology, everything from plumbing to smartphones, our lives have in many ways become more convenient. Thankfully, more sanitary (wait, who got a parasite?), less physically demanding (I mean, we've created places to go that charge you to exercise), more comfortable (I love you bed and furnace), but the pace of our life has quickened and some things only have the appearance of convenience. So, yes, all I do all day is take care of you and cook a meal, but the expectation is that I do it all quickly; that I do other things quickly while I'm not doing that quickly. And, conveniently, I can get all the things that I need by strapping everyone into the car, driving less than a mile, unbuckling everyone, entertaining everyone, avoiding meltdowns while trying to pay for the groceries with the money I earned working in an office. An office. With old carpet. And opaque window panes.

So, yes. I romanticize. I romanticize a life where I wake up, tend to the chickens, work in the garden, play with my children and eat dinner at Applebee's. Just kidding. At this point, with a part-time job, and with the confines of my backyard, with my lack of agricultural wherewithal and with only one pair of hands, I don't think I can "live off the land" quite yet.

And so, I worry. Like many women. About putting food in my babies' mouths. Where does it come from? When will I go get it? How will I make them eat it? It's, as my brother Bruce puts it, a "champagne problem" kind of worry, that needn't be so complicated. Nor so worrisome. We have food security. Let's just be thankful for that.

And yet, I still find myself worrying: if I feed you junk mail, should it be organic?

Love,

Your (eternally conflicted) Mommy

 

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