The timing of this abundance of greens matched the blooming of my chives and calendula. Bursts of color in our yard, burst of flavor in our mouths. I planted the calendula seeds last year primarily for aphid control. The resulting plants survived, so we’re experiencing their flowers much earlier this year and there are many more of them. Additionally, this year we’re eating the petals much more frequently. I think I’m braver. Just like the kids, I have my moments of hesitation when it comes to trying new foods. Especially those from which I have to wash aphids off. Ready for dinner?

This spring salad has been composed in my favorite way, with a walk in my backyard. I might pick a little mint, a little tarragon, a little basil from my itty-bitty babies (to help their production), a few chives and their blossoms, a calendula or two…

My kale gets very finely chopped because that’s my favorite way to eat it raw. I’m not crazy about gigantic kale leaves. (I usually prefer lettuce finely chopped, too.) I top it with the chopped herbs and scatter the herb and flower blossoms on top. Salad decorating!

I have these gorgeous preserved lemons in my fridge, so I frequently add tiny bits of those to salads. Sometimes finely grated parmensan, always a sprinkle or two of Maldon salt. Freshly ground pepper is nice when I remember it.

I like a strong dressing for the kale, so I made various versions of a lightly sweetened mustard vinaigrette. I’ve kept the olive oil to acid ratio around 3:1 and used lemon juice, apple cider vinegar and/or red wine vinegar as my acids. I add a splat or two of dijon mustard, either a dab of honey or a splash maple syrup, and a little salt. I make my dressings in washed out glass spice jars, so all I have to do is shake them vigorously and I’m set. Much to my amazement, Miles has been eating this salad right along with Harry and I. Charlie, not so much.

As you might already know, we are very open about bodies in our household. I was able to tell Miles, without hesitation, “Mama and Papa made you.” I greatly prefer this response to “God made you” for a variety of reasons, but mainly because I’m not trying to dodge the knitty-gritty of it all. This isn’t an existential conversation. Those will come later. Then, get this. In the sweetest voice ever he said, “Thank you for making me.” (He does this. He thanks people all the time for things they did for him, often for events that occurred weeks prior. It is an amazingly charming quality.) Someday he’ll probably know that we debated long and hard about a second child. His comment felt more touching to me because of that bit of our history.

Next Miles asked how we were able to keep his head on. Then how we put his skin on. I adore him so much I could eat him up. His curiosity is going to serve him very well. Anyways, I gave him a brief, “Oh, we didn’t do that, it all happened inside my belly.” I didn’t even dawn on me in the moment that he was probably thinking we put him together like Legos.

Charlie quickly piped in, “Miles, you were as small as a tadpole! And you had a tail. But the tail popped off! And you had these funny eyes. But maybe that was just the book. And then you got bigger and bigger and bigger! And then mama was pregnant and she had to go to the hospital to have you. Then you were born!” We might have a little reviewing to do to fill in some gaps for Charlie. But he definitely knows about sperm! Clearly, this education is a long-term commitment. Hopefully the continued discussions will help minimize shame and stigma.

Not too long ago Miles went through a phase of asking me repeatedly if I had a penis. I’d go through the routine: “Nope. I don’t have a penis. Boys and men have penises. Girls and women have vaginas.” He’s asked his grandparents. He’s asked some of my friends. And I’m pretty sure every time he sees me naked he’s looking to see if I have grown one overnight. Once after asking me, he beat me to the response and said, “You have a fonus!” Then he totally giggled.

Most of this open labeling of bodies and bodily functions has led to really hilarious, wonderful interactions, winning me over despite my initial hesitations. I wasn’t thrilled the first time I had to explain menstruation because they walked in on me in the bathroom and saw blood. That’s an awkward situation, especially when your pants are down. The openness can be embarrassing in public, too. Like when I was in a busy, downtown bathroom and Miles was loudly asking “What’s that? What’s in your underwear? But why? Why is there blood? Do you have an owie?” But, I swallowed my pride a bit and we got over that hurdle. I’m so glad we’re opening the lines of communication with them this young. I can’t imagine how heightened the embarrassment must get when kids are older. FOR US! Probably them, too.

Gorgeous, amazing things come into our lives when we are paying attention: mangoes, grandnieces, Bach, ponds. This happens more often when we have as little expectation as possible. If you say, “Well, that’s pretty much what I thought I’d see,” you are in trouble. At that point, you have to ask yourself why you are even here. And if I were you, I would pray “Help.” … Astonishing material and revelation appear in our lives all the time. Let it be. Unto us, so much is given. We just have to be open for business.”

–Anne Lamott, Help Thanks Wow

If you had told 26-year old me that 36-year old me would say that food is one of her biggest passions, I wouldn’t have believed you. I also wouldn’t have been sure what that even meant. Was I consumed with filling my belly bite by delicious bite? Was I baking and cooking during all my free time? Did I now weigh twice as much as I used to? Those were probably the only questions I would’ve had because I was ignorant about issues surrounding food. I certainly couldn’t have grasped that many bits of information, gathered over a decade’s time, would transform my eating habits. I wouldn’t have had a clue regarding the broad range of emotions paired with this journey: tears of joy hearing about teenagers experiencing their first fresh raspberries, savoring each bite of a new dish with surprisingly flavor combinations, deep sadness and anger reading about the atrocities committed by many pursuing profit through the corporate food system.

Maybe you’re on this journey with me. Maybe you’re watching it from a distance thinking I’m off my rocker. I know those passionate about food can look that way. I’ve made my share of mistakes in how I express myself about it. Since eating is a common way to celebrate relationship and build community, awkward moments easily present themselves. Nobody wants to have just made dinner for someone only to have them tell you that they could never eat “x” food product again, while that very product is ready to be served for dessert.

This is a complicated, touchy subject and new information arises almost daily. No matter how hard one tries to do what’s best for their health, humanity, and the environment, it can feel like it’s not enough. Or that it’s all too much. I frequently feel the tension. I can be really passionate and committed to some things, only to see it slip away a year later. Other times, I am surprised by my own consistent, growing devotion.

This is what I’ve realized: Knowledge shows me the road. Inspiration and courage lead to my first steps. Wonder keeps me walking.

SKEPTICISM and CURIOSITY

During my twenties, conversations with a few classmates and coworkers about their amazing homemade meals for weekday lunches, vegetarianism, or gardening adventures all made me a little quizzical. Sometimes I was jealous, eating my boring sandwich and mealy apple while they ate incredible smelling leftovers. Often I was skeptical of their enthusiasm. I didn’t really want to make any changes nor hear some of the truth they were speaking. I didn’t want to pay more money for organic food. I didn’t really know how to cook. I didn’t know how to garden. It all felt too big.

I was also naive. I wanted to believe that big companies had the best in mind for their customers. I believed that the US government monitoring agencies were capable and protecting us. I didn’t think about real ingredients versus additives. I didn’t think beyond the 1990s nutritional education that low fat is best. (I’m definitely over that.)

Eventually something one of these wise souls said to me years ago would make it into the bigger news rounds. And it would happen again. And eventually it happened enough that I began to realize they really knew something about food safety and health (the first things I cared about) before the general public did. I began to trust them and seek out more information. I was always a bit amazed at their knowledge and humbled by my naiveté.

MOVIES and BOOKS

Harry and I watched Super Size Me together one night upon recommendation of a friend. From that point forward, we were deliberate about avoiding fast food. We weren’t serious consumers prior, but it was a fall-back for us on road trips or long days away. I’m happy to see some big chains making baby step commitments to sustainable practices and more nutritional food, but I still greatly prefer to pack meals from home. I find it’s tastier, healthier and more economical.

After repeated prompting from a close friend, I got up the courage to watch Food, Inc. It was my first introduction to government subsidies, our reliance on petroleum, the overuse of corn, and the oh-so-lovely details surrounding factory farmed meat. It, and what I’ve since learned from champions like Michael Pollan, is why I usually do not eat meat if I don’t know where it came from. (Sometimes I forget and still do. Sometimes I don’t forget and still do.) Anyways, this means I don’t eat meat if I’m dining out unless sources are listed. Thankfully, many restaurants in Seattle are committed to sustainable, local food sources. (This Portlandia clip highlights just how funny it can get in the Pacific Northwest.) I think the limited options have led to increased creativity in the culinary scene. Our chefs make radishes sexy.

GARDENING

FIve years ago, under the amazing tutelage of my master gardener father-in-law, I began growing food. It was miraculous to me. I don’t think I’d planted a seed since preschool and I’d certainly never harvested food I had nurtured. Growing food is magnificent. Smelling the dirt while planting seeds. Watching the first sprouts. Anticipating the first harvest. Witnessing a “mostly dead” (I will always love Billy Crystal’s Princess Bride character), under-watered artichoke plant pop back to life because I decided to not give up on it. These are all mini miracles to me.

Often, there is just as much pleasure in the harvesting as there is in the growing. Sometimes more. I love growing rare varieties or using parts of plants that can’t be found at grocery stores or even farmer’s markets. I find tremendous satisfaction taking a colander outside and coming back with dinner. My personal favorite is harvesting herbs by hanging my body out our kitchen window. I planted them in the perfect spot.

Having a garden with high yields of any particular vegetable forced me to broaden my cooking horizons. I experienced my first zucchini fritters the first year I had a zucchini plant. As I grew to love cooking more, my palate began to change. This marked the beginning of my path to preferring fresh food over processed alternatives.

(Just like our bodies don’t begin to crave exercise and healthy food until they’ve experienced them regularly, my experience is that our palates aren’t tuned in to fresh flavors until they’ve been surrounded by them for awhile. If this is new to you, be patient. Your palate probably needs a tune-up. This is one reason I don’t like the term “food snob” / “coffee snob” / etc…. There is nothing wrong with being more aware of flavors. Would you tell someone who prefers Fat Tire to go back to drinking Keystone?  A chocolate lover to move from Theo to Hershey’s? These refined tastes can happen across all foods and drinks with practice. This type of practice is really, really fun. Unless it’s with whiskey. Which will always taste like band-aids to me. I refuse to practice more.)

ENVIRONMENT

Growing produce has taught me how intricate our food system is and the crucial aspect of biodiversity. We inherited decades of weeds with our rental, but aren’t using herbicides and pesticides. Of course our place would look better with much less work. Don’t get me wrong, it can be tempting. But ultimately I think it’s a selfish choice. Soil is alive and these chemicals can kill the vital microorganisms, as well as beneficial insects. There are systems that work beautifully to keep it healthy without toxic synthetic chemicals present. Places where these chemicals are rampantly used now have resistant bugs, previously unheard of pesticide resistant-weeds, and poor soil quality. Additionally, they get into waterways and hurt the overall ecosystem, including salmon. They are also being linked to bee colony collapse. Bees pollinate a lot of our food, people. That isn’t good. Perfect grass is not more important than food. There are countless other reasons why pesticides and herbicides make me angry. This is the biggest reason I’m passionate about organic food. (Truly. Not my family’s physical health, though I think it matters for that, too.)

There is stunning beauty in the interconnectedness of the ecosystem, even though how out of whack we are scares the daylights out of me. When systems are right and we’re growing food using sustainable practices, everybody wins.  (Or at least has potential to prosper more. The social / racial / class divide here is not lost on me.)

SOCIAL JUSTICE

Books like Barry Estabrooks’ Tomatoland and articles from Pollan highlight the frequency with which farm workers are enslaved and the power of Big Food. Small farmers regularly get sued by Monsanto. (Watch Food, Inc. or Seeds of Freedom.) I do not want my money to support slavery or bullying companies. I try to be very careful about this and doing so often eliminates a lot of food and seed choices. (That being said, I have a lot of learning to do when it comes to understanding when other purchases are ethically problematic. The Bangladesh factory tragedy should open all our eyes a little wider, right?)

I actually find having fewer choices freeing. I feel good about not giving money to companies with questionable practices and fabulous about giving money to those going against the flow. The icing on the cake for me is that the latter companies almost always have better tasting products. More expensive, but I’d rather eat really delicious chocolate treats once a month than semi-tasty ones every week.

TASTE

I had the incredibly weird and highly unrecommended experience of losing most of my senses of smell and taste. The etiology is unknown, but my doctor guessed this was from a particularly bad sinus infection paired with massive sleep deprivation during Miles’ first few months. Also, possibly nasal inhalers I used for allergies years prior. Regardless, for a solid six months I could only taste bitter and super sweet.  (We lived down the street from one of Seattle’s amazing bakeries and I was far too frequent of a chocolate ganache cupcake and cappuccino customer.)

During that time, I was still eating processed food on a regular basis. By “processed” I mean food that I could not replicate at home. If ingredients aren’t real food, I consider it processed. My definition doesn’t eliminate all store bought food. I began to notice that most foods with preservatives had a bitter aftertaste that I didn’t notice before my smell went awry. I began to understand why so many additives were in those foods-not just to cheaply sweeten, but to mask the bitter. It was a huge turn-off to me.

I began purchasing more locally grown food, including participating in orchard and vegetable CSAs last year. I love supporting small family farms for the obvious reasons. But the taste of those fresh foods and unusual varieties have brought me to tears. One of my neighbors, who grew up in Hungary, told me she hadn’t tasted fruit like our CSA fruit since she was a little girl. There is splendor in those bites.

We are missing a lot of amazing flavors when we depend on big farms. The ideal harvesting times are skipped and varieties are chosen to tolerate weeks of transportation in trucks and big boxes. Plus, refrigeration often ruins flavor quickly. Most of us know how delicious homegrown tomatoes are. The same difference in vibrancy goes for all other vegetables! If you haven’t had fresh from the farm broccoli, do yourself a favor. It isn’t bitter. Carrots are bright and sweet. Onions and garlic are juicy. I relish the taste of a freshly picked red to the core strawberry. June! Come soon! After years of Driscoll’s, that’s a jaw dropper.

Maybe desiring good tasting food, and being willing to wait for it, is also a commitment to maintaining a sense of awe with food. Just like we wait for tulips in spring, we wait for peaches in summer. I want the glory. I don’t want it to fall flat.

“If we stay where we are, where we’re stuck, where we’re comfortable and safe, we die there. We become like mushrooms, living in the dark, with poop up to our chins. If you want to know only what you already know, you’re dying. You’re saying: Leave me alone; I don’t mind this little rathole. It’s warm and dry. Really, it’s fine.

When nothing new can get in, that’s death. When oxygen can’t find a way in, you die. But new is scary, and new can be disappointing, and confusing– we had this all figured out, and now we don’t.

New is life.”

–Anne Lamott, Help Thanks Wow

——-

A final little note-

I understand that this is a personal journey. I may hope for people to walk the road with me, but if they don’t, it doesn’t mean I don’t want to share a meal. Being invited to someone’s home is a huge gift to me. Please don’t apologize if something isn’t organic or local. Don’t even mention it. I’m not going to tell you these details, either. Maybe we can all try to keep our meals shame-free? (I have my own issues with this.) For some this means not apologizing about nothing being homemade, for others it’s not worrying that the tomato sauce comes from a can. We all have our issues, and the spectrum is actually quite hilarious! There are people out there making their own pots and pans for their 100% homegrown food, too. They probably feel bad that they didn’t build their own house. I’m sure of it. So, invite people over! Share what you have. Cook rice and beans, boil pasta, get take-out if you need to! Community is so much more important.

Planting Wonder

I bury them and always doubt

Tiny spheres will live, grow, inspire, nourish.

They peek out, my heart flutters.

Little one refuses green at the table

Nibbles raw kale from the stalk.

With each plant we pass, “Can I eat this?”

My oldest begs for asparagus from the market

Proclaims it’s his favorite, along with peas.

“Can we please plant zucchini again this year?’

This rhythm- seeds, soil, seasons.

Woven tightly into our life.

These planted memories will grow in wonder, too.

My primary doctor sent me a message tonight letting me know that the changes in density were probably due to reactivity of lymph nodes from tiny scratches I’ve acquired while gardening, combined with old mastitis scarring. I’m going to buy new gardening gloves to celebrate the end of this journey. Sexy, I know. I had mastitis three times while breastfeeding the boys. Twice with Charlie, once with Miles. I had no idea that it caused scarring and permanent tissue changes.

I also learned today, when handed a brochure entitled “Breast Pain”, that 70% of women experience it with unknown etiology at some point in their life. I’m guessing mine isn’t unknown but rather hormonal because of where I’m at in my cycle. It’s weird that it’s lasted for five days, but it’s possible all this stress made things worse than normal. The only time I recall breast discomfort lasting that long was the early weeks of pregnancy.

Yes, that did make me wonder. No, I’m not. I think what’s even less likely than me getting breast cancer is Harry’s vasectomy failing. But yes, I did freak out about that a bit until my period came.

I realized this afternoon that the last time I was in that imaging department was exactly three years ago today. I was 41-weeks pregnant with Miles, completing an ultrasound to check his fluid levels. I delivered him two days later, at the very end of a gorgeous spring day. So, now it’s time to focus my energies on celebrating my little guy. My LAST baby, who is officially leaving toddlerhood and becoming a little boy.

I am thankful I shared here, which basically means sharing with my friends and family on facebook but not taking up their entire newsfeed to do so and having chances to edit! One of the things that happened for me was just normalizing this. Prior to this, very few people have shared their experiences with me about these scares, so I first heard about them when I shared mine. And there were A LOT of messages in my inbox. I think it’s like this with so many topics- other health problems, miscarriage, fertility struggles, parenting challenges, marital struggles, etc… and I’m amazed at how many friends I have tackling these issues in the light, making them less taboo. They have inspired me.

Thank you so much for your prayers, encouragement, stories, humorous tidbits and concern. Thank you.

I called my doctor’s office Friday morning and was able to get in at 4:30. By the time the doctor stepped foot in my little sterile square land, it was 5:15. She had something urgent come up. I became so bored (no magazines! seriously?) that I posted a shot of the exam room to instagram and twitter. What the hell was I thinking? I looked at how many twitter followers I had and who they were and realized it was no big deal, but knew I’d better not hesitate to call my mom. Anyways, by that point in the waiting, I had gotten over my initial nervousness and come to a place of thinking that I was about to draw a monopoly card to get out of jail free. I didn’t think I’d be calling her to tell her anything else.

After lots of questioning my doctor told me I needed to go through the full work-up because cancer was a possibility. Not likely. But it needed to be ruled out. Good god. God is good, but good god. Really. Hearing that I needed to schedule my first mammogram and ultrasound quickly brought me out of my social media all-is-well-coma and back to a place of fear.

I got home a little before six. Imaging was closed. I left a voicemail, but would have to wait out the weekend. I didn’t make dinner, I didn’t help with the boys getting to bed. I just laid in our bed in shock.

I cried with Harry but didn’t freely sob until after he got the boys to bed. I cried when Miles crawled into bed with me to hug and kiss me goodnight and tell me he wished I felt better. I could see the concern in his face, too. He hasn’t seen me cry much. He’s only a few days shy of his third birthday. That’s what I had been thinking about until I found the lump.

I am proud of how I’ve handled this, and realized I’ve actually learned a thing or two in the past few years about how to be vulnerable. I called my mom and dad, instead of assuming it was better for them to wait until I knew something for sure. I also emailed a handful of friends and family. I knew I couldn’t handle any more phone calls after doing the awful mutter-sob-breath-mumble-cry-talk on the phone with my mom, but I knew I needed support. I needed texts, I needed calls, I needed prayers, I needed hugs.

I am learning. I am not a rock. I guess I am also not an island, though I do like to sing along to that song, so I will continue to proclaim that I am when Simon and Garfunkel grace my home.

I have been to the worst in my mind. I have left my husband and my boys. I have realized that Miles probably wouldn’t remember much of me if I had the most awful, aggressive form and went quickly. He might remember me, but probably not the healthy version of me. I am trying really hard to not go to this place often.

I have been spiritual, a believer in God and Jesus, since my early teens. (If you’re wondering where I fall on the spectrum from fundamental to liberal, I’m probably about as close to the far end of liberal as one can be without falling off the edge. I think God can handle me cussing here.) Many times, God has prepared me for things yet to come. I can look back and see faithfulness. What doesn’t help, though, is when I read into things I’ve been soaking in lately and assume it’s all because I freaking have cancer.

Because Harry and I both have friends from high school who have children with cancer, one of them with a very rare form of childhood cancer, it’s easy to think things like, “Well, yes, I could be one of those one in a million who gets breast cancer under the age of forty without a family history of breast cancer. Someone has to be.” The sun shines on us all, the rain falls on us all. And lightning strikes one unlucky chap every once in awhile.

In the past month or two, I’ve been introduced to the powerful words of Lisa Adams, a woman with terminal stage 4 metastatic breast cancer. I have kept up with her since, including her twitter feed, which gives a really amazing look into her life. I’ve also finished a little book about a boy’s time in heaven during an emergency surgery that I never checked out but read because it was in our home. Of course, I immediately thought, “That’s all because I needed this preparation!”

The same goes for so much of my history. It’s easy to chalk it all up to “necessary growing trials.” As if other people’s traumas and tribulations were for somehow for me. How twisted and ridiculous is that? Ugh. I hate it. But, I went there. (I probably have my childhood fundamentalist background to thank for this.) For several weeks during college I took care of kids I grew up babysitting while their mom went through intensive breast cancer treatment and spent most of her time in isolation. I could attribute that time with those precious kids to preparing me for my time with mine. Check! First stupid way to try to rationalize this. My sister was hospitalized for months with an extremely rare, neurological disease while I was in junior high. Check! Second stupid way. It’s easy to travel this road. I think that’s a really dangerous thing about over-spiritualizing things. Shit happens. Sometimes there isn’t any rhyme or reason. God comforts, yes. I even believe in miracles. But I don’t think they’re like gumballs in a machine that our prayers automatically release.

So, I wait. I would like to say that I know I’m going to be fine, but I don’t. Sure, very long term- but I’m not referring to heaven. I can’t lie and say I know what path my life will take. None of us do. God doesn’t make these promises to us. Today I wait with a full heart because I have been very loved this weekend. I know I have a really good team.

I know the odds are in my favor. I really like those numbers. I also treasure your prayers, cheers, hugs and messages. So, please pray for me. My family. My friends. We would so very much like for this to just be a cyst or random lump. Most are benign. Chances are good. But if I’m wrong, we will need a lot of support and I’m counting on at least a few good jokes and stories from those of you who read this. You’re going to be in my corner, alright?

I am sharing this with you (readers who I assume I only know from real life because I don’t think many strangers read this, but if so, “Howdy, stranger!”) because I have felt so bouyed by my little handful of friends and family who already know. I let them in on my pain and fear. I don’t think I would’ve done this a few years ago. Maybe not even a year ago. It has made an enormous difference. I am now letting everyone in on it because I think more openness will also be a gift to my family and me. (I writing it all is therapeutic for me, too. Thank you, Brené! I should send you chocolate or something.)

Cheer me on, tomorrow I’m about to get my breasts pressed like paninis. I’m really hoping that’s the worst of it, but if you’ve been through mammograms before and have any tips, I’m all ears.

With deep appreciation. ~K

Dr. Brown’s jump to notoriety came after her TEDx Houston talk on vulnerability became incredibly popular. A few years later she presented at the (big) TED conference on shame. You can see both on her website or here. (Watch them in the order they were presented.)

Dr. Brown recently spoke with Oprah on Super Soul Sunday, which happens to be free online. Yay! I watched both episodes this week and continue to ruminate on many of her words. I will probably watch them again. Even though I’ve read her books, something about hearing her words and listening to Oprah process it all that made it hit me harder.

Her first episode is here. The second is here. (Apparently they ended up having her stay longer to do a second because she was just that good!)

After you watched these, or have read her books or blog posts, I’d love to know what you’re contemplating. I’ll start:

1) I am really concerned about shame in schools. Kids do not need to be singled out by teachers to “learn their lesson.” I believe this deep in my core. There are much better and more effective ways for kids to learn. I can understand how and why it happens. As a parent, I have traveled that road a few times. Thankfully, it is upsetting to me when I do and I usually take time to reflect. Why would I made the choice to shame my child, instead of really understand and come alongside him? Often, it’s my own fear that triggers that desire in me. I imagine it might be the same for teachers. They could be afraid of losing control of their classroom, of a kid not achieving the necessary scores for that teacher to be considered “successful” (which is a different and very important problem!), of parents not being pleased with how behavior was handled, etc… I understand there are reasons, but there are alternative solutions and our kids deserve better. They deserve respect. They deserve nurturing.

I’m thinking of gifting Daring Greatly to my son’s elementary school so more teachers will have opportunity to read it. But that’s just one school and a few teachers. This needs to be a national conversation. Parents are a pretty amazing force for change, so I’m praying this becomes a movement. I hope that as education regarding the problem increases, tolerance for shaming disciplinary tactics will decrease.

2) I am growing more aware about what vulnerability armor I wear and when I put it on. This has been a pretty difficult process for me but I’m seeing progress in how I respond to challenging situations. I’m improving in my ability to take feedback constructively, not personally. I’m quicker to identify when I’m making choices because I’m anxious or fearful. These are good and important steps for me.

3) Gratitude. The biggest “aha” moment I had after soaking in the Oprah shows was that I need to be more active in practicing gratitude. I want to know deep joy. I want my children to experience joy. I find it incredibly powerful, and empowering, that this is a choice, not a personality trait. We choose joy by building in habits of gratitude. Not just the big things, the little details. Writing them down, speaking them, thinking them, pondering them. Breathing gratitude.

This week I am thankful for the beautiful cherry blossoms decorating our streets, for the yellows of the daffodils and the pinks and purples of the hyacinths. All bring relief to winter’s gray. I am thankful for a string of great books after a winter of many disappointments. I am thankful that my boys are digging in the dirt, making mud pies all around our yard. I am thankful that peas will get planted this weekend. I am thankful that my brother’s ship is at port and I’ll get to share a meal or two with him. I am thankful for raw oysters. The really briny ones. (Seriously. When my brother comes to town this is almost always my second thought.) I am thankful.

What to get them for Christmas was clearly a no brainer. Despite how much effort I’ve put forth to try to not have gender stereotypes influence parenting, as well as how we actively try to lessen stigma, I couldn’t get over the pink dollhouse hurdle. I looked on craigslist for weeks, totally drawn to the wooden ones with modern designs that felt like they’d stand the test of time better. I assumed pink wouldn’t survive peer pressure. I knew Charlie really wanted the same kind he had played with, though.

Christmas came and there was no dollhouse. I couldn’t find one on craigslist and we didn’t want to buy one new. We opted instead for your typical dollhouse stand-ins: Legos. They can be made into as many types of houses as you can imagine, right? Embarrassingly, because we’re horrible procrastinators when it comes to presents, the Legos we ordered didn’t arrive in time despite saying they’d show Christmas Eve. I realize that’s cutting it close, but that’s our style. (I hate most forms of shopping. I would rather pick someone else’s nose than visit a mall these days.) On December 24th I kept checking our front porch. By 10pm, we accepted their fate. We had very few gifts but we decided to just see how the morning went. Historically, our boys didn’t have high expectations around holidays (I think no exposure to advertisements really helps this), so I wasn’t too worried about them being sad in the midst of it all.

One of the gifts they did receive from a friend was a Paddington Christmas book. We first read it a few days after Christmas. In it, Paddington comments how special it was that Santa knew exactly what he wanted and gave him his favorite orange marmalade. Charlie teared up, “Why didn’t Santa do that for me?”

My stomach sank. His first Christmas heartache. He hadn’t shown any disappointment that day, but clearly had felt it. I don’t think the Legos actually arriving in time would’ve prevented this sadness, either. He wanted a pink mansion.

My first inclination was to order one and put a note on it from Santa that said, “Sorry it was late! It fell out over Antarctica and I just found it!” But, Harry and I decided we didn’t want to lie. We’ve actually never told them we believe in Santa. We haven’t told them he isn’t real, either, but we haven’t perpetuated Santa much. We let it be a story and acknowledge their comments about him like a story. We don’t leave his name on gifts, we don’t get annual pictures with him, etc… Besides, shouldn’t we get the credit? I like it when parents have Santa give kids socks and they give the fun stuff. Maybe Santa should stick to socks or underwear. I think my childhood Santa always gave me hose. Yes, that kind. Leg stockings. I guess my mom and I think alike on these matters.

Anyways, a few days later we told Charlie that we could buy one with a vague explanation about what had happened on our end. (We had returned the Legos without them knowing because all was fine Christmas morning.) We looked online at the options in our price range. We looked on craigslist. And what did he pick? The biggest pink mansion in town. With a mom, dad and twin babies.

Unlike the dollhouse of my youth, this one has superheros jump through windows, converts into a train station, experiences serious earthquakes, gets hit by meteors or other projectiles and usually has people battling each other in it. The zombies are a particularly interesting addition. RIght now, there are ribbons hanging out the windows for repelling. I don’t even try to make sure that the babies stay out of harm’s way. They’ve been run over by a dumptruck too many times to count.

It is times of illness, when I’m tired, stressed and worried, but unable to leave the house to exercise or get a break from it all, that I realize how thin a mental health line I’m still walking. The Norovirus weeks were a painfully sharp contrast to our vacation time. Christmas was my first break from homeschooling and I couldn’t believe how much easier life became. There was still plenty of learning going on, but none of it needed to come from curriculum or be reported. I spent a lot more time playing with the boys. Then, BOOM! jump back into schoolwork and WHAM! get hit by a nasty virus and BAM! babysitter quits. I wasn’t ready for it.

The patterns over the past few months quite clearly declare that I need more space. A friend lovingly reminded me that in the past six years I’ve been caregiving 24/7, chronically deprived of sleep half that time, endured multiple unemployment periods, moved four times, and dealt with other relational stress without a regular break. Just this past fall I started getting two hours alone. Glorious! With our babysitter’s departure, that ended. Extra salt in the wound came when Charlie turning six meant he couldn’t be in our closest gym’s childcare.

My challenges this year have reinforced how important taking care of myself is, and with the wisdom of others speaking truth and grace into this situation, I’m actually learning how to implement this. Sometimes even without any guilt. Brene Brown’s chapter about parenting in Daring Greatly continues to deeply nurture me. (I have my own copy that I can mark up. Yay!) She quotes Joseph Chilton Pearce saying, “What we are teaches the child more than what we say, so we must be what we want our children to become.” She goes on to write, “Even though the vulnerability of parenting is terrifying at times, we can’t afford to armor ourselves against it or push it away–it is our richest, most fertile ground for teaching and cultivating connection, meaning, and love.” These ideas are helping me learn to let go of what I see as ideal for my children, even requiring me to give up something very precious, so that I can learn to live more wholeheartedly.

I’m taking extra measures to be more generous to myself. I signed up for a mini triathlon because they’re super fun (seriously!) and they force me to exercise regularly. I used to think I was above needing accountability like that, but I’m not. Only when I’m signed up for races do I choose to exercise as regularly as I need. That extra motivation gets us all out the door, past the environmental-guilt-screams in my head about driving farther than I’d wish to get to the gym, and past the mommy-guilt-screams that more time at gym childcare is bad for the boys. (Which is just ridiculous because they love it. But the guilt is there nonetheless.) Exercise is my good attitude medication. When I don’t do it, life is noticeably less fun.

We registered Charlie for public school first grade and Miles for preschool two mornings. First, Miles will be three. The year of irrational expectations. I kept envisioning next year’s homeschooling scene and it wasn’t pretty. Of course I have major reservations about public school: huge classes, ridiculous mandated tests, often poor curriculum choices, minimal arts offerings, discouraging playground situations, etc… I am very sad that he won’t get chances to ask questions often. Also, I still believe the best learning is individualized, experiential, passion-driven and involves a lot of play. If Charlie has tons of busywork homework, I will probably encourage him to not do it. Our Kindergarten experience has been a really special time for Charlie and I to connect, create and explore together. I will miss laughing about lizards detaching tails and complementing each other’s artwork. Plus, he’s over the moon about his theatre program. So, even though public school gives me space, it’s also a huge sacrifice. If I’m feeling up for it in future years, I imagine we’ll return to homeschooling.

For now, I need more space.

I’m taking this step because I am worth it. In the past, this has been a really hard thing for me to believe and live out. I’m pretty sure I come from a long line of martyrs and being female doesn’t help anything either.

“Somewhere buried deep inside our hopes and fears for our children is the terrifying truth that there is no such thing as perfect parenting and there are no guarantees. From debates about attachment parenting to how much better they parent in Europe to disparagement of “tiger moms” and helicopter parents, the heated discussions that occupy much of the national parenting conversation conveniently distract us from this important and difficult truth: Who we are and how we engage with the world are much stronger predictors of how our children will do than what we know about parenting.”–Brene Brown, Daring Greatly

How many times can I tell myself this? The best thing I can do for myself, my husband and my boys is take care of myself. If I am thriving, so will my children. Even more important than being with them a lot is being present. This year, taking care of myself is even more important than homeschooling. Sometimes good is good enough. Maybe even best.

Joining our fruit CSA was an easy decision for me. I’d tasted enough of the orchard’s fruit to know each piece was the best piece I’d ever experienced in my life. It wasn’t hard envisioning our family getting through it all. Joining a vegetable CSA, though, took some courage. For those of you unfamiliar with why a veggie CSA used to make me shudder, here’s the deal: the farmers decide what goes into your box every week. You are at their mercy. No meal planning, no pre-selecting. I have heard some horror stories of boxes filled with kale week after week for months on end. It grows really well here in the soggy Pacific Northwest. And while my husband and I like kale in certain dishes or as chips, I did not get particularly excited about dealing with it week in and week out. Besides, I have several varieties growing in my own garden. Also, I was hesitant to join a CSA that didn’t allow substitutions since I grow some of my own vegetables and was hopeful for an abundance of at least some of them. There are a few produce deliveries in Seattle that allow this and using one of them seemed preferable to grocery shopping even if it wasn’t a true CSA. I tried one for a month and wasn’t thrilled with the quality of the produce or the value. My garden wasn’t winning me over with its fruits, either. With the motivation I needed, I cancelled my account and emailed one of my favorite vegetable farmers, sneaking in on their CSA at its halfway point.

This was a very good decision. One of my best food decisions ever.

The world’s ugliest root. But quite tasty!

We got huge boxes filled with incredible variety of produce. For example, one week we got a bunch of Chioggia beets, one Butternut squash, one bunch of Red Russian kale, one head of romaine lettuce, one bunch of bok choi, two heads of broccoli, one head of Romanesco cauliflower, parsnips, and a small head of cabbage. Another week we got a pound of tomatoes, half pound of cucumbers, a bunch of beets, a bunch of Pink Beauty radishes, one bunch of mustard greens, one beautiful red cabbage, five sweet peppers, two pounds Yellow Finn potatoes, a half pound of leeks and one little sprig green coriander.

Now, if you don’t know how to cook or you don’t have a juicer, consuming this amount of produce is an enormous challenge. I don’t care how much you like crudite and dip, you’re not going to get through it. This was the first year I think I was really mentally ready for this step. I’m getting much better about cooking on the fly or falling back on various tried-and-true methods (like high heat roasting). Plus, the boys are more independent. I can spend a little more time in the kitchen, chopping vegetables, reading recipes and researching techniques. The farm made life easier by providing weekly recipe ideas, too.

We began eating a lot more vegetables, and I considered us pretty veggie-centric prior. I often cooked for both lunch and dinner if we didn’t have leftovers on hand. We were exposed to a lot of produce I might not have purchased, like celeriac, parsnips, turnips and Romanesco. I made homemade pickles for the first time, turning me onto pickling for life. (Pickled garlic is amazing; so are grapes and fennel.) I could eat roasted parsnip chips like popcorn. Between this and the fruit, the variety of food in our house was amazing. Abundance. I wish everyone could be so food spoiled.

His first question after getting the box was always whether or not there was corn in it.

Below is a favorite fall recipe courtesy of our awesome farmers. They adapted it from an original The Splendid Table recipe. Their changes, and mine, make it a little more vegetable dense and less rich. I think our versions are rich enough without the extra added cup of cheese. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not fat phobic. I think vegetables should be served with some fat and salt. If a recipe recommends low-fat anything, I stop reading it.

I’ve made versions of this three times in the past few weeks. Each time, I used different veggies, but from the same families. While they were all delicious, my favorite combination was with Butternut squash, onion and Red Russian kale.

The world’s cutest pepper-eating toddler!

Pasta with Roasted Squash and Greens

1 medium winter squash peeled, seeded and cut into bite-sized chunks (Butternut and Delicata Squash both tasted lovely. I would guess that Acorn and other less common squash, even certain pumpkin varieties, would work nicely, too.)

1 medium onion, cut into 1-inch chunks (On my Delicata squash day, I used a very large leek instead of an onion. It was wonderful, too. Couldn’t go wrong with a couple shallots, either.)

2-3 big handfuls of kale, chopped (Once my kale is off the rib, I take the leaves and roll them up together to chop strips with ease.)

1/3 tightly packed cup fresh basil leaves or 1 tsp dry basil

16 large fresh sage leaves, torn (When it’s raining, I harvest my sage by dangling my body out my kitchen window while holding kitchen shears—this is my favorite part of making this recipe.)

3-5 large garlic cloves, coarsely chopped

1/3 cup good-tasting extra-virgin olive oil

1/4+ teaspoon hot red pepper flakes (Use more if you really like the heat. This amount provides the spice, but twice more gives it an awesome kick.)

1 tightly packed tablespoon brown sugar

Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste

1/2 cup whole milk (or half-and-half)

1/2 cup parmesan (Grate fresh, if at all possible. It tastes better and doesn’t have stabilizers added to it. Do you own one of these? They are pure heaven for quick grating and zesting.)

½ lb cooked short pasta (rotini, penne, shells, orecchiette, bow-tie)

Preheat oven to 450. Put two rimmed baking sheets or roasting pans in the oven to heat up. Toss together all the roasting ingredients (this is everything except the milk, cheese and pasta) in a big bowl. Be generous with the salt and pepper. (I probably put two to three big pinches of salt—maybe a tablespoon? maybe two?—and four or five grinds of pepper on mine.)

Making sure not to burn yourself, carefully pull out the pans or pull out your oven racks with the pans still on them. Carefully place the squash mixture on the pans. Spread it out evenly so it’s not clumped up and can caramelize. Bake 20-25 minutes or until squash is tender, stirring at least once at the ten minute mark and rotating pans if cooking is uneven. Checking again at least at the 20-minute mark is a good idea, especially if you can’t smell smoke like me. Trust me, this is high heat and the food can burn.

Cook your pasta al dente. Don’t forget to salt the cooking water. Your pasta will taste better.

Optional: Once the squash is tender, flip on the broiler to caramelize the squash. Watch closely and turn the pieces often. Do not leave the food under the broiler unattended. My oven only allowed for 1-2 minutes of this before the kale screamed in fury. The next two times, I skipped this altogether and was just as happy.

You’re hoping to have crusty brown edges on the squash and crisp greens. (We have a very old, awful oven with stuck oven racks. I’m pretty sure there’s nothing that works quite like it should, including the broiler.)

Scrape everything into a serving bowl. Add the milk, hot pasta and parmesan cheese. Toss to blend, tasting for salt and pepper. Serve hot. (If your pasta is finished before the vegetables, it’s fine to toss it in with the milk and cheese first.) Serves 4-6 adults. 4 max if people take seconds, which is likely.