A Princess Soap Box Story

Once upon a time, long long ago, in a faraway land, a young princess lived in an apartment castle.  The princess was invited to dinner at a neighbor's house.  Said neighbor made the most amazing salmon the princess had ever eaten.  To this day, the princess still thinks about that salmon.  The young neighbors had a son who was about three.  While their dinner guests dined on the most amazing salmon dinner known to man, their son ate a can of microwaved Chef Boyardee.  The princess had heard of this canned concoction, but had never eaten it herself.  But she knew in her heart that it was garbage, and couldn't understand why such a good cook would feed her offspring something so atrocious.

Fast forward more than a decade a few years later, and the princess is married and pregnant with her first child.  She and the prince eat dinner together every night, anxiously awaiting the birth of their offspring.  Their son is born, and before they know it, he's old enough to be sitting at the table with them every night. The son is served the same food as the royal family.  The son grows, and soon, there's another child at the table.  A few years pass, and baby number three is now sitting at the table with the rest of the family. The princess is in the kitchen every evening, cooking dinner for her family.  Pastas, roasts, salads, curries, soups, enchiladas, oysters, lasagnas, grilled meat and veggies....her love of food shows up on the table every night.

Every now and again, the princess thinks about that salmon.  But more often, now that her own children are in school and she hears stories from parents and other students, the princess thinks about that three old boy.  The one who sat down before the grownups, to eat his microwaved, canned dinner.  And the princess gets sad. She's sad that he didn't grow up knowing about good food.  She's sad that most of the children in her kingdom grow up eating "kid" food.  She's sad when she hears parents say, Oh, my kid would NEVER eat that.  She's sad when her children come home and tell her what the other kids at school are eating for lunch every day. She's sad when she hears parents say, My kid will only eat chicken nuggets and macaroni and cheese.  She's sad when she hears about moms who are living the life of a short-order cook every night to please every mouth at the table.

The princess knows that her opinions are in the minority.  She's heard all the excuses.  But she's tired of feeling sorry for them. Now the princess is mad.  Mad about the lack of knowledge.  Mad at the excuses.  Mad at the parents who aren't teaching their kids what real food is.  Mad at the corporations selling garbage in a healthy disguise.  Mad at packaging that promotes lies.

Now the princess is pissed.  Little kids have the right to grow up eating real food.  They have the right to develop their own tastes. They have the right to decide they hate squash, but love beets. As far as the princess is concerned, depriving kids of a healthy diet and the knowledge of where real food comes from, is child abuse.  Chef Boyardee, Kraft Macaroni, and Nuggets are not real food.  They are a treat, at best.  Drive-Thru is for busy nights and special occasions.  It takes less than 30 minutes to make something from scratch. Fresh fruits and vegetables are a privilege, not a punishment.

Your kids will eat what you serve them.  If you don't buy it, they can't consume it.  The, I have a picky eater excuse, is an excuse. The, we don't have the money excuse, is an excuse (we live off a single income that falls into the "poverty" category).  The, I don't know how to cook or I hate to cook excuse, is an excuse.

The princess is not suggesting raw kale salads and spinach smoothies should be on the weekly menu.  But teaching kids that burgers, chicken strips, pizzas, and fries can be made at home, is just one step on the staircase to healthier eating habits.  Set a bowl of grapes or some sliced up oranges on the table with every meal, and they're learning without even knowing it.

It's never too late to teach them the love of food.

The End

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Don't Carpe Diem

I'm knee deep in birthday party prep today, so I thought I'd cheat a little and share something that someone else wrote.

My girlfriend posted this article on her blog the other day and I liked it so much I thought I'd pass it along.

In general, I'm not a crier.  And certainly not in public.  I'll bite my lip into a mangled, bloody mess before I cry in front of someone.  This article made me cry.  And when I say cry, I mean a few tears were shed because the hubs was home when I was reading it.  If I had been here by myself, I probably would have busted out the ugly cry.  I'll blame it on the pregnancy hormones that have been kickin' my butt somethin' fierce the last two weeks. 

So, this is for all the mommies and daddies out there climbing the mountain of parenting.

 

Glennon Melton:  Don't Carpe Diem

  Every time I’m out with my kids — this seems to happen:
   An older woman stops us, puts her hand over her heart and says something like, “Oh, Enjoy every moment. This time goes by so fast.”
   Everywhere I go, someone is telling me to seize the moment, raise my awareness, be happy, enjoy every second, etc, etc, etc.
   I know that this message is right and good. But, I have finally allowed myself to admit that it just doesn’t work for me. It bugs me. This CARPE DIEM message makes me paranoid and panicky. Especially during this phase of my life - while I’m raising young kids. Being told, in a million different ways to CARPE DIEM makes me worry that if I’m not in a constant state of intense gratitude and ecstasy, I’m doing something wrong.
   I think parenting young children (and old ones, I’ve heard) is a little like climbing Mount Everest. Brave, adventurous souls try it because they’ve heard there’s magic in the climb. They try because they believe that finishing, or even attempting the climb are impressive accomplishments. They try because during the climb, if they allow themselves to pause and lift their eyes and minds from the pain and drudgery, the views are breathtaking. They try because even though it hurts and it’s hard, there are moments that make it worth the hard. These moments are so intense and unique that many people who reach the top start planning, almost immediately, to climb again. Even though any climber will tell you that most of the climb is treacherous, exhausting, killer. That they literally cried most of the way up.
   And so I think that if there were people stationed, say, every thirty feet along Mount Everest yelling to the climbers — “ARE YOU ENJOYING YOURSELF!? IF NOT, YOU SHOULD BE! ONE DAY YOU’LL BE SORRY YOU DIDN’T!” TRUST US!! IT’LL BE OVER TOO SOON! CARPE DIEM!” — those well-meaning, nostalgic cheerleaders might be physically thrown from the mountain.
   Now. I’m not suggesting that the sweet old ladies who tell me to ENJOY MYSELF be thrown from a mountain. These are wonderful ladies. Monkees, probably. But last week, a woman approached me in the Target line and said the following: “Sugar, I hope you are enjoying this. I loved every single second of parenting my two girls. Every single moment. These days go by so fast.”
    At that particular moment, Amma had arranged one of the new bras I was buying on top of her sweater and was sucking a lollipop that she must have found on the ground. She also had three shop-lifted clip-on neon feathers stuck in her hair. She looked exactly like a contestant from Toddlers and Tiaras. I couldn’t find Chase anywhere, and Tish was grabbing the pen on the credit card swiper thing WHILE the woman in front of me was trying to use it. And so I just looked at the woman, smiled and said, “Thank you. Yes. Me too. I am enjoying every single moment. Especially this one. Yes. Thank you.”
   That’s not exactly what I wanted to say, though.
   There was a famous writer who, when asked if he loved writing, replied, “No. but I love having written.” What I wanted to say to this sweet woman was, “Are you sure? Are you sure you don’t mean you love having parented?”
   I love having written. And I love having parented. My favorite part of each day is when the kids are put to sleep (to bed) and Craig and I sink into the couch to watch some quality TV, like Celebrity Wife Swap, and congratulate each other on a job well done. Or a job done, at least.
   Every time I write a post like this, I get emails suggesting that I’m being negative. I have received this particular message four or five times — G, if you can’t handle the three you have, why do you want a fourth?
    That one always stings, and I don’t think it’s quite fair. Parenting is hard. Just like lots of important jobs are hard. Why is it that the second a mother admits that it’s hard, people feel the need to suggest that maybe she’s not doing it right? Or that she certainly shouldn’t add more to her load. Maybe the fact that it’s so hard means she IS doing it right…in her own way…and she happens to be honest.
   Craig is a software salesman. It’s a hard job in this economy. And he comes home each day and talks a little bit about how hard it is. And I don’t ever feel the need to suggest that he’s not doing it right, or that he’s negative for noticing that it’s hard, or that maybe he shouldn’t even consider taking on more responsibility. And I doubt anybody comes by his office to make sure he’s ENJOYING HIMSELF. I doubt his boss peeks in his office and says: “This career stuff…it goes by so fast…ARE YOU ENJOYING EVERY MOMENT IN THERE, CRAIG???? CARPE DIEM, CRAIG!”
    My point is this. I used to worry that not only was I failing to do a good enough job at parenting, but that I wasn’t enjoying it enough. Double failure. I felt guilty because I wasn’t in parental ecstasy every hour of every day and I wasn’t MAKING THE MOST OF EVERY MOMENT like the mamas in the parenting magazines seemed to be doing. I felt guilty because honestly, I was tired and cranky and ready for the day to be over quite often. And because I knew that one day, I’d wake up and the kids would be gone, and I’d be the old lady in the grocery store with my hand over my heart. Would I be able to say I enjoyed every moment? No.
   But the fact remains that I will be that nostalgic lady. I just hope to be one with a clear memory. And here’s what I hope to say to the younger mama gritting her teeth in line:
   “It’s helluva hard, isn’t it? You’re a good mom, I can tell. And I like your kids, especially that one peeing in the corner. She’s my favorite. Carry on, warrior. Six hours till bedtime.” And hopefully, every once in a while, I’ll add — “Let me pick up that grocery bill for ya, sister. Go put those kids in the van and pull on up — I’ll have them bring your groceries out.”
    Anyway. Clearly, Carpe Diem doesn’t work for me. I can’t even carpe fifteen minutes in a row, so a whole diem is out of the question.
   Here’s what does work for me:
   There are two different types of time. Chronos time is what we live in. It’s regular time, it’s one minute at a time, it’s staring down the clock till bedtime time, it’s ten excruciating minutes in the Target line time, it’s four screaming minutes in time out time, it’s two hours till daddy gets home time. Chronos is the hard, slow passing time we parents often live in.
   Then there’s Kairos time. Kairos is God’s time. It’s time outside of time. It’s metaphysical time. It’s those magical moments in which time stands still. I have a few of those moments each day. And I cherish them.
   Like when I actually stop what I’m doing and really look at Tish. I notice how perfectly smooth and brownish her skin is. I notice the perfect curves of her teeny elf mouth and her asianish brown eyes, and I breathe in her soft Tishy smell. In these moments, I see that her mouth is moving but I can’t hear her because all I can think is — This is the first time I’ve really seen Tish all day, and my God — she is so beautiful. Kairos.
   Like when I’m stuck in chronos time in the grocery line and I’m haggard and annoyed and angry at the slow check-out clerk. And then I look at my cart and I’m transported out of chronos. And suddenly I notice the piles and piles of healthy food I’ll feed my children to grow their bodies and minds and I remember that most of the world’s mamas would kill for this opportunity. This chance to stand in a grocery line with enough money to pay. And I just stare at my cart. At the abundance. The bounty. Thank you, God. Kairos.
   Or when I curl up in my cozy bed with Theo asleep at my feet and Craig asleep by my side and I listen to them both breathing. And for a moment, I think- how did a girl like me get so lucky? To go to bed each night surrounded by this breath, this love, this peace, this warmth? Kairos.
   These kairos moments leave as fast as they come- but I mark them. I say the word kairos in my head each time I leave chronos. And at the end of the day, I don’t remember exactly what my kairos moments were, but I remember I had them. And that makes the pain of the daily parenting climb worth it.
   If I had a couple Kairos moments during the day, I call it a success.
   Carpe a couple of Kairoses a day.
   Good enough for me.