I woke up Wednesday morning already anxious, but there wasn't anything external forcing it (I guess, is there ever? I don't know about you, but my anxiety lives in my own head, for the most part). This was perplexing. I couldn't identify any cause for it, a powerless feeling, because if you don't know why you feel bad, you can't do anything about it, right? Used to be I would cast about for something external to help explain the anxiety, too, which had to perplex and annoy the people around me pretty good. "It can't be me," my subconscious must have been saying. "It must be all those socks strewn about all over the house!"
Then I had this realization that the feeling I was having was an old anxiety, or rather a residual anxiety. Maybe even a memory of anxiety. An anxiety habit.
Here is what it felt like: when I was a kid, maybe ten, maybe thirteen, I don't know, I would wake up in the middle of the night, look at the clock, and in sleeping-walking-type fashion, I would get ready for school in a huge rush. It could be 3 in the morning, and my brain would see the clock, think it was 3pm, and figure that I was late, late, late. I'd get dressed, brush my teeth, and be in the process of curling my hair (yes, I was curling my hair in third grade) before I'd realize that it was dark outside and the house was too eerily quiet for it to really be morning. Then I'd curse and go back to bed, knowing I'd have to get up in a few hours and get ready all over again. This happened several times. One time involved spooning a lot of mayonnaise into my mouth in the middle of the night. Ew.
It's symbolic of the kinds of anxiety I felt most deeply as a kid. Anxiety that I would be late; that I would be unprepared; that I wouldn't know something; that I would screw something up and be found out.
Still deal with most of those on a very basic, reflexive level, though I'd like to believe I've made some progress in a few of these areas. I'm a little less of a know-it-all than I used to be, I hope, because I don't need quite so badly to be seen as smart or prepared. I'm late now and then and it doesn't freak me out as much as it used to. I listen a lot more to how I feel and what I want to do, rather than what I feel I have to do. I screw up a lot and am able to laugh about it. Not always, but sometimes. That is progress, and my life keeps getting better and better as a result.
Tuesday morning I was supposed to have my annual performance review. I realized right at the meeting time that I had forgotten the appointment and was home stuffing a muffin in my mouth and had just prepared a cup of coffee. I literally threw the muffin aside (lucky Milo) and screamed out the door and onto the snowy roads. My boss was incredibly understanding as I called her on my way to the office and told me to take my time. It ended up being a good meeting, and I didn't get too into a tizzy over it. Even though, Jesus, I was just freaking LATE for my annual performance review. How lame can you get. Plus I had to ask for a raise. Awesome. It all worked out fine, though.
But then I woke up the next morning with the ill-defined anxiety. The old anxiety.
Hmmm. Interesting, that is.
This is what meditation does for me. It helps me to see the anxiety as the not-me. It helps me to not follow it to some sort of logical conclusion. It helps me to realize there is nothing I need to "do" to alleviate it. It allays my need to stuff down the pain of the anxiety with my other old habits.
It's not just a coping mechanism, though. It's a realization that, fundamentally, there is some "me" that is not beholden to satisfying or allaying my anxieties. I do it because it feels good, so much better than anything I could do to try to deal with my anxiety otherwise. It makes life easier, and happier, and everything good that you can think of. All just from breathing with some bells.
Friday, February 10, 2012
Thursday, February 2, 2012
A Taboo Sort of Rambling
I have dear friends who have kids and dear friends who don't. Our interactions and conversations are so different and yet so important to who I am and, also, to how I raise my kids.
I had lunch with a friend who doesn't have kids a few weeks back and I must have voiced some complaint about being tired or the kids driving me crazy or something because she looked at me and asked, "Do you like having kids?"
I was silent for a moment. Yes. I like having kids, I said. But, honestly, I often feel totally unequipped to be raising kids, and it is tiring to do so much of it on our own, and sometimes I despair. We have friends who are amazing parents and we frequently lack their patience, resolve, and resources. It is hard not to feel envious and ill-prepared. But sometimes we do alright, and the incredible times--the times when your heart is filled with love to bursting, or when you can pause and just enjoy these incredible people-in-becoming, or when your house is filled with excitement, laughter, joy, play... those times certainly outnumber and outweigh the difficult times. And, I added, thinking of my pat line in these cases, being a parent has grown me up a lot.
I don't know about that response, my friend said, truthfully. Does that mean I'm not grown up?
I laughed. Well, I said, you were more grown up at fifteen than I was at thirty. So I'd say in your case, no. I was a late bloomer. And I think, personality-wise, I tend to be particularly selfish and self-involved. Having kids has forced me a little out of that. Or maybe not that much (see hoarding of Kindle Fire).
But maybe I didn't mean to say that kids have "grown me up" at all. I think what I mean to say is that it gives you a taste of a subject position that you otherwise just don't have, even as a caring Auntie, partner, or friend involved in little people's lives. This has nothing to do with maturity, after all, but it does allow you another turn of the kaleidoscope.
I think that our primary subject position for much of our lives is as child. Our experience of and perspective on parenting, largely, is shaped by our own experiences as a child of parents. We may have experiences of our parents as loving, judgmental, distant, sick, supportive, successful, absent, or any other number of combinations, perceived, real, and otherwise, but when we think about the parent/child dynamic, it is largely our experience as the child that determines how we think about parenting and being parents.
I don't mean to say the child subject position is immature or undeveloped. I don't mean "child" as in "little one," but rather as offspring in relationship to "parent." This also doesn't mean our views on parenting or parents don't have consequence--they have tremendous consequence. Some of you remind me that I must see my children as people in their own right and not simply as "mine," for one thing, and for that I am seriously grateful, and always think hard about our conversations after. I wouldn't trade that for anything.
Still.
Perhaps I'm simply deepening the defensiveness and angst that exists between those who have kids and those who don't by writing this. I know it is hard for those who have chosen to be kid-free to always have to say, "I know I'm not a parent, but..." and to be heard in a non-defensive way. I know terms like "childless" or even referring to you as "without kids" lacks sensitivity and emphasizes what one doesn't have instead of what one does. Parents can also be smug in their child-ful-ness, and self-obsessed, and martyr-like. I also know, as a parent, that sometimes advice from the kid-free lacks sensitivity and understanding as well. It can be full of smug judgment, too. I may also resent your ability to drop a bomb about how I'm raising my kids and then go back to your clean, quiet, house and watch t.v. all night, uninterrupted, and without smeared peanut butter on your jammy pants (unless you put it there). We all make our choices. The opportunities for resentment, misunderstanding, and conflict abound. And still so much goes unsaid.
What I'm trying to say is I think one of the by-products of our subject position as children is that we locate a lot of who we are now in the decisions our parents made. This part of me comes from the things that happened to me as a child, and so on. I do this. You do this. It's part of making sense of who we are as adults. This doesn't mean we don't take responsibility for our choices and who we are, but I think, as children, the scale tips toward attributing much of who we are to the way we were raised.
But then we might deliberately choose to have kids, or just have them without thinking much about the choice (which is what E. and I did), or have them on accident. Then we are introduced to a new subject position: that of the parent. All of a sudden, at least in my case, you begin to see the parent-child dynamic, at least in the abstract, in a new light. You have moments when you are exhausted, sick, grumpy, and do shitty, shitty things as a parent. You respond in a mean way to a tired or sick kid, or you collapse in a pile of tears because you just don't know how to handle your sassy, misbehaving, or criminal teenager anymore. You screw up and choose the wrong school for them, or you introduce them to a neighbor who molests them, or you shut down and forget to show them how to feel their feelings. You do permanent damage. You work hard to do things better than your parents did, but find out so much is out of your control, and trying to hold on to control only backfires. You are constantly dealing with your own profound and particular bullshit. You are terrified of projecting it on to your little ones. You figure out that your kids are their own little selves and sometimes you're just there to guide and support them, not make everything right for them. Which leads you to see that some of that must also have been true for you growing up. Which leads you to revisit some of the resentments you might hold as a child toward your parents, and maybe some of your pedestalizing, too.
All those "you's" should be "I's," of course.
Perhaps this is a false dichotomy. My friends who don't have kids have wisdom to share, and remind me frequently of what it is like to be the child (not because they are immature or child-like, but because they remember that as their primary subject position better, perhaps). They return me to sensitivity and love. They help remind me of the care I must express, of the great impact I can have on my kids' lives, of where I must fight and grow and reflect.
My friends with kids remind me of when I have to let go of control because my holding tight is squeezing the life out of things. They remind me to laugh and not take things so seriously. They occasionally ply me with wine and help me to unclench. They help me not feel so tired and old. They remind me that I will make mistakes no matter what and that there is no perfect.
I need both. I love you both.
What do you think? Do I have it wrong?
I had lunch with a friend who doesn't have kids a few weeks back and I must have voiced some complaint about being tired or the kids driving me crazy or something because she looked at me and asked, "Do you like having kids?"
I was silent for a moment. Yes. I like having kids, I said. But, honestly, I often feel totally unequipped to be raising kids, and it is tiring to do so much of it on our own, and sometimes I despair. We have friends who are amazing parents and we frequently lack their patience, resolve, and resources. It is hard not to feel envious and ill-prepared. But sometimes we do alright, and the incredible times--the times when your heart is filled with love to bursting, or when you can pause and just enjoy these incredible people-in-becoming, or when your house is filled with excitement, laughter, joy, play... those times certainly outnumber and outweigh the difficult times. And, I added, thinking of my pat line in these cases, being a parent has grown me up a lot.
I don't know about that response, my friend said, truthfully. Does that mean I'm not grown up?
I laughed. Well, I said, you were more grown up at fifteen than I was at thirty. So I'd say in your case, no. I was a late bloomer. And I think, personality-wise, I tend to be particularly selfish and self-involved. Having kids has forced me a little out of that. Or maybe not that much (see hoarding of Kindle Fire).
But maybe I didn't mean to say that kids have "grown me up" at all. I think what I mean to say is that it gives you a taste of a subject position that you otherwise just don't have, even as a caring Auntie, partner, or friend involved in little people's lives. This has nothing to do with maturity, after all, but it does allow you another turn of the kaleidoscope.
I think that our primary subject position for much of our lives is as child. Our experience of and perspective on parenting, largely, is shaped by our own experiences as a child of parents. We may have experiences of our parents as loving, judgmental, distant, sick, supportive, successful, absent, or any other number of combinations, perceived, real, and otherwise, but when we think about the parent/child dynamic, it is largely our experience as the child that determines how we think about parenting and being parents.
I don't mean to say the child subject position is immature or undeveloped. I don't mean "child" as in "little one," but rather as offspring in relationship to "parent." This also doesn't mean our views on parenting or parents don't have consequence--they have tremendous consequence. Some of you remind me that I must see my children as people in their own right and not simply as "mine," for one thing, and for that I am seriously grateful, and always think hard about our conversations after. I wouldn't trade that for anything.
Still.
Perhaps I'm simply deepening the defensiveness and angst that exists between those who have kids and those who don't by writing this. I know it is hard for those who have chosen to be kid-free to always have to say, "I know I'm not a parent, but..." and to be heard in a non-defensive way. I know terms like "childless" or even referring to you as "without kids" lacks sensitivity and emphasizes what one doesn't have instead of what one does. Parents can also be smug in their child-ful-ness, and self-obsessed, and martyr-like. I also know, as a parent, that sometimes advice from the kid-free lacks sensitivity and understanding as well. It can be full of smug judgment, too. I may also resent your ability to drop a bomb about how I'm raising my kids and then go back to your clean, quiet, house and watch t.v. all night, uninterrupted, and without smeared peanut butter on your jammy pants (unless you put it there). We all make our choices. The opportunities for resentment, misunderstanding, and conflict abound. And still so much goes unsaid.
What I'm trying to say is I think one of the by-products of our subject position as children is that we locate a lot of who we are now in the decisions our parents made. This part of me comes from the things that happened to me as a child, and so on. I do this. You do this. It's part of making sense of who we are as adults. This doesn't mean we don't take responsibility for our choices and who we are, but I think, as children, the scale tips toward attributing much of who we are to the way we were raised.
But then we might deliberately choose to have kids, or just have them without thinking much about the choice (which is what E. and I did), or have them on accident. Then we are introduced to a new subject position: that of the parent. All of a sudden, at least in my case, you begin to see the parent-child dynamic, at least in the abstract, in a new light. You have moments when you are exhausted, sick, grumpy, and do shitty, shitty things as a parent. You respond in a mean way to a tired or sick kid, or you collapse in a pile of tears because you just don't know how to handle your sassy, misbehaving, or criminal teenager anymore. You screw up and choose the wrong school for them, or you introduce them to a neighbor who molests them, or you shut down and forget to show them how to feel their feelings. You do permanent damage. You work hard to do things better than your parents did, but find out so much is out of your control, and trying to hold on to control only backfires. You are constantly dealing with your own profound and particular bullshit. You are terrified of projecting it on to your little ones. You figure out that your kids are their own little selves and sometimes you're just there to guide and support them, not make everything right for them. Which leads you to see that some of that must also have been true for you growing up. Which leads you to revisit some of the resentments you might hold as a child toward your parents, and maybe some of your pedestalizing, too.
All those "you's" should be "I's," of course.
Perhaps this is a false dichotomy. My friends who don't have kids have wisdom to share, and remind me frequently of what it is like to be the child (not because they are immature or child-like, but because they remember that as their primary subject position better, perhaps). They return me to sensitivity and love. They help remind me of the care I must express, of the great impact I can have on my kids' lives, of where I must fight and grow and reflect.
My friends with kids remind me of when I have to let go of control because my holding tight is squeezing the life out of things. They remind me to laugh and not take things so seriously. They occasionally ply me with wine and help me to unclench. They help me not feel so tired and old. They remind me that I will make mistakes no matter what and that there is no perfect.
I need both. I love you both.
What do you think? Do I have it wrong?
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Practical Meditation
You all know that I've been interested in meditation for a long time, and have had some interesting experiences meditating (like that time when my limbs got all expansive and universal-like. That was better than shrooms. Not that I know what shrooms are like, dear tenure committee members and law-enforcing-type officials and taxpayers and older family members reading this blog).
But, frankly, I've not ever been able to keep up meditation as a daily practice. Certainly, I have done things that approximated it: daily spiritual reading, some chanting here and there. And I think running can be pretty meditative. Still, there has been no daily sitting down and quieting of the mind, even though I've needed it. Oh, I'd try. I'd sit for a few minutes and then feel really, really called to pop a load of laundry in the washer. Or I'd get all anxious and need to do some online shopping. So it seemed sort of counter-productive all in all. I didn't know for how long to sit or why or anything like that. It just was too hard to make it a daily practice.
Then, when I had my mini-meltdown in San Diego (which maybe was not so mini. Maybe more of the life-changing variety) I had that phone conversation with N., which she probably thought was kind of inconsequential but was actually really, really important (she's always doing that to/for me, as best friends do) and she asked if I could go meditate to get a handle on the freak-out. I think I tearfully responded uh-huh, but the answer really should have been nuh-uh, because I wouldn't have known how and it probably would have freaked me out even more to try in that moment.
There isn't really a knowing how to meditate, you say. You just get quiet and let the thoughts go by.
Yes.
But I need more help than that. I'm a first-world bozo. You'll see.
Anyway, N.'s question rang in my head for a while, and I wondered if one of the things I really needed to figure out how to do was to sit and be quiet with myself for a while and quit running away so much.
Happily, this budding awareness of my need to start meditating coincided with my getting this Christmas present from my grandma:
That, in case you don't know, is a Kindle Fire. Or a Kindle Fire in its little cover, at least. Ruby saw a commercial for it a few weeks before Christmas and asked me if I wanted one for the family and I said yes and she sent me the money for it and then it became mine because it's the best present I've ever had and I love it and use it all the time and I don't want anyone else to have it because it has changed my life.
I'm selfish that way.
Don't tell Grandma.
So, the Fire is awesome for so many reasons. It can pay music from Amazon's cloud, where we have uploaded more than 5,000 songs from our collection. It can play movies and t.v. shows streaming from Amazon's excellent collection, which fills in holes Netflix has. I'm watching The Tudors at the moment, which is like porn, set in the 16th century. All those loose and flowy nightgowns. Totally awesome.
The Fire can play stuff from Netflix, it can access email if you like, it's got all the Droid apps. It directly connects to your Amazon account, and I know this makes me a corporate shill. So be it. It has all of my books and magazines. I can catch up on all my blogs via google reader. It's friendly and sweet and unassuming and easy to use it and I love it. It was only $200, too. Jesus. That's less than a coat from Boden.
But my favorite thing is the Insight Meditation Center app:
It allows you to design preset meditation times. It has specialized gongs to remind you to return to your breath, and different gongs to let you know you're done. It even shows you who else is meditating around the world when you are.
All the wind up for that. A lame plug for an app. Sorry. You're terribly underwhelmed, I can tell. But I'm overwhelmed, because this thing has me meditating every day, and it's so easy and delightful. It's my wee technological meditation crutch, but it's profoundly good medicine.
This post is already too long, so I'll talk about the benefits I'm seeing from the actual meditation later, and why maybe this time is different from the other times I got all worked up about meditation. But if you've thought about meditating, would like to try it...I don't know. There's an app for that.
Ew. Sorry. Had to do it.
But, frankly, I've not ever been able to keep up meditation as a daily practice. Certainly, I have done things that approximated it: daily spiritual reading, some chanting here and there. And I think running can be pretty meditative. Still, there has been no daily sitting down and quieting of the mind, even though I've needed it. Oh, I'd try. I'd sit for a few minutes and then feel really, really called to pop a load of laundry in the washer. Or I'd get all anxious and need to do some online shopping. So it seemed sort of counter-productive all in all. I didn't know for how long to sit or why or anything like that. It just was too hard to make it a daily practice.
Then, when I had my mini-meltdown in San Diego (which maybe was not so mini. Maybe more of the life-changing variety) I had that phone conversation with N., which she probably thought was kind of inconsequential but was actually really, really important (she's always doing that to/for me, as best friends do) and she asked if I could go meditate to get a handle on the freak-out. I think I tearfully responded uh-huh, but the answer really should have been nuh-uh, because I wouldn't have known how and it probably would have freaked me out even more to try in that moment.
There isn't really a knowing how to meditate, you say. You just get quiet and let the thoughts go by.
Yes.
But I need more help than that. I'm a first-world bozo. You'll see.
Anyway, N.'s question rang in my head for a while, and I wondered if one of the things I really needed to figure out how to do was to sit and be quiet with myself for a while and quit running away so much.
Happily, this budding awareness of my need to start meditating coincided with my getting this Christmas present from my grandma:
That, in case you don't know, is a Kindle Fire. Or a Kindle Fire in its little cover, at least. Ruby saw a commercial for it a few weeks before Christmas and asked me if I wanted one for the family and I said yes and she sent me the money for it and then it became mine because it's the best present I've ever had and I love it and use it all the time and I don't want anyone else to have it because it has changed my life.
I'm selfish that way.
Don't tell Grandma.
So, the Fire is awesome for so many reasons. It can pay music from Amazon's cloud, where we have uploaded more than 5,000 songs from our collection. It can play movies and t.v. shows streaming from Amazon's excellent collection, which fills in holes Netflix has. I'm watching The Tudors at the moment, which is like porn, set in the 16th century. All those loose and flowy nightgowns. Totally awesome.
The Fire can play stuff from Netflix, it can access email if you like, it's got all the Droid apps. It directly connects to your Amazon account, and I know this makes me a corporate shill. So be it. It has all of my books and magazines. I can catch up on all my blogs via google reader. It's friendly and sweet and unassuming and easy to use it and I love it. It was only $200, too. Jesus. That's less than a coat from Boden.
But my favorite thing is the Insight Meditation Center app:
It allows you to design preset meditation times. It has specialized gongs to remind you to return to your breath, and different gongs to let you know you're done. It even shows you who else is meditating around the world when you are.
All the wind up for that. A lame plug for an app. Sorry. You're terribly underwhelmed, I can tell. But I'm overwhelmed, because this thing has me meditating every day, and it's so easy and delightful. It's my wee technological meditation crutch, but it's profoundly good medicine.
This post is already too long, so I'll talk about the benefits I'm seeing from the actual meditation later, and why maybe this time is different from the other times I got all worked up about meditation. But if you've thought about meditating, would like to try it...I don't know. There's an app for that.
Ew. Sorry. Had to do it.
Saturday, January 28, 2012
The Noles
Well, it seems that Nolie may have a little bit of test anxiety. Good thing to know. Our county GT office retested her this week using a different test, one that works better for kids with test anxiety and which is a bit more oriented toward kinesthetic learning, as far as I can tell.
Anyway, she's in. I'm glad, on a lot of levels.
Thanks for all the love and support and arguments and laughs as we figured this thing out.
Anyway, she's in. I'm glad, on a lot of levels.
Thanks for all the love and support and arguments and laughs as we figured this thing out.
Friday, January 27, 2012
Regarding my secret fear of moderately empty refrigerators, and also overly crowded, disorganized refrigerators.
You know how we've been trying to save money, mostly because we were not saving money there for a while and things got out of whack? We're pretty much back in the black now, but took a hard look at how we'd been spending money. As a result, we've gone through some major changes in the last month or so. It paid off: we paid off the residuals from the credit cards, made some lifestyle changes, and everything is looking up.
Here's what we did:
First, I stopped buying clothes. Let's be honest: I had a new-clothing addiction there for a while. I spent plenty of our hard-earned money buying myself a whole new wardrobe this last year. Yes, it was stuff that was on sale, and yes, I really enjoy the clothes. But it was out of hand and needed to be nipped in the bud.
That addiction got replaced with my new meditation addiction, but that's for an upcoming post (promise).
Second, we agreed to cancel the cable. This isn't going to save us a ton of money, but let me tell you, it has opened up veritable chasms of time in my schedule. I read every night now, with a cup of tea. I read in the morning. I read in the interstices of my day. It's not that I wasn't reading before, but boy, making the mental switch away from my tv addiction triggered a desire in me to read and do other stuff, like exercise. This is pretty awesome.
But I should say goodbye to my friends: goodbye, Kim, Kortney, Khloe. Goodbye Snooki, the Situation. I'll miss you.
Nother good by-product: watching tv can't trigger my desire to shop. Good.
Third, we just got a whole lot more careful about incidental spending. I tried to make most birthday gifts this month; we didn't eat out; we talked over every purchase. This helped a lot, and is a habit I think we'll keep up with.
Fourth, we agreed that our grocery budget was out of whack. I'm about to blow your freaking mind. Are you ready? We spent on average $1000 a month on groceries. Sometimes more.
Okay, pick up the pieces of your brain and join me again when you've reassembled.
I know! I know! I can't believe it myself. I'm ashamed and embarrassed and confused. I mean, we make almost every meal at home rather than eat out, so that's part of it. I try to buy organic produce when I can (especially with those rascals, apples). We like good cheddar. But I don't know where the hell else the rest of it goes, honestly.
In an effort to cut that budget dramatically this month (we were shooting for $600 but I think hit more like $700) we made two big shopping trips and then agreed to eat from the pantry. We had a fair amount stocked up in terms of pastas and canned tomatoes and all that Costco-overflow-jazz, so it didn't seem that hard. At first.
And for most of the time, it was fun. It was fun figuring out how to be creative just with what we had. It was nice to use up food we had bought rather than throw it away or watch it get all dusty.
But for the last ten days or so, our refrigerator has looked like this:
Now, maybe you look at this fridge and see plenty. Maybe you think I'm having a "first world problem." Maybe you want me to shut my freaking pie-hole.
But I look at this fridge, and I see three half-jars of salsa, a few stalks of kale that I ran out and bought on Tuesday in a frenzied pique as my body demanded fresh greens, a ginormous tub of fake butter (we've had it for three years. I'm not kidding. Totally disgusting), and a pitcher of watered-down juice. And I'm thinking, "How in god's name am I going to feed a family of four on this shit? Somebody tell me HOW I'M GOING TO FEED A FAMILY OF FOUR WITH MARGARINE AND WILTED KALE, MOTHER FUCKERS!!!!.
If you post a comment with a recipe for fried kale and apple sauce, I will punch you in the throat.
Good thing it's the end of the month and I have special dispensation to go to the market this weekend, even if it means we go a tiny bit into the red until our paychecks show up on Monday.
But let me tell you, it has been interesting to observe myself trying not to freak out about having an empty larder. And it has been interesting to observe myself freaking out about not having fresh produce and lots of choices, cooking-wise. And it has been interesting to reflect on my parents' huge walk-in pantry and costco-sized refrigerator, filled with more food than two people could ever eat even if peak oil hits and boatloads of hungry refugees buy out everything in the grocery store and my parents are stuck living off their pantry for a year.
Not saying this has anything to do with them. I take responsibility for my own refrigerator-induced neuroses. That image of their giant, walk-in pantry and overflowing fridge has just crossed my mind a few times as I've been thinking about my relationship with scarcity and plenty and blessings and fear, that's all.
Here's the cool thing: I will be very, very excited to go grocery shopping tomorrow, and I will feel very grateful for every recipe I get to cook this next week. That's for sure.
Here's what we did:
First, I stopped buying clothes. Let's be honest: I had a new-clothing addiction there for a while. I spent plenty of our hard-earned money buying myself a whole new wardrobe this last year. Yes, it was stuff that was on sale, and yes, I really enjoy the clothes. But it was out of hand and needed to be nipped in the bud.
That addiction got replaced with my new meditation addiction, but that's for an upcoming post (promise).
Second, we agreed to cancel the cable. This isn't going to save us a ton of money, but let me tell you, it has opened up veritable chasms of time in my schedule. I read every night now, with a cup of tea. I read in the morning. I read in the interstices of my day. It's not that I wasn't reading before, but boy, making the mental switch away from my tv addiction triggered a desire in me to read and do other stuff, like exercise. This is pretty awesome.
But I should say goodbye to my friends: goodbye, Kim, Kortney, Khloe. Goodbye Snooki, the Situation. I'll miss you.
Nother good by-product: watching tv can't trigger my desire to shop. Good.
Third, we just got a whole lot more careful about incidental spending. I tried to make most birthday gifts this month; we didn't eat out; we talked over every purchase. This helped a lot, and is a habit I think we'll keep up with.
Fourth, we agreed that our grocery budget was out of whack. I'm about to blow your freaking mind. Are you ready? We spent on average $1000 a month on groceries. Sometimes more.
Okay, pick up the pieces of your brain and join me again when you've reassembled.
I know! I know! I can't believe it myself. I'm ashamed and embarrassed and confused. I mean, we make almost every meal at home rather than eat out, so that's part of it. I try to buy organic produce when I can (especially with those rascals, apples). We like good cheddar. But I don't know where the hell else the rest of it goes, honestly.
In an effort to cut that budget dramatically this month (we were shooting for $600 but I think hit more like $700) we made two big shopping trips and then agreed to eat from the pantry. We had a fair amount stocked up in terms of pastas and canned tomatoes and all that Costco-overflow-jazz, so it didn't seem that hard. At first.
And for most of the time, it was fun. It was fun figuring out how to be creative just with what we had. It was nice to use up food we had bought rather than throw it away or watch it get all dusty.
But for the last ten days or so, our refrigerator has looked like this:
But I look at this fridge, and I see three half-jars of salsa, a few stalks of kale that I ran out and bought on Tuesday in a frenzied pique as my body demanded fresh greens, a ginormous tub of fake butter (we've had it for three years. I'm not kidding. Totally disgusting), and a pitcher of watered-down juice. And I'm thinking, "How in god's name am I going to feed a family of four on this shit? Somebody tell me HOW I'M GOING TO FEED A FAMILY OF FOUR WITH MARGARINE AND WILTED KALE, MOTHER FUCKERS!!!!.
If you post a comment with a recipe for fried kale and apple sauce, I will punch you in the throat.
Good thing it's the end of the month and I have special dispensation to go to the market this weekend, even if it means we go a tiny bit into the red until our paychecks show up on Monday.
But let me tell you, it has been interesting to observe myself trying not to freak out about having an empty larder. And it has been interesting to observe myself freaking out about not having fresh produce and lots of choices, cooking-wise. And it has been interesting to reflect on my parents' huge walk-in pantry and costco-sized refrigerator, filled with more food than two people could ever eat even if peak oil hits and boatloads of hungry refugees buy out everything in the grocery store and my parents are stuck living off their pantry for a year.
Not saying this has anything to do with them. I take responsibility for my own refrigerator-induced neuroses. That image of their giant, walk-in pantry and overflowing fridge has just crossed my mind a few times as I've been thinking about my relationship with scarcity and plenty and blessings and fear, that's all.
Here's the cool thing: I will be very, very excited to go grocery shopping tomorrow, and I will feel very grateful for every recipe I get to cook this next week. That's for sure.
Monday, January 23, 2012
Weekend Honors
On Thursday morning, we attended a breakfast honoring Addie as one of her school's "top" students for the month of February. I was so proud, hearing the words the principal said about her (and that her teacher wrote):
I love that she is a "mathematical whiz" and a "super reader," but am especially proud that she is kind and peaceful.
Friday, I was honored to be included in a ladies-only weekend in the mountains. A friend turned 40, and her husband secretly flew in all of her best friends, from every stage of her life, to celebrate it with her in a cabin in Winter Park. How amazing to be included, and to meet seven instant new friends.
And how lucky I am to have a husband who entertained and loved on my girls all weekend, cleaned the house, did laundry, and cheerfully let me take a 3-hour nap when I got home yesterday.
Speaking of coming home, I arrived to this:
Which meant also that Nolie brought home her class's honored stuffed animal, Cayden. She got to take care of him all weekend, do fun things with him, and write stories about him.
Not to mention the two glowing report cards that came home, too.
I'm a proud mama.
I love that she is a "mathematical whiz" and a "super reader," but am especially proud that she is kind and peaceful.
Friday, I was honored to be included in a ladies-only weekend in the mountains. A friend turned 40, and her husband secretly flew in all of her best friends, from every stage of her life, to celebrate it with her in a cabin in Winter Park. How amazing to be included, and to meet seven instant new friends.
And how lucky I am to have a husband who entertained and loved on my girls all weekend, cleaned the house, did laundry, and cheerfully let me take a 3-hour nap when I got home yesterday.
Speaking of coming home, I arrived to this:
Which meant also that Nolie brought home her class's honored stuffed animal, Cayden. She got to take care of him all weekend, do fun things with him, and write stories about him.
Not to mention the two glowing report cards that came home, too.
I'm a proud mama.
Monday, January 16, 2012
The MLK Song
1. It was hard to video this without shooting any little girl boobies, but I wanted to avoid doing that because you're all such a bunch of pervs.
2. I like how our bathroom tiles look in this shoot.
3. This song neither rhymes, has a melody, nor is it maybe that historically or factually accurate in some ways. It's pretty non-linear, really. But I still really, really like it.
So, from Nolie to you, on this fine MLK Day:
2. I like how our bathroom tiles look in this shoot.
3. This song neither rhymes, has a melody, nor is it maybe that historically or factually accurate in some ways. It's pretty non-linear, really. But I still really, really like it.
So, from Nolie to you, on this fine MLK Day:
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