Last Day of Advent

Today is the last day of Advent. We celebrate it with Christmas pageants and candlelight services. Most people know of today as Christmas Eve. The day before Christmas. So the last day of Advent.

What is Advent? Well, Advent is to Christmas as Lent is to Easter. (Anyone remember their old SAT analogies?) In other words, it's a time of preparation. It's a time when we focus on how sinful and depraved we are, and how desperately we need salvation. 

The world has made this easy lately. What do you see in the news? People kill each other because they are the wrong religion. People kill each other because they are the wrong skin color or nationality. Or because they just had a really bad day. People kill each other because they want to be famous. People kill children because they're too full of drugs to be responsible adults. People kill children before they're born because they happen to be inconvenient. 

Or just look inside yourself to find more sin. Your goals are more important than how you treat other people. Your comfort is more important than sharing with others who are in desperate need. Your need to be right is more important than others' feelings. If someone doesn't agree with you, they're obviously wrong and not worth listening to.

We're selfish. We're lazy. We're slow to truly empathize with and listen to others. We sin. Consistently. On a small and grand scale. By what we do, and by what we don't prevent. The world is a sick, sick place. And we all share the blame in making it sicker.

Who will fix it? Sorry, not Bernie. Not Trump. Nor Clinton. Nor Cruz. No politician can turn the world around. No single human can fix it. No group of humans, no matter how large or well-funded, can fix the world. Sin is insidious, and creeps its way into the core of every person, no matter how well-intentioned or righteous-seeming that person might be. We can wipe out murderous caliphates, but sin will still remain.

If you are friends with me on Facebook, you might have picked up on the fact that I have a bit of an obsession with the vocal group Pentatonix. This might be because they happen to sing some of my favorite Christmas music. They also sing one of my favorite Advent songs, O Come O Come Emmanuel. They only sing two verses of a longer hymn, but those two verses have settled into this Advent perfectly:

O Come, O Come, Emmanuel,
And ransom captive Israel,
That mourns in lonely exile here
Until the Son of God appear.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to thee, O Israel.

O come, O come, Thou Lord of might,
Who to Thy tribes, on Sinai's height,
In ancient times did'st give the Law,
In cloud, and majesty and awe.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to thee, O Israel.

Who is Israel? Us. God's people. God's people waiting for peace, waiting for deliverance from the evil depravity of our life on earth. There is much to mourn. It's all over network and cable news. Death. Destruction. Hatred. Sin. Selfishness. We need to be ransomed from our captivity here, our exile in this sinful world. 

The second verse is the verse that the children of our congregation helped sing a few Sundays ago in the worship service. We practiced it at home to help them sing it more confidently. I explained that the convoluted language was actually talking about God giving Moses the 10 Commandments, the Law that would help us follow God's will for us. They've been learning the 10 Commandments at home and in Sunday School, so I thought it was actually a good verse for them to sing. 

I did a horrible job of following my Advent prep plan this year. We never did manage to read one section of the Christmas story each night of Advent. So the other night, I read a big chunk while they munched on Christmas cookies. I read the beginning of the Christmas story in the book of Matthew. Now if you're not up on your comparative Gospel Christmas stories, I'll tell you that Matthew starts with the genealogy of Jesus. It starts at Abraham and the ancient Hebrews, and works its way through kings David and Solomon until it finally gets to Jesus. It's a long journey, a heck of a mouthful to read, and full of names that I'm pretty sure won't make it onto your baby-naming list. Unless you want a son named Azor, Zadok, or Jeconiah... Now the book of Luke does a better job of including the narrative we're used to seeing in Christmas pageants. But Matthew highlights the theme of Advent. God's people waited for Jesus' birth for a long, long time. They wandered in the desert. They were taken captive as slaves. They waited, suffering, hopeful, for many generations. Many many generations. 

And so now we wait. For many many generations, we wait for our Savior to return, to ransom us from our captivity in this cruel depraved world. To dwell on the waiting, the need for deliverance, that is Advent. To realize the sin we carry with us wherever we go, to realize how we can't completely rid ourselves of it, that is Advent. 

I'm gaining a greater appreciation as I get older for the cyclical liturgical seasons of the church year. Advent is a necessary precedent for the hopeful joy of Christmas, just as Lent is a necessary precedent for the exuberant joy of Easter. You can't appreciate a Savior unless you realize what you need to be saved from. 

Thank you media for painting the world in horrific colors. Ok, maybe not. No one should revel in the violence of the world as much as our news outlets do. But it does a good job of helping us remember what we need to be delivered from. And how badly we need our long-promised and long-awaited Savior. 

Blessed last day of Advent. I'm certainly looking forward to Christmas! We've been waiting for a long time!

The Locket

We had a great visit recently from BestestHusband's cousin and her family. Her two teenaged sons were interested in seeing some New England schools, her husband wanted to see some of his cousins, and the whole family wanted to take in the sights that the opposite coast had to offer. 

They were great to get to know, and were amazing house guests. It was such a joy to have them. But Lynda brought one gift that is more special than the girls understand. 

MeToo's middle name came from her Great Grandmother. She missed meeting her by a few weeks. BestestHusband was unable to attend his grandmother's funeral because of a looming due date. So we honored her by giving her name to MeToo. Interestingly, they have the same initials. 

Great Grandma had a locket with her initials on it. Inside was a picture of the little girl she lost. 

We learned that the picture was taken a month before her death. She had just started walking. You can see that adorable "wobble toddle" stance in the picture. She wasn't even a year old yet. When they took the picture, they had no idea she would get sick and die just a few weeks later. 

Some people say that measles is "just a rash." If that's true, why did BestestHusband lose an aunt? If measles is "no big deal", why did this little girl die? The older sister, BestestHusband's aunt, was about 5 years old. She caught measles too, and wasn't allowed to attend her own sister's funeral. But thankfully she survived to pass the story down to the rest of us. 

There are people who say that the MMR vaccine (measles, mumps, and rubella) is dangerous. But our family has stories on both sides that say that the real danger is from the diseases it protects us from. I've heard people say "I've never heard of anyone dying from measles. The vaccine isn't that important." But I'm pretty sure Great Grandma and BestestHusband's surviving aunt would disagree. 

The Snow

Existence in Boston currently is being controlled by The Snow.

"Oh stop whining," some might say. "You live in the Northeast. Snow happens. Get over it."
Some might say that. I do live in the Northeast. Snow does happen. But it rarely happens quite like this. 

Here's what usually happens:
It snows. Sometimes a foot or two. The city shuts down for a day. School is out for a day, maybe two. People plow, shovel, and blow snow into big piles. Then it gets warmer in a day or two. Sometimes it even rains. The snow piles disappear, and the roads and sidewalks are clear of snow within a week, usually sooner. More snow might come, but it too will disappear quickly. Boston's snow removal process is predicated on the idea that the snow will disappear on its own within a few days. Because often it does. 

Here's what happened this time:
It snowed. We got two feet of it. The snow was plowed, shoveled, and blown into big piles. And it was cold. It stayed cold. The snow blew around a bit in the wind, but it did not go away. Then we got another foot. That snow was also plowed, shoveled, and blown on top of the big piles. The piles got bigger. And it stayed really cold. And then it snowed again. Two more feet. So now we're up to 5 feet of snow in just a few weeks. And the plows and snowblowers add that snow to the existing big piles. But shovelers just can't. You can't throw that much snow on top of piles that big for very long. And it likes to fall back down on you when you try. And the piles are everywhere. They're in yards. They're along sidewalks. They're along streets - the narrow one-way streets lines with cars on either side that Boston is famous for. They're at entrances to driveways, blocking the view of oncoming traffic - traffic driving on sometimes icy but always narrowed roads. 

Snow is fun, right? It's great for sledding, throwing as balls, and building into snowmen. We should all just be having fun! Right? 

Here's why we're not having fun.
6:30am:  BestestHusband goes out to shovel the newest addition to our snow accumulation. Because it's actually been continuing to snow small amounts between the big storms. The snow just keeps coming. But it needs to be cleared from our sloped driveway before we get iced in and the minivan slides backwards into the house any time we try to go somewhere. Like, oh, the grocery store. Or school. 
7:30am: BestestHusband leaves early for work. He's got meetings to make it to, and he's not really sure how long it will take him to get the few miles to work. Some mornings, it's been over 2 hours. The busses are delayed from the traffic of our snow-narrowed streets, and the trains are breaking down constantly from the snow. The roads are too dangerous to bike. So he leaves early and hopes he'll be there in time for a 10am meeting.
8:45am: I start warning the girls to get ready to leave the house for school. They start donning snow suits, hats, mittens, and boots. It's cold, in the teens. I start chasing the baby around the house to get her bundled. She's fast. And heavy. I'm exhausted before we even get to the car.
9:00am: I ease the minivan up the icy driveway and pray we get out. We shovel and salt it, but the sun does melt some of the snow during the day, just enough to trickle down the driveway and ice up overnight. At the end of the driveway, I peer in vain around the snow piles to see oncoming traffic. The piles are too high. I ease forward slowly and pray no one hits me. 
9:15am: I drop off the girls at school. They usually take the bus. But there's no where to park at the bus stop anymore. And it's consistently been 45-60 minutes late because of the traffic. The school parking lot is too small to allow us to park in it for pickup in the afternoon, but they'll let us do quick drop offs in the morning. I tell them they'll ride the bus home instead of having me pick them up. There's nowhere to park near the school for pickup. 
This morning at 9:30am: I drop HurricaneDebbie off at a home daycare in our neighborhood. The provider's husband had left for the day, so I could park briefly in their driveway to drop her off. The snow piles had narrowed the road so much that I have to do a 6 point turn to back out and head the other way down the road. I have to get out and move a trash can mid way. The trash collectors came already and it was empty, so I perched it on top of the snow bank. I had to reach up to do so. 
I drove slowly down a narrow hill towards home. There's nowhere to park at the gym. I didn't have work lined up today, but was thankful I wasn't driving to patients' homes. There's just nowhere to park. 

This was just the first few hours of our day. The Snow has changed our entire morning routine. 

3:30pm: I started prepping to leave for the bus stop. There's nowhere to park, so I have to walk. I also have to pick up HurricaneDebbie from daycare, so I grab the hiking backpack carrier. The sidewalks are impassible for a stroller or pull sled. I've learned this the hard way. 
3:45pm: I'm still climbing over snow piles and slipping on poorly-shoveled sidewalks. I stop at a few houses to ring doorbells and inquire as to whether the owners need me to hire someone to help them shovel. Only one person is home, a healthy-looking 20ish young man. I point to the mountain of snow on his property, and the barely-shoveled sidewalk. I explain that it's impassible for my children trying to get to and from school. I know some young men looking to make some money shoveling. I could call them if he needs help shoveling. Would he like me to do so? He apologizes and says that he's perfectly capable of doing it himself. Of course he is. But he hasn't done it.
4:00pm:  The bus stop is an 8 ft pile of snow on the corner. I have to stand along the edge of the street to watch for the bus. The girls arrive, and we start walking to get their sister. Walking in packed snow is like walking in sand. They get tired quickly and complain all the way to the daycare. At corners, we clamber over mountains of snow to be able to cross the street. Sometimes there's no passageway from the street to the sidewalk. Sometimes we're forced to walk in the narrow street. HeyMama starts to cry. She's tired, cold, and fighting a cold. And she hates The Snow. Me too. 
4:15pm: HurricaneDebbie is bundled and in the hiking backpack. We're slowly making our way down the snowy sidewalk towards home. We climb over more snow piles. I stop occasionally to use my phone and the city's app to report negligent shovelers. Some people shovel the entire width of their sidewalk. God bless them. Some people shovel a rabbit path, only one shovel-width wide. Lazy asses. Some people just don't bother. Those are the ones I report. I ring doorbells first. I don't want a little old lady to pay a ticket because she's too old to shovel. But that's not the case here. People can shovel a rabbit path to their car and get their car out. But then they neglect to shovel their sidewalk. These people make our walk home dangerous. We walk in the street a bit. We climb over piles. The girls look like little hamsters trudging along in the narrow snow passageways. Our world is a maze of paths with 5+ foot snow banks on either side. We can't get to the cross walk. So we cross our busy street illegally. And pray we don't get hit. 
4:30pm: We're finally home. It took nearly an hour to do a daily task that usually takes 15 minutes. We're all exhausted from the effort. There are tears. None from me today, but that's just today...

I didn't try to do much outside of the house today, other than a dog walk that was a major production. When the daily necessities become exhausting, why try to do anything extra? We're lucky. We don't struggle to dig our a car parked on a street. We have a driveway. We have a backyard to move the snow into. Our patio has a retaining wall that drops 12ish feet to the grass below. We've been shoveling the patio over the wall. The mountain of accumulated snow is almost to the top of the wall. 

We're supposed to get another foot of snow this weekend. People are canceling plans in anticipation of another blizzard. Birthday parties, family gatherings, church plans... they're all getting cancelled. No one wants to go out in another storm. There's always the fear of never making it there. And given the snow mountains we already have, that fear's not so crazy right now. The Snow is in control. 

A Louse-y Day

Yesterday was a louse-y day. Not a lousy day. No, it was actually pretty enjoyable. Except for the louse-y part. 

Tuesday night at bedtime, HeyMama suddenly noticed something on her pillow. "What kind of bug is this?" I pretty much knew the answer without looking, and my suspicion was verified by Dr. Google. 

Lice have been running rampant in the kindergarten classrooms for a few weeks now. HeyMama reported that 6 people were out yesterday because of them. It's a big problem. 

Are you itching yet? Just thinking about them makes me itch. But if a school full of middle and upper-middle class kids is crawling with lice, certainly they're normal. I feel no shame in admitting that they made their way into our home. And they're certainly preferable to fleas, those little nasties that jump around and make themselves at home in your household textiles. And have equal affection for the dogs' and the girls' beds. (shudder) But shameful or nasty or not, the little buggers must DIE!

So that's what we worked on yesterday. Although neither MeToo nor I had any signs of infestation, all 3 of us washed our hair in a toxic solution. Then we put on Frozen for the umpteenth time, I strapped on a headlamp, and I starting combing with our trusty flea comb. In the past, I looked at other children with thick full heads of hair a bit wistfully. But yesterday, I thanked God that my children have fine (and slightly sparse) hair. Combing was not the ordeal that some of our friends have and are enduring. But it must be done frequently. I'm happy to do it daily, if needed. The buggers must die. 

HeyMama was a bit sad that she couldn't go to school and see her friends. But now she was like her friends; she too had The Lice. She enjoyed sleeping in (so did I!!!) and snuggling on the couch. She made the best of it. I was proud of her. And today she came back from school aware that she was not the only kid out yesterday. 

We made it this long without a lice encounter. I'll consider myself lucky. And I stocked up on that expensive herbal lice-repellent conditioning spray today. Because luck only lasts for so long.

Breaking Up Is Hard To Do

I cried today. I've been pacing. I've been cranky. I've been downright miserable. I know that breaking up was the right thing to do, but it's been really really hard.  

Our relationship was not a healthy one. It's what I turned to when I was stressed, frustrated, bored, or just hungry. And it always worked for a quick pick-me-up. But I became increasingly dependent on it. I was losing the ability to be "me" in the relationship. It was only "we". We were having a lot of ups and downs. And we weren't so happy anymore. 

So on Monday I broke up with Sugar. Yes, I know that sugar is in just about everything. But it's the Added Sugar that I love so much. Fruit is not my addiction. Sweet veggies were not my problem. No, it was just Added Sugar. It has an alias, Evaporated Cane Juice. They're one and the same. ECJ just hangs out in health food stores more. They had seduced me in an unhealthy way. 

So I said goodby. They're still hanging around the house. My kids love them, but their relationship is still controllable. I found myself reaching out to them today. I had to stop myself from accidental contact. I almost licked the jelly spoon. I almost ate MeToo's jelly bean. I'm thankful that I didn't. I want their control over me to end. I want to be a healthy me again. 

It's Day 3 and it's hard. But breakups are. And all of my past breakups led to happier futures. This is what I keep telling myself. It will be worth it. If I can just stop pacing and having the urge to cry.

We Are Wealthy

I was talking to another mom at the playground after school today, and we got on the discussion of what we wanted out of schools - the non-academics that enriched our children's lives. We both agreed that we didn't want to send our kids to schools in the wealthy suburbs. She didn't want her children to be in the pressure-cooker environment - one that makes kids think that the only things that mattered in life were what college you got into and what you did for a living. I agreed with her. We both grew up in the South, and find New England's preoccupation with academic pedigree to be a bit concerning. (Of course, as I look up from my computer, it's BestestHusband's diploma from a school in TX that is larger than my other diplomas combined.)

But my greatest fear of sending my girls to an environment like that is that they'll grow up thinking they're poor. 

If we were to live in a ritzy suburb, we would be in the bottom half of incomes there. We would live in a more modest home than the girls' peers. We would drive an older car, with a less-impressive name. The girls would not have the same electronics as their peers. They would not jaunt off to tropical destinations and tour foreign countries on their Spring breaks. They would not have the same things as their wealthier classmates. And they would likely feel themselves lacking. They would likely conclude that they were unfortunate, and poor. And this is so far from the truth.

Now we are not wealthy by Boston's income standards. There is a great deal of money in this city. And if you know how to spot it, you see it everywhere. (It's not as easy to spot as it was living in Houston. But that's another post for another time.) But Boston provides a poor yard stick for measuring wealth. 

Here's how I know we are wealthy:

• We're not one payment away from losing the roof over our heads.
• We don't have to choose between buying food and buying medicine.
• We don't have to choose between paying our electric bill or our phone bill.
• When we're cold, we can turn up the heat.
• When we're hungry, we can buy food.
• If we lose our mittens, we can buy new ones.
• When we outgrow snow boots, we can buy bigger ones. 
• We can afford reliable transportation to get everyone to work and school.
• We can afford to fill the gas tank, even as gas prices climb.
• We can afford safe, reliable childcare for our children so we can show up for work every day. 

We may grumble about some of these costs, but it's not really a question of whether or not we can provide what our family needs. We may wish we had a bigger house with an actual garage, but that's a want, not a need. And it's a luxury. Our children don't really know what hunger is. Nor do they really know what it is to be constantly cold. The addition of one extra mouth to feed does not plunge our family into financial insecurity. 

I want my children to grow up knowing that this simple fact of having their basic needs met on a daily basis is a great blessing, and that we are part of the world's most fortunate and wealthy inhabitants. Because, regardless of what they see on TV, and regardless of hearing "we won't buy that, it's too expensive", there is nothing they really need. And that makes them wealthy.

Of course, the next thing they need to grow up understanding is that wealthy people need to help people that aren't. But that's another post for another day...

I pray that you'll recognize your own wealth, and give thanks for it as well.

What Not To Do

I'm going to tell you what not to do. I know you shouldn't do it, because I just did it. You don't need to learn this first-hand, my experience should be enough. 

When your kindergartener brings home the class pet for the weekend, and has a "journaling" assignment to chronicle the fun events of the weekend, do NOT get involved. Don't agree to take pictures of all of the fun they're having. Especially if the "pet" is a stuffed animal that can go everywhere with your child. 

Don't encourage her to type her journal entry on the computer. Don't agree to create a document with the text and pictures. Because your iPhoto might be wonky and refuse to save your photos on the computer. And then you might have trouble actually inserting those carefully taken photos into a Word document. So you might need to start all over with a Powerpoint document. And then you might feel the need to crop and edit the photos so that they neatly fit on a few pages. 

Just don't do it. 

It will take up your entire night - that Sunday night that you use to catch up and prepare for the upcoming week. You need that night. Desperately. You don't need the frustration of cropping and rotating. Of copying and pasting. Of trying to reconnect with your inner Powerpoint diva.

You should follow the example of the 7th child in the class who took the "pet" home - the one who wrote her entry in "kindergarten spelling" and drew pictures instead of taking them. The one whose family printed a few photos in black and white printer ink and just pasted them on. Her journal entry was lovely and charming. It was perfect. You should do that, too. It's a wonderful idea.

Trust me.

Girls Weekend

I'm down a child this weekend. BestestHusband left with LittleDebbie on Friday to visit his parents in MN for the weekend. So the big girls and I have a girls weekend planned. It's amazing how quickly our agenda has filled up. We have gymnastics, a birthday party, a play date, a volunteer event, church... Those are just the scheduled events. We also need to walk the dogs, watch our new Frozen video, buy new church shoes before a coupon runs out, paint toenails, make food for the firefighters... The list goes on and on. These things would be impossible with a baby around. But without her, well, it's possible. Hopefully. 

HeyMama is very motivated to make food for the firefighters. The recent tragedy has hit very close to home for some reason. Maybe it was because the fire was down the street from our church. Maybe it was because we saw it happening as we detoured repeatedly around Boston and Cambridge, trying to get to Wednesday Lenten services in the Back Bay. Maybe it is because both firefighters that died live in our side of town. And one of the funerals is down the street from us. And one was a father of 3. Whatever the reasons, we're all taking it pretty hard. 

We were living here the last time 2 firefighters died, and it was in West Roxbury, at a location we pass every day. It was tragic, but didn't feel this tragic. Perhaps this means that we're officially locals now. It feels like we lost two of "us", whatever "us" means. 

So tomorrow we'll try to bake something. And I'll get the girls to draw a picture and write a card. How exactly do you write a note to someone who lost the greatest man in their life - their husband or father? What do you say to the mother who lost her son? Especially when you've never met them, or the person they've lost? All I know is that they were aware that the job of a firefighter is to risk your life at a moment's notice to save the lives of others. And to love a firefighter is to know that any day is a day you could get an earth-shattering phone call - that the fire was too hot, too fast-moving, too uncontrollable for their loved one to escape. But that, thanks to him, the other people in the building did. 

So if you need someone to pray for, pray for firefighters, and their families. There are quite a few who could use those prayers right now.

Someday

I’ve always known that I was adopted. I was told at an early age, so early that I don’t remember not knowing it. And adoption was spoken of so positively and matter-of-factly that the knowledge was never something that bothered me. I thought of it occasionally throughout the years. I’d been told that my mother was 18 when she had me. I occasionally calculated how old my birth parents would be, and occasionally looked at people the same age, wondering if I would recognize them on the street. In my self-absorbed moments of teen angst, I wondered why someone would “just give me away”. But when rational thought returned, I realized that was just silly. I had a pretty fortunate life, and I knew that I was very-much loved. My senior year, I contemplated what it would be like to be pregnant and dealing with the decision my birth mother had faced. I gained a full appreciation for it in college when classmates spoke of abortions. I was not a statistic. I was not discarded. I truly was loved.

Over the years, I’ve always spoken of my adoption openly. When someone asked if I’d ever try to find my biological parents, my answer was always, “Yes, Someday.”

I was raised by two wonderful parents. They always told me that they would support me if I tried to locate my birth parents Someday. I was a good student. I loved music and learned to play the French Horn. I played handbells at church. I was active in my church youth group. I had great friends there and at school. They knew I was adopted, but didn’t think much of it, especially since I looked and sounded so much like my adoptive parents. We spoke occasionally of what it would be like to find my birth parents Someday. But my life was pretty fine, pretty complete. There was no reason to go looking for something I didn’t miss.

I got scholarships to go off to college. I left Houston for Boston, and eventually stayed here to work. When I decided I was ready to go back to Texas, go to grad school, meet my Prince Charming, and start my “real life”, I met my reason to come back to Boston. I finished school, married BestestHusband, and started my career as a Speech Language Pathologist . We traveled. We bought a house. We got dogs. Then we got pregnant. We have 3 girls and 2 dogs. If this isn’t “real life”, I’m not sure what is!

Finding my birth parents was always something I’d do Someday. I was always too busy doing something else. I was training for a race. Or working and commuting too much. Or doing too much at church. Or not sleeping enough. Or taking care of too many babies. Or something. There was plenty of time for Someday to happen.

And then a few months ago, friends who’ve always known I was adopted started asking the same question: “Have you ever thought of finding your birth mother?” My answer was still the same, “Yes, Someday.” Having LittleDebbie brought up the issue, as well. She looks like a combo of my BestestHusband and me. HeyMama looks very much like BestestHusband's aunt. But MeToo – she didn’t really look like either of us. BestestHusband’s family is extensive. Genes surface and resurface in that gene pool across generations and time zones. MeToo does not resemble anyone in that gene pool. She favors me. But she doesn’t really look like me. She must look like the people that I come from. But who do I come from? Who do I look like? I was discussing the matter with a friend who encouraged me to reconsider the notion of Someday. Her estranged father had died suddenly the week before. She had hoped to reconcile Someday. But that door closed suddenly before she had the chance. And it can’t be re-opened. Someday doesn’t always happen.

So my Someday is now. I’m filling out the paperwork. I’m working with a social worker to start the process. I’m beginning the journey to find my birth parents. Maybe they’re fine with the door being closed. Maybe they’ve always wanted to find me Someday, too. But I’ll never know until I try to find them.

We Denied Our Nanny Health Insurance

Once upon a time, we had a nanny. Ok, it was a nanny share. HeyMama was 3 months old, and my friend/coworker had a son who was a few months older. They lived less than a mile away. We decided to share a nanny to care for both kids. 

We're law-abiding citizens who happen to have work benefits that encourage paying childcare on the books vs. under the table. So we payed payroll taxes. We got workman's comp coverage. We enlisted a payroll company to prepare weekly paystubs and make sure we filed all of the appropriate paperwork with the government. We wanted to do it all right, and be good employers to the person who would care for our child. 

So we didn't offer health insurance to our nanny.

This might sound a bit odd. Let me explain.

We live in Massachusetts. We have Romneycare. (It's the inspiration for Obamacare, if you didn't know). So everyone has to have health insurance. Everyone. If you can't afford it, it's given to you, or heavily subsidized. 

Now, in case you've never worked in childcare, let me inform you that nannies don't make much money. Especially if you work for people like us. But that's a good thing in the world of Romneycare. Because that means you qualify for subsidized or free insurance. BUT only if your employer doesn't provide it for you. 

We ran some numbers. If we payed for some of our nanny's insurance, she would have to pay for the rest of it out of the money we paid her. And it was expensive. If we payed nothing towards her insurance, she got the money we paid her AND she got insurance. We had a finite amount of money we could pay her, and it wasn't enough to approximate a reasonable weekly wage PLUS provide insurance. In fact, paying for her health insurance meant that she barely made any money at all. So why would we pay for her health insurance if it hurt her instead of helping her?

We read the rules. As household employers, we were not required to provide insurance. We were required to provide workman's comp coverage. We were required to file payroll taxes. We did these things. We went into the situation expecting to provide all of the benefits that our employers provided us. And them we realized that the healthcare laws of our state actually incentivized us NOT to provide benefits for our nanny. It would actually HURT our nanny if we did. 

So I was not at all surprised when I heard about companies cutting most of their employees to part time in advance of the coming Obamacare changes. If the employees aren't full time, they don't have to be provided with health insurance. I was not surprised at all. Unlike our situation, they're not doing it in the best interest of their employees, just their own company pocketbook. But is anyone really surprised? And what other unintended consequences will we see? What's the likelihood that they will help employees instead of hurting them?

Only time will tell. 

PS. Our nanny share ended when the nanny stole my friend's engagement ring and was seen wearing it in public. But that's a story for another day.

9/11

12 years ago, about this time, I was lying in bed, listening to the airplanes.

It wasn't the sound of large airliners slowing their descent into Logan airport, as I usually heard at this time of night. No, it was the fast whine of fighter jets. War planes. They were patrolling the East coast, in the hopes of preventing further attacks on our country. The airliners had been grounded hours earlier, after 4 planes were hijacked, and thousands were killed. 

I remember lying there in the dark, wondering what would happen. Were we at war? Would we be going to war? Was Boston the next target? And who was targeting us? How do you deal with the idea of your loved ones being vaporized when an airplane loaded with fuel slammed into their workplace? How would the survivors move on?

I prayed. I cried. I think we all did that night, even people who weren't prayers or criers. 

So I stop to remember. 

How can any of us forget?

Vanity. And Patience.

Vanity and patience - these are two words you don't hear together very often. One is definitely less-desirable than the other. But both have been on my mind this week. 

Vanity has been lurking under the surface for a few weeks now. I've noticed that, even before the presence of a newborn in the house (any day now, baby, we're happy to have you any day now!), I'm looking older. I've noticed more age spots, more fine lines, more "imperfections" in my skin. I suppose this isn't really that surprising. I AM getting older, and I've been outside more this summer. These things do happen. They should be expected, even. But now I'm obsessing about skincare products and makeup.

My last day of work for a while was yesterday. I went a day longer than my co-workers expected before I declared myself "all done." I really am uncomfortable and All Done. When I do eventually go back to work, it will be only a few short evenings a week, and a few weekend days a month. Even my per-diem pay can't cover 3 kids. So I'm transitioning even more to being a stay-at-home mom. This identity shift has been a gradual one over the last few years, and not always a smooth one. But one that is shifting again. 

So the vanity kicks in. I enjoy dressing up for work. I enjoy looking put-together. I know that a SAHM lifestyle is not always a given for looking put-together. Nor does the lifestyle finance a fun, put-together wardrobe. But I think that one of my top resistances to the change is actually a fear of becoming frumpy. Ok, I'm nowhere near a fashionista now. But I do have standards. I try not to look 5 years older than I do. I try not to dress 10 pounds heavier than I am. I try to look like I've shopped for new clothes in the past decade. I try to look like I at least TRY. I can't make any claims as to whether or not I succeed...

So then I start to feel guilty for my vanity. Really, does it matter what I look like? Aren't my actions more important than my appearance? Isn't my health more important than my looks? This is what I hope to teach the girls. A beautiful body is an healthy body, not a thin one. God gave us miraculous bodies to do His work here on Earth, not to adorn and flaunt them. What we know, feel, and do is far more illustrative of who we are than what we wear. Our appearance should not be our priority.

How do we demonstrate our priorities? Time and money are pretty good indicators. So if we spend money on our appearance, we are demonstrating our prioritization of it. So if, while only one parent is bringing home a regular paycheck, I prioritize spending some of that paycheck on skincare products and clothes, then I'm making a statement about my priorities. While working, this doesn't make me feel so guilty. One must keep up standards of appearance for professional purposes. Appearance DOES matter in the workplace. Investing in an appropriate work wardrobe IS an appropriate thing to do for one's career. And besides, I can spend some of MY paycheck to do it.

But what about when your career is being a SAHM? "Honey, can I have some of the money you earned to spend on makeup and clothes?" This just feels so... 1950's. Ok, so no, I don't have to ask BestestHusband's permission to spend money on things. But I do need to be able to justify them. And I realize that justifying them to myself is actually a bigger threshold than justifying them to him. But hey, that's a healthy thing, right? (Right honey?) But what is justifiable and what is just vanity?

What is vanity, anyway? I've been thinking of it lately as taking pride in one's appearance. But Sunday's Bible readings at church made me reframe the concept of "vanity". There is a long discourse on the topic of vanity in Ecclesiastes chapters 1 and 2. It discusses vanity as taking pride in accomplishments, not in appearance. I think most of us suffer from this version of vanity more often. We've worked hard for what we have:  our educations, our jobs, our comfy homes in expensive real estate markets, our 401Ks. They're OURS. We earned them. We're proud of them. They're part of who we are. But are they? 

Our homes will likely still stand when we die. Our diplomas will crumble and fade over the years. The money will get passed on to someone else. They are just things. Things that will go on without us. To take pride in possessions, to take pride in what we've done is true vanity. Our brains, our parents who made us go to school and get diplomas, our health to let us keep working, they're all from God. They were given to us, and they will eventually be taken away. This is the point of the Parable of the Rich Fool. To think that we deserve them is a conceit far greater than worrying about our gray hair and crows feet. This is the real vanity that many of us should strive to avoid. 

So I'm grappling with multiple versions of vanity now. I need to find a fine balance between maintaining my appearance and maintaining my perspective. It's not inherently sinful to want to look good. I certainly appreciate BestestHusband taking the time to keep up his appearance. I certainly owe him the same level of effort. I wouldn't want to be an embarrassment, and I don't want him to have to work too hard to find me attractive. But I do need to keep in mind that, like the grasses and lilies, my life will eventually fade and end. No amount of expensive potions will change that. This is the will of God. And likewise, my education and career, as well as my vocation as a mother, are gifts that I will use differently at different times of my life. And this, too, is the will of God. To cling too strongly to any of these is vanity. 

Well, one thing that I certainly can't be vain about is my patience. Because I don't have much of it. I know local moms whose mantra is "I'm an endless well of patience." They're proud of how patient they can be with their kids, and what good parents it makes them. I'm thankful I can't be vain in this arena. Because every day, I pray for enough strength and patience to make it through the day. And I keep getting it. Just barely enough of it. I know it's not because I have an endless well of it. I don't. 

My Mum likes to say it's never wise to pray for more patience, because it can backfire. It's our trials and tribulations in life that help us grow into more patient people. To pray for patience is to ask for more hardship. So I'm content just to have it doled out in barely-enough daily doses. I'm too much of a wuss to ask for the hard work to make me more patient. And God will always provide what we need. And having to turn to Him for our daily needs seems to be a good antidote to vanity. 

So after all of this, I still plan on celebrating my first day of not-working tomorrow by getting a hair cut and a pedicure, and shopping for new skincare and makeup products. Let's face it. I'll need all the help I can get after the baby's born, and we already paid for preschool for the girls. And I really can't reach my toes. It's my best chance to get these things done. But I'll keep in mind that this version of vanity is really the least of my worries. I'll need to continually battle the rest of it.

What vanities do you battle? 

Achievement, Ambition, Empowerment, and Contentment

Whew, that title is full of some big ideas.

I've had a few conversations lately that have stirred my mental pot, especially around those big ideas.

At work the other day, I overheard a lunch conversation that started with this: "if you could snap your fingers and have a new career that didn't require you to start all over with school, what would you do?" Most of the women are older than me. And most couldn't imagine having a different career. Me? If I could snap my fingers to a different career? I'd run an international aid organization of some sort. I know, kinda random. I'd love to have the organization and management skills to change lives through charitable giving. Don't get me wrong. I love my career. It allows me the other things I value in life: a marriage and family. But I occasionally wonder about a life full of international travel and saving people from starvation and disease.

I was lucky to have a visit recently from a friend who moved away a while back. I'll call her Janey, to protect her identity.

We stayed up late drinking wine, and she told me about the possibility of a career turn that would involve 3 intensive years in a fast-track nurse practitioner program. It would be an amazing career move. And a physical move. It would also create insane demands on her and her family. Did I mention she has 2 young children? It sounded terrifyingly overwhelming to me.

She discussed how tedious her current job was, and the general boredom she felt in her career. The concept of her current job sounds amazing. But yes, the details of her job were a bit mundane and repetitive. Yet it's a good job, and allows her to work from home. This is handy when you have 2 young kids.

We were both the recipients of world-class educations and the encouragement to be whatever we wanted to be. We were taught that we shouldn't settle for boring jobs. We should never accept the status quo. We should feel empowered enough to reach for whatever we wanted, no matter how difficult.

But now we have kids. And mortgages. And a tenuous sanity to preserve.

So I had to ask myself:  What's the difference between settling down and just settling for something less?

And then:  What model of achievement should I be presenting for my daughters? And what should I be teaching them about ambition, and empowerment?

I'm starting to think that our focus on women's empowerment is becoming a double-edged sword.

(WARNING: If you get squeamish about medical details, are looking to avoid description of birthing, or just generally want to avoid incidents of TMI, skip down to the next part with bold font!)

I was reading a post on my local mommy group website where a mom was inquiring about hypnobirthing as a way to avoid tearing during birth. I took the hypnobirthing class. I used the philosophy to have 2 unmedicated births. I tend to think of it as a good strategy to get through birth without unnecessary medical interventions. It never occurred to me that one could PREVENT themselves from tearing during childbirth. Doesn't that kind of depend on the size of your baby and your general skin elasticity? But there are those out there that encourage women to empower themselves to have exactly the childbirth experience they want. So if you don't want to tear, you can work hard enough to find a way not to tear. Wow. That's a lot of pressure... What if you DO find a childbirth technique that promises to help you avoid tearing. But you tear a little anyway. Does that mean you're a failure? I'm content to see tearing as a possible (and likely, given my prior experiences) side-effect of the birthing process. You get a few stitches, you use witch hazel pads and a peri-care bottle for a week, and you move on. Does this mean I'm too content with the status quo? Should I feel more empowered to demand the birth I want when Little Miss makes her grand entrance in a few months? But I don't want to feel like a failure when the midwife pulls out the needle and thread...

(OK, you squeamish readers can start reading again here.)

Do the current messages in our society really help us? "You can have it all! Get your career established first. Travel the world. Then when you're financially secure in your early 40's, have kids then." And "Don't settle. You CAN have a career! And a marriage! And kids! And fun leisure time!" And so women wait so they can have it all! And then they have to struggle with infertility, because a 30 year old body bears children more easily than a 40 year old body. The realities of biology don't change because we've suddenly become more empowered. Skin stretches, and then sometimes tears. We start our lives with lots of eggs. Most of the good ones are gone by our 40's. The limitations of a 24 hour day aren't swayed by successful women encouraging us all to do more, be more, achieve more. There are only 24 hours. We really can't clone ourselves to simultaneously attend a work meeting and a preschool dance performance. 
Or maybe I'm just not empowering myself adequately...

I brought up the topic to a wonderful group of moms from my church. They're smart, they're successful, they're kind, and they're wise. They're my grounding force in the face of the questionable advice provided by society and my local online mommy group. Once a month, we share food, wine, support, conversation, and prayer. Because we know our limitations. We need each other. And we know that there are just aspects of life we need to turn over to a higher power.  But we discussed my questions. 

Not one of them thought we could "have it all". According to them, we have natural seasons in life that demand and allow our energy to be directed to different areas. We have marriage partners with whom we give-and-take to make our family work well together. Our careers are just part of the picture. We have priorities that truly are more important. Like our marriages. And our children. When you sit with a group of women that include some who have buried children, it somehow becomes perfectly reasonable to shape your life and aspirations around those of your own children. It all falls into perspective. 

Of course, perhaps our expectations would be different if we could all afford to hire out parts of our lives - childcare, shopping, cooking, cleaning... Have you ever noticed that women to talk about "having it all" seem to have their own staff? Or at least have mothers living nearby who are willing to do those things for free?

We discussed the concept of "vocation". Martin Luther (the Reformation guy, not the civil rights guy) discussed vocation as a gift from God. Both bankers and blacksmiths have the ability to serve God in their jobs. They have the task of being the best banker/blacksmith they can be, in order to help others and fully utilize the gifts that God has given them. There is no such thing as a lowly or exalted job. There is just OUR job, and we need to do it well to give glory to God. You can be a wonderful 7-11 cashier. You can be a wonderful nurse. You can be a wonderful CEO. You can be a wonderful street sweeper. They all give glory to God! 

You can be a wonderful wife and mother. These are also vocations. Think it's not important? Imagine losing your spouse or child for a moment. Yeah, they're pretty important. Imagine not being around to teach your children what love is about and to prepare them to go out into the world. Imagine your children not having a mom. Yeah, the job is pretty important. 

So I'm thankful for the perspective my friends bring. I'm thankful for not needing to live up to the expectations of society. I already have some pretty big jobs on my plate. I'll stick with those and let others battle the angst of their "empowerment." I think I'll just pray for the power to do my own jobs well.

Hope you have a great week!

Eerie Silence

Imagine waking up to a SWAT team in your backyard, scoping out your garage and shed.
Imagine waking up to the news that the city is under lockdown, with all residents ordered to lock doors and windows and stay home. 
That's the situation in our area right now. 
Public transportation is shut down. 
Taxi service is shut down. 
Boston is shut down.

The home videos of SWAT teams moving through well-manicured yards are surreal.
The lack of cars and busses on the street is creepy. 
Sirens wail in the distance.
The silence is punctuated by the birds that have returned for the spring. 
But other than that, there's silence. 
And it's eerie.

Parenting After the Blasts

I saw a post on Facebook yesterday looking for parents in Boston to talk about their children's experience with the recent attacks, and how we're dealing with them. So I responded, and got a call from a reporter. We chatted for a while, and as usually happens, I didn't think about what I was saying until the words come out of my mouth. And as I said them, the words made me sad.

HeyMama is a very perceptive kid. She picks up on offhand comments. And asks about them later. She can hear me opening a bag of peanut M&Ms on the other side of the house. And asks for one immediately. After the shootings in Newtown, despite our attempts at a media blackout, she came downstairs early while I was still in bed and heard about the attack on the clock radio. So I knew there was no way to avoid the attacks that happened in our town, just blocks from our church. I had to address it on my own terms.

BestestHusband alerted me to the tragedy. The girls and I had been napping when it happened. His news woke me immediately. I knew people running the race. I knew people who were going to watch. I've never been so thankful for Facebook as I was on Monday, as I was able to check in on people, mentally adding people to my "safe" list. 

When the girls were awake and playing, I told HeyMama the news. I reminded her of the race we were watching on TV that morning, the one with the super fast guy in the wheelchair. I told her that a bad thing happened, that someone used bombs to hurt a lot of people. I told her 2 people (which was true at that time) had died. I told her about the first responders, the police, the doctors and nurses who rushed in to help. I told her about the police and soldiers who were being called in to find the person who did the bad thing, so they couldn't do it again. I tried to draw attention to "the helpers", like Mr. Rogers talks about. Boston was full of them on Monday.

She talked about it a lot at dinner time. Our neighbor, Mr. Jason, is a Boston cop. She talked about how he was helping "catch the bad guy". It was an exciting concept to her. Bad guys are in books and movies. Mr. Jason was chasing a REAL bad guy! BestestHusband told her that the whole event was a sad and somber one. Real people got really hurt. We were very sad for them. It wasn't something she should be too excited about. 

Despite our attempts to keep the media coverage away from her, HeyMama is attracted to it like a... like me to chocolate. It's irresistible, and she can't get enough. And she manages to find it. Shame on the Wall Street Journal for their blood-spattered image on the front page of the paper. Since when was she so interested in the newspaper?! She found it hidden UNDER other sections! Even the tiny images on Facebook were enough to catch her eye. Sigh.

As I discussed with the reporter, this is just the beginning. She asked how HeyMama's perception of the event colored my own. I said that I wish it was as simple as HeyMama thought it would be. At her age, it's appropriate to know that people sometimes do bad things, and the helpers come help and then the bad guy can't do bad things anymore. The event is an isolated one, and when it's over, it's over.

But in our post - 9/11 world, that's not really true. It's another in a long string of senseless attacks designed to maim, kill, and instill fear. This week's was in my own city. Who knows where the next one will be. But as adults, we all know there will be others. There will be more violence, more sorrow, more grieving family and friends. More memorial services. More candlelight vigils. This was the realization that made me so sad when I said it. 

And each time another happens, we will have to help our children understand it. Their age and development will change between each one. They will understand more of it, but also understand less of it. And we'll struggle with helping them understand, because it doesn't really make logical sense to us, either. But we have to shepherd our children into a world where violence shows regularly on the news. And we have to deal with the fact that we can't keep them safe all the time, and we can't promise them that someone else will keep them completely safe, either. How is this concept supposed to make sense to our children? How are they supposed to feel safe? It's so hard for us to stomach, and we're 30ish years older than they are. 

It's times like this that I'm thankful for our faith. Our faith teaches us that sin is in the world, and as a result, there is evil, pain, death and destruction. It's inevitable while we live on this earth. Our only hope is in a Savior who will ultimately win over sin and death. We won't experience this while we live here on Earth. But in the meantime, we know we can find comfort and peace in our faith. Our faith won't keep bad things from happening to us. But we know that a steadfast faith in Jesus and his eternal salvation will allow us comfort when they do. Is there hope for true peace on earth in our lifetime? I don't really think so. But as sad as this is, it's not as devastating as it could be.

So this is how we parent after the blasts. In the midst of the turmoil and fear, we can teach our children to turn with us to our God. "On Christ the solid rock I stand, all other else is sinking sand." I just hoped they'd be a little older before these scary lessons needed to be taught.

The Boston Marathon Will Endure

The Boston Marathon has long been known as a premier endurance race, drawing runners from all over the world to challenge themselves to traverse 26.2 miles of hills into Boston's Back Bay. Today, it's known for something different. And a nation is heartbroken to find itself under attack again.

No one is more heartbroken than our local Bostonians. The marathon is a tradition here, for runners and spectators alike. Marathon Monday is on Patriot's Day, a state holiday that celebrates the men and women who fought for America's independence. Bostonians pride themselves in being plucky, being fighters. We fight through 24 inches of snow to shovel out our car. We fight over that parking spot to make sure it's ours the next day. We fight through months of cold dreary winter to make it to the glory of spring. And when that spring finally comes, we celebrate our endurance, line the streets of the marathon course, and cheer for complete strangers. It's an institution in Boston.

Some celebrate it by sharing their water hoses on hot days. Some celebrate it by handing out orange wedges and cups of water from their driveways. Some celebrate by drinking in early-opening pubs before lending their slightly-rowdy exuberance to the crowd. Hey, some bring their booze in "water bottles" to their closest viewing site (not that I'd know from experience, or anything...). But we all celebrate one thing - the joy of accomplishment, the joy of overcoming, the joy of finishing something that's hard. 

I ran a marathon once. The 26.2 miles on race day is only the part of the challenge that others see. It's the months leading up to the race that are the real challenge. There are speed workouts. Endurance runs. Getting up at 4:30am on a hot day to get a long run finished before the sun really comes out. (That's a reason to run Boston in April instead of the Cape Cod in October - summer training sucks!) And then going to work afterwards. (Thanks Melissa for pushing me through those!) But even before my first-hand experience, I cheered. To the point of vocal failure. 

One of my favorite things about the race is that people will write their names, either in black tape or marker, somewhere on their body or clothes. So instead of shouting "Go Red Shirt Guy!", you can shout, "Go Amy!" "Go Gus!" "Go Max, you can do it Max!" And they smile. Sometimes they'll give you a thumbs up or wave. You get to cheer for people. Some of them look like they really need it. Those are the ones you cheer extra loud for. You want the slightly-tubby middle-aged guy to reach the finish line. But you're not convinced he will... The spectators create a wave of sound to push the runners forward. It truly draws the city together.

Another one of my favorite things is the ability to get charity numbers and run to raise money for your favorite charity. These runners are not the ones competing for a medal. These runners are the ones competing to COMPLETE the race. Many are doing it for the first time, many are not life-long runners.  They are pushing themselves to do something hard, and doing it to help others. These are the class of runners that were crossing the finish line when the bombs went off, not the elite runners. These are the runners who had coworkers and family members waiting for them near the finish. The contrast between those hurt and those who did the hurting could not be starker.

The girls and I briefly watched the marathon on TV this morning. We spent a few minutes watching the first wheelchair contestant cross the finish line. We talked about the fact that "his legs couldn't help him walk, but he could use his strong arms to be the fastest guy in the race." This afternoon, some of the worst injuries from the blast were amputation injuries - legs lost. But what the race shows us in its better moments is that hardships and tragedies don't stop people. The human spirit is stronger than the strength of a limb. We fight. We struggle. We overcome. 

The Boston Marathon will be as popular as ever and as strong as ever next year. The bomb-makers hurt people, but they did not hurt the spirit of the event. I grieve for the families of those who died and were injured. I grieve for the runners who lost the chance to finish a triumphant race. I grieve for those who will leave what should have been a joyful accomplishment with an ache in their heart. Evil exists in this world, but it did not win today. The hordes of people running towards the blasts to help are proof of that. The people lining up to donate blood are proof of that. The shared grief of a nation is proof of that. Evil reared its ugly head, but we will continue to fight it. We will overcome it. The Boston Marathon will endure, and its spirit will win.

Ensuring Our Family's Health and Safety, Part 1

I need to start out by apologizing to Jessica Brown Wilson. 
Jessica's one of my old classmates who knew me when I had permed hair, braces, and overly-large glasses. She was always significantly more stylish than I was, to say the least. She grew up to be a mother of two beautiful daughters and a successful lawyer. And she's still significantly more stylish than I am.

I jumped down her throat via Facebook the other day for re-posting something. Something that pushed one of my buttons, villainizing the pharmaceutical industry. (That's a topic for another post someday). The re-post was about using diet choices to keep us healthy and fight cancer vs. relying on traditional cancer treatments. It described current cancer treatments as "barbaric". It's actually correct. BestestHusband spends the vast majority of his waking hours trying to figure out a way to improve upon our current cancer therapeutics. He has described the treatments as "barbaric" before. The re-post offhandedly referred to the providers of current cancer treatments as "parasites". That's the part I jumped down her throat about. I hear it too often. But I should have known better to think that she would aim that arrow herself.

So I apologize for publicly jumping down your throat, Jessica. You feel strongly about finding ways to provide for the health and safety of your family. I do too. I think most of us do. And it's just so hard these days.

There's a lot of information out there, but there's also a lot of bad information. I laughed when I heard a dietician friend say that she liked Dr. Oz for job security. She had a lifetime of work ahead of her, correcting the misinformation he spewed to her clients every afternoon on network television. A fellow mom told about her PhD boss being pressured by the Dr. Oz show to promote one diet over another, even when the data did NOT support it. There are hundreds of websites devoted to special diets to improve health. You could fill dozens of bookshelves with the writings of "authorities" on the topic. But how do you separate the help from the hype?

There's a lot of chatter on my online mommy forum about different things to look for and avoid.

• Look for a wide variety of fresh produce to provide a wide range of nutrients and antioxidants.
• Avoid imported produce, because the fuel used to ship them pollutes the environment, and they have inferior nutrients in them.
• Look for locally-grown produce to support local farmers.
• Avoid produce grown in soil containing lead. (ahem, that's most of New England, thanks to years of inhabitants painting their homes with lead paint)
• Avoid simple carbohydrates, they cause sugar spikes that leave you hungry shortly after you eat. 
• Look for whole grains instead, as they provide fiber and satiety.
• Avoid grains, because gluten is bad for you.
• Avoid grains, because our Neanderthal ancestors didn't eat them.
• Look for meats, because our Neanderthal ancestors thrived on them.
• Avoid red meats, because they're bad for your heart. 
• Look for low-fat dairy products for protein and calcium.
• Avoid low-fat dairy, it's full of other additives.
• Look for full-fat dairy, it promotes longer satiety.
• Avoid all dairy. We're the only species that drinks mild past infanthood.

Hmmm... So I asked my online mommy forum to give their resources (preferably evidence-based) to support the diets that they choose for their families. The people who were typically the most vocal about diet were oddly silent, and one even admitted to choosing her family's diet based on word-of-mouth (ie. fads and trends). The ones that did speak up all referred to the same websites:

• http://www.westonaprice.org
• http://www.hsph.harvard.edu/nutritionsource/

I haven't had the chance to really pore through the websites and read all of the research links. But at first glance, the info is similar to what my dietitian friends told me when I quizzed them on the topic:  eat a wide variety of foods. But my dietitians added another thing:  eat together as a family.

This last item calls to mind an article written by a former raw diet evangelist. She and her husband were local promoters of a raw diet as part of a healthy lifestyle. Until she noticed that her 15 month old twins were developmentally behind their peers. She immediately began providing cooked foods for her infants and other children. In addition to her infants (who started to toddle once they could actually ABSORB the nutrients from their food with their still-developing digestive systems) catching up developmentally, she observed another type of "catching up":  her family began eating meals together. And meals became an important social part of their day, bonding them together as a family. 

Where is this ramble going? Good question. Food and diet is such a complex thing. We don't yet fully understand everything about the foods we put in our body. There's little evidence that one food, ingested or avoided, will make-or-break our health. But there is a lot of evidence that a variety of foods, especially whole foods (single ingredient items, not PopTarts), combine well for our health. And importantly, sharing good food with friends and family can be good for our psychological and emotional health.

Stay tuned for Part 2, where I ramble about other reasons that providing for the health and safety of our families is difficult. 

Lottery Results Are In!

Well, after months of waiting and wondering, the lottery results are in!

I'm talking about the Boston Public Schools school assignment lottery, of course. You know, school assignment - that mysterious system where you register your child, rank a series of schools in your zone, get assigned a random number, and wait to find out where your child will attend school? 
Oh. You don't? 
Oh... 

That's probably because you live in a normal area where your child attends the school in your neighborhood instead of climbing on a bus to travel to a school 40 minutes away in morning traffic. I do not. I live in the city of Boston, where we do schools a bit differently. 

Boston has some fantastic schools. And Boston has some pretty bad schools. And where your child attends depends on your lottery assignment. And the zone that you live in. And your walk zone. And sibling preference. Oh, and whether or not you can afford to send your child to a private school to avoid being assigned to a bad school. This was all designed in the interest of fairness. And it is fair. Even our local politicians have no control over what schools their kids get in to. It's fair. Unless you have money to move to the expensive 'burbs or pay private tuition. So maybe it's not really fair. Just anxiety-inducing and annoying. Alright, this is a rant for another day... 

They're changing the system for next year, to reduce some of the insane bussing costs and general parent anxiety. In theory, they can put the bussing money they save into the "underperforming" schools. We're not quite sure how it will work, though. That, too, is a rant for another day...

So, drumroll please.......

HeyMama got a seat at the Trotter School! 
I think it was ranked number 15 out of 16 on our list. It's way across town, in an area we don't frequent often. Because of distance. Ok, and crime. I certainly wouldn't drive there at night. I haven't driven there yet, but I strongly suspect it will take around 40 minutes to drive there in morning rush hour traffic. But I should test it to know for sure.

The school is considered a "turnaround" school. In other words, it's been so bad in the past that the school was allowed to set extended hours and have the ability to more freely fire and hire staff to bring up the quality of the teachers. (We'll ignore the implications for our local teacher's union...) Additional resources and special rules were granted to the school because it was just so bad. And I understand that the changes have helped a lot. I've heard great things about the school. I'm sure HeyMama could learn a lot there. But when she starts school next year, she'll have a 3 week-old sibling. And I'll be a sleep-deprived milk-leaking zombie who will choose between driving across town at 8am or putting a 4 year old on a school bus for a 40 minute ride. Both options make me shudder. 

We're waitlisted for our top three choices, which are all in our walk zone (ie. less than a mile away):

• Sumner Elementary:  #22
• Mozart Elementary:  #41
• Bates Elementary Special Needs Integrated Classroom:  #45

These numbers aren't great. Sure, there is a rare chance we could get into the Sumner, but I'm not holding my breath.

So, like any decent family with a bit of wiggle room in the budget, we'll start touring local private/parochial schools. The tuitions aren't that different from what we've been paying for preschool this past year, anyway. We're not talking about elite prep schools for our 4 year old, just an alternative to being bussed to the 'hood. It's all part of the "fair" education system in our city. Fairness is great until we talk about putting my sweet little 4 year old on a long bus ride with the big kids to a neighborhood with random gun violence. Then screw fairness. She's 4. Her father and I didn't complete a combined 15 years of higher education to send our little lamb out to the wolves. We'll eat more lentils and postpone retirement a few years to afford another option. This, too, is a rant for another day...

So congrats to all Bostonians who got their first choices, and our condolences to the others that didn't. We'll see you at the private school tours. And the open houses in the 'burbs...