Hey Everyone, Let’s Panic!

By now you must all know about BPA, right? If not (are you trapped under something heavy?), Bisphenol A is a chemical that, among other things, makes hard plastic bottles shatterproof and is found in the lining of most cans and food packaging.

On Monday, Washington State voted to ban BPA in products for children under the age of 3. Similar restrictions are in place in Chicago, Minnesota, Connecticut and Suffolk County in New York. In Congress, a bill has been filed that would block BPA from all food and drink packaging. Those wise Canadians banned BPA in baby bottles in 2008.

90% of us have this stuff in our bodies and recent studies have found a presence in the majority of newborn babies. In the last 50 years, dozens of studies have linked BPA to health problems, including abnormal growths and tumors in animals. Some studies say BPA alters healthy breast cells, turning them into abnormal cancer cells. Other studies say BPA contributes to tumor growth by mimicking estrogen in the body.

My cancer was hormone positive. That means there were teeny-tiny receptor sites on the outside of my cancer cells that estrogen would bind to. The abundance of estrogen (naturally occurring and from BPA and other toxins) in my system may have accelerated my tumor’s growth.

This is how my war, not just against cancer, but against estrogen began. Chemo drugs shut down my ovaries. After treatment, I started receiving injections to stay post-menopausal but the drug didn’t always work as planned, and I popped in and out of medically-induced menopause multiple times.

Let me take a moment to acknowledge how wrong it is for a person to go from post-menopausal to pre-menopausal. It’s like changing the rotation of the earth and moving from winter back to fall. You can imagine the mood swings. Picture me with my hands clutching my mother’s collar screaming at her to clean my fridge. Right this minute. I sounded like my two year old (I guess some relationships never change). Just do it LADY. 

I also started avoiding BPA by drinking from glass and stainless steel containers. If I hadn’t had all that fake estrogen in my system, maybe I wouldn’t have gotten cancer at 31 or, if I had, maybe it wouldn’t have been hormone positive.  

Let me be clear: I’m not saying I believe BPA definitively caused my cancer. I don’t believe any one thing causes cancer. I am saying there is a good chance BPA played a part in its development.   

But enough about me, back to the topic at hand. Perhaps you’re asking yourself why Washington state is banning BPA, isn’t this the FDA’s job? In past years the FDA has maintained that BPA is completely safe based largely on the findings of two industry-funded studies. In January the FDA reversed their position and they have expressed concern about the effects of BPA.

Then this from the Washington Post: 

FDA officials also said they were hamstrung from dealing quickly with BPA by an outdated regulatory framework.

Awesome. And then this:

One administration official privy to the talks said the FDA is in a quandary. “They have new evidence that makes them worried, but they don’t have enough proof to justify pulling the stuff, so what do you do?” said the official, who spoke on the condition of anonymity. “You want to warn people, but you don’t want to create panic.”

Sure, let them eat poison but, for god sake, don’t freak anybody out.

More?

I’m enjoying the stories in the comments section of the last post. You guys are hilarious. This will not be the last you hear on this topic. More soon.

Well Fed

But on to other things, like: Saturday. Good-ness. You guys in Seattle know what I’m talking about, no? Sunny, warm and 65 F. It’s difficult to know exactly what to do with yourself on a day like that in March. There are so many things. Paul and Josie were at “soccer class” so I pulled on some old denim and an old sweatshirt and slipped my clippers into one pocket and my i-pod into the other and ventured into the jungle that is our yard.

Liberated

I selected some summer music (Spoon) and went to work. I upgraded from the clippers to loppers; then from loppers to the saw. Perhaps I should have stepped aside for a moment to consider my actions when I retrieved the saw. Perhaps that should have been a sign that I was getting carried away. We’ve got some old shrubs in our yard that have turned to trees. Unhappy, unhealthy trees. They needed to be liberated. They told me this.

I spent the morning chopping and pulling and wandering around the yard dirty and breastless. Oh no. Did I just say that aloud? Yes indeed. Does it make you uncomfortable? It shouldn’t. Really, it’s like talking about the gap between my front teeth. It’s just the way it is. I wear prosthetics. They’re heavy and hot. That’s all (for now).

By the time I was done, the trees were about half of what they were. Maybe they’ll love their new looks. Maybe they’ll die. Who cares?

Casualties

It was a good day and hopefully good enough to get us through the next 11 days of rain predicted in our 10 day forecast.

If you’re outside Seattle, I hope spring reaches you soon.

Must We Be Creepy?

We're ALWAYS Happy

While on vacation, we manage to meet up with some friends for a birthday party. My friends’ kids, two boys, are three and almost five and nice, sedate, sorts. Totally foreign.

The party is at my friend’s in-laws’ house, which is filled with white couches and tall free-standing vases… balanced on pedestals… and filled with decorative sticks… Josie loves a good party and runs from one terrifyingly crushable object to another with me trailing behind her whispering in my most compulsive, creepy, mommy voice – these are not our things. These things belong to our hosts. We must respect our hosts and their things.

Oh, sure Mom, I should respect their things, why didn’t you just say so? I’m totally old enough to grasp that concept.

Just as soon as I’m done explaining why bubbles don’t have feelings, I’m going to explain the concept of respect. I’m sure she’s ready. Then we’ll teach her to tend bar. (Yes, sweetie, that’s right, the green jigger. Good work! Now run along and fetch Mommy a slice of lime.)

The next day, still on vacation, while sitting in the sun reading my magazine, I come across a cartoon that has a picture of mother and child on a playground and says Mommy needs to get mad at you in a weird calm voice now. (I wish I could embed it here but I would have to pay the New Yorker $450 for that right.) This was exactly how I felt the night before, and really, how I feel most of the time.

Why is yelling forbidden? Not that I yell often, but isn’t there a time and a place? Dangers, for example? Or instances of extreme frustration? Sometimes it’s the only way to get the point across. Sometimes the kid needs to know how much trouble she is in. Sometimes nothing else works.

Shouldn’t we be free to show the whole range of emotions to our children? Can’t we be loving and happy and nurturing but also sometimes frustrated and angry and just pissed off? Can I write a whole blog post consisting only of questions? Perhaps.

My point is this (I think): why do we have to act all weird? This is how life is. It’s tough, and if we argue and get frustrated and then reconnect and work things out, aren’t we better off for it?

Can I get a hell yes and a fist pump from all the angry mommies in the house?

Don’t Mess With The Lemon

What? It's only March 3?

The cherry is in bloom.

I thought it was April

The daffodils are up, but looking sheepish, like an alarm woke them up early and now, here they are, squinting into the sunlight.

What time is it?

This is the toughest time of the year for the Meyer lemon. Right about now he’s (yes he is a he and yes he is a diva) pretty pissed about this winter business. He’s dropped most of his leaves and he’s waging a fierce battle against spider mites. I’m tempted to put him outside, but if it freezes again he’ll start throwing spikes. Bet you didn’t know a lemon could grow thorns. I think it happens when the new green growth is arrested by cold. They’re not really thorns, but the effect is the same. It makes for one very angry-looking lemon.

Just plain sad

The Swim About

A girl and her dog

As I’ve mentioned before, Norah is new to us. We bought her from a breeder. She was four years old and had just finished having a litter of sweet, tiny, golden puppies. She’s slightly neurotic and dumb as a pile of rocks, but nice enough company. She’s good with kids and small so she can fit into tight spaces. She’s the Honda Accord of dogs – very practical.

One day, Josie, my mother, Norah and I go for a walk on the beach. We head left and Norah takes off to the right. She’s gone, around the point. We play around for a minute, calling her and waiting for her to come back. Nothing. Josie works on her beach relocation project – she carries rock after rock down to the water’s edge and throws it. Finally after calling and calling, I walk around the point and look down the beach. No Norah. She’s vanished. Fortunately, we’re in a small community where we know almost everyone and I know she’ll make her way home eventually.

I start walking down the beach while my mother and Josie throw rocks. It’s a clear warm-ish afternoon. There’s a layer of high clouds and a little blue sky. The sun is nearing the horizon and marking a patch of orange over a neighboring island. The water is completely still. There’s not even a bird or otter around to break the surface. I turn back to tell Josie that I’ve found the perfect rock for her to throw when I see something in the water coming around the point.

A kayak? It’s an animal but it’s moving so fast. Polar bear? No, pretty sure there aren’t polar bears in the Puget Sound, even in the winter. Beaver?

I remember seeing a beaver swim in Lake Washington. It was a dark almost unidentifiable form that was mostly under water. Only its nostrils stuck out. It was like a ripple – a single wave, moving through a clear surface. It was like you didn’t see the animal, only the water it displaced.

But this animal isn’t a beaver, of course, it’s Norah. But she doesn’t look like any other dog I’ve seen in the water. Most dogs I know snort and huff and paw at the surface. As she round the point about 15’ offshore, I call her but she doesn’t hear me, doesn’t look at me, just keeps going right on past us.

As Paul says, she’s made for speed, streamlined, even her head is shaped kind of like an arrow – “not much room for brains but she sure is fast.”

I worry she isn’t smart enough to come back to the beach before she runs out of energy. Assuming she started swimming right away, and that is why I couldn’t find her on the beach, she’s been swimming for about 15 minutes. But it looks like swimming is as easy as walking for her. I call her name again just as she’s swimming around the far point and out of sight. Finally she veers toward the beach but then back out again. Each time I call, she veers toward me then away. I call her name over and over and over and gradually – like Josie to a packet of string cheese – she’s pulled in. When she finally washes up on shore, I’m nearly hoarse.   

Norah has a good shake and when I give her a good pat on the head, I notice that her fur is completely dry from the top of her head down through her shoulder blades. She looks up at me like, what’s the big deal lady? I was just checking things out.

OK, maybe she’s not the Accord of dogs. Maybe she’s something a little sportier. Maybe she’s a Civic. Maybe she’s an Impreza. Maybe she’s an Impreza with a spoiler… and a hood vent.

The Real Deal

These days Josie is always reaching into bags or up to counters or under chairs. When I ask what she’s doing she says I’m lookin’ for (or geddin’ or movin’ or doin’) sumpin’. Then she gives me a look with raised eyebrows that says: ok? She’s not particularly irritated. She does not roll her eyes. She’s speaking as a fellow grown-up. It’s all very mature and her message is clear. She does not need my help.

But, of course, I continue to give it to her in a variety of useful and useless ways. I, for example, collect hair care supplies – combs, clips, beads, head bands, ponytail holders – as if simply owning this equipment will make me a better hair stylist and, by extension, a better mother.

When I recently found out that Josie’s hair stylist (yes, she is too young to have her own stylist) moved out of town, I called around to all the local kiddie salons, asking if they have any African American stylists. No, I’m not looking for someone familiar with black hair; I’m looking for someone with black hair. Yes, that’s right, I’m looking for a real genuine black person. You, blondie, will not do.

I hear about a hair salon that specializes in “kinky, curly or locked hair textures.” Pefect! I ask the woman who answers the phone how old Josie has to be to have her hair cut. The woman asks what Josie needs done. I say she just needs a trim. She says, well, how does she wear her hair now? Is it an afro?

What I think she really means is: are you sure your baby is black because you sure do sound white?

Meanwhile, I’m thinking: what is the technical definition of an afro? Does it mean, super-curly hair worn loose? Or does it have to be a certain size to qualify as an afro? Because Josie’s hair isn’t super-big but it is often unstyled. I have no idea how to answer this question. I am so white. Josie is so doomed.

Eventually the receptionist tells me Josie needs to be about 5 years old and “salon ready.” My child is definitely not 5 years-old, and defiantly not salon ready.

A few days later, I’m walking through the mall and I see a black child waiting in a hair salon. I walk in and ask how old children have to be to have their hair done. Two. Two! Wesley, the brunette at the front desk, tells me she’s familiar with African American hair. Step aside, Wesley, you’re not needed here. I make an appointment with their black stylist.

I come back a few days later with Josie, and I’m a bit nervous. It’s not a kiddie salon and, as I’ve mentioned before, my kid generally does not sit. So I do my best to talk to Josie about it beforehand. To play it up as a special treat – going to the salon. I can see the terror in the stylist’s eyes when we arrive.

We survive the wash and comb-out and the stylist rubs in a little dab of two products – one promises to make her hair smooth and the other to make it shiny. Anxious to learn everything I can, I pick up the bottles, write down the names, and read the instructions. On the back, in all caps, both bottles say HAIR IS FLAMMABLE and should be kept away from cigarettes and open flames. Tap, tap, tap. Excuse me, did you just douse my child in lighter fluid?

Eatin' Sumpin'

When her hair has been dried and while it is being cut and braided she gets a little antsy. I hand her a sticker book and she flips through it like its People Magazine. I ask what she’s looking for, if I can help. I’m doin’ sumpin’ Mommy. Fair enough.  

The Real Deal

By the time she’s finished, Josie’s been in the chair for over an hour. She sat quietly the whole time. I’m so proud. We have a little celebration that includes lots of high-fiving and a few bunny crackers.

The next day is the Sunday before Martin Luther King Day and Paul and I decide the best way to celebrate the day and celebrate black culture is to go to the gospel choir concert at a Baptist church. I dress Josie in her cute dress and tights and shoes, her hair still a bit of braided perfection. We find a seat on the aisle. Josie squirms on Paul’s lap and then mine. She’s turning and twisting, and wants to get down, then wants to be up, then wants raisins, then wants to be with Daddy, then with Mommy, then more raisins.

Then the music really gets going. I mean really going. Everyone is dancing and clapping. I stand with her in my arms and I dance. The choir is loud, beautiful and stunning but the energy in the church is even bigger, even louder. I’m trying to clap and dance and hold her. The bag of raisins falls to the floor. She’s completely still, gripping my arms with her hands, and staring at my clavicle. She’s full and open and focused with every sense except sight as if seeing the choir in their swaying robes would take away from the sound, the energy, the movement.

It looks as if my girl with her flammable braids has started moving toward the place I cannot take her. I wish I could go with her, but I can only hope she’ll give me a glimpse into what it is like to be a black person in America. Maybe by living her experience I’ll learn sumpin’, like how to be a better mother or, if I’m lucky and pay attention, maybe I’ll even learn how to be a better person.

We Went on Vacation

We swam in the pool all morning, napped, went back to the pool all afternoon. At dinner she asked if we could go “night swimming.”

'Wimmin'

It didn’t occur to me to bring floaties or pool toys. The pool was the toy.

Nice Hat

She wore the hat I bought for her. For a few minutes anyway.

Oh NO!

Every time she walked past the bee-covered rosemary, she’d say, “Oh no! Don’t ting me bee!”

My ARty SHot

I wandered around in my swimsuit in the mid-day sun, taking arty shots.

Heaven

It really was that good.

Thems Must Be Some REALLY Good Peppers

Or, as my mother would say, what, are they filled with diamonds?

Yoo-hoo, criminals, come-out, come-out, wherever you are!

Last week, I got a little note in my mailbox from a neighbor. Actually it was an email chain printout in which a handful of people on our block recounted stories of prowlers and break-ins. There was one legit break-in (and, from the sounds of it, the victims knew the perpetrator), but most the stories were of kids lurking in the bushes with crowbars. They wait until we leave then pry our doors open and rifle through our freezer and medicine cabinet looking for drugs or cash or drugs for cash. (Hey kid, you really want my hormone-blocking cancer drugs? Help yourself. Welcome to the world of hot flashes and night sweats. Enjoy your stay.)

You’d think this news would scare me. I mean, I stay up at night thinking about flame retardants and dry cleaning chemicals (stay tuned). And sure it creeps me out, but nothing incites more dread and terror than…. Wait for it, wait for it… The urban Trader Joe’s parking lot. Gasp!

Some of you who are lucky enough to have a nice big suburban TJ’s may not know what I’m talking about. Trust me. You’ve never encountered such a tightly packed, poorly planned, small, exhaust filled, impossible-to-get-through-even-if-you’re-done-and-just-want-to-go-home, parking lot. And once you find a spot, don’t even think of opening your door to get your kid out. There. Is. No. Room.   

I really resisted the whole Trader Joe’s movement. Partly because of the lots but also because I didn’t want to add another grocery store to my list and there isn’t really a store close to my house. But, you know, I have a few friends who are die-hard TJ’s fans so I decided to do a little price comparison. Here’s what I found:

Product W. Foods PCC TJ’s QFC**
½ gallon organic whole milk 3.99 3.89 2.99 3.99
Pacific organic almond milk 2.59 2.59 1.69 2.99
Organic grass-fed ground beef 6.99 5.99 5.99 5.49***
Organic extra virgin olive oil (per oz) .65 .60 .38 .78
Organic Fuji apples (per lb) 1.99 1.99 2.07* 2.49
Organic red peppers (per lb) 3.99 3.99 3.52* 8.00*

 

*This produce was priced per piece instead of per pound. So I made some estimates and created some complex equations to come up with these numbers. I like to think Mrs. Runyan would be proud, but probably not.

**QFC overcharges you retail then makes you give them all your personal information in exchange for one of their bullshit loyalty cards that gives you “discounts” at the register. The rates listed here are what their price tags say and do not include their “discounts.”

***QFC did not have any organic grass-fed ground beef. The closest I could find was “natural.”

Seriously? $8.00 per pound for red peppers? Before this, I would have guessed that QFC would be the cheapest of the stores. Perhaps they don’t buy enough organic or natural products to get volume discounts.

As you can see, in most cases, TJ’s is WAY cheaper. I mean way. Look at almond milk. (For those of you dairy-free-ers, I really think that almond is the best of the alternative milks. I actually feel better when I drink it than when I don’t.) Anyway, the brand, size, everything is the same. How can TJ’s sell it for 40% less?

My experience with Trader Joe’s produce is inconsistent at best. I’ve heard that sometimes they have great watermelons and mangoes, but frequently their fruits and veggies lack flavor and substance. Limes without juice. Soft apples. Tasteless peaches.  

So, now I do fight with TJ’s parking lot on occasion. I shop there like I would Costco. I buy a gallon of milk, 10 cartons of almond milk (it lasts forever), 7 boxes of Paul’s favorite cereal, etc. I load up on prepared food but save my produce purchases for the co-op.

And in the last post about grocery stores  some of you brought up farmers markets. On the Neighborhood Farmer’s Market Alliance site they have a nice little article about produce price comparison studies conducted from 2003-2008. They all find that farmer’s market produce is cheaper than their grocery store competitors. Here’s one interesting example:

Spring 2008: study by Stacy Jones’ SU statistics students found that the average cost per pound of all organic produce at QFC was $2.98, at Whole Foods is was $2.53, and at the Broadway Farmers Market is was $2.36.  A few items were more expensive at the Farmers Market, but most items were more expensive at the grocery stores, so the total average was less at the Farmers Market – which means that a shopper’s grocery bill would average lowest at the Farmers Market. 

Now that we know how much cheaper TJ’s is, perhaps we should encourage them to charge us more and use the extra revenue to make their parking garage slightly less horrific. But then, what would be the point? If it’s not cheap, it’s just another grocery store.

Perhaps the miserable parking lot is the price, or the penance, we pay for the luxury of inexpensive ground beef. Maybe that’s why they give out free samples, to soften the blow. Oh Honey, they say when you burst through the front door waving your crow bar like a sword, after using it to pry open your door and scare away the criminals lurking in dark corners. Here, they say, have a chocolate covered strawberry on a stick and a tiny cup of coffee. Then they press a bottle of olive oil into your hand. Now here, they say, take this. Take home some of our cheap packaged goods. There, now the world doesn’t seem like such a scary place, does it? Don’t you feel better already?

Right on Target

On Daddy's Watch

There are so many places I can go with this picture. I could tell you about the time I picked Josie up from preschool and her mouth was encased with green ink. When I asked about it the teacher said, oh yes, Josie ate a green marker today. Then she was up half the night with a stomach ache. The next time we went to school I said something like: look, I know how fast she can be, they know us personally over at poison control, but seriously, can you try to keep her from eating art supplies? Thanks.

But I’m not going to tell that story (oops).

Instead, I’m going to tell you how much I love to kiss those cheeks. I have a friend who feels the same way about the temple. Not me, I’m all about cheeks. It’s been that way from the beginning. When I sat down in that hospital chair and the nurse handed four-day-old Josie to me, the little IV trailing from her arm, the orange bow stuck to her head with a dab of syrup. I leaned over and kissed her far cheek and told her how we’d been looking for her everywhere and how sorry I was it had taken four days to find her.

Ever since then my lips have been practically stuck to her cheek. It’s like a tic. I can’t control it. When she was a baby, I had free reign, she was captive.

Recently she’s learned to say, “No tiss (kiss) Mommy! No tiss!” And I try to respect her boundaries. I’ve been trying to exercise a little self control.

But then this! She painted a target right on my favorite kissing spot, just so neither one of us will ever forget where my lips belong.

Curried Butternut Squash Soup

 

Messy

I love fresh soup and I’m convinced it cures almost everything. This one is made without any stock so it is quick and easy and a good way to eat lots of vegetables. I give it to Josie in a cup so she can get more down faster since these days her butt is only in the chair for about 20 seconds before she decides she’s completely through and I have to go back to reading her fish book while she asks me if each fish is happy or sad and why or why not, and if, in fact, the bubbles are happy or sad, and I have to explain why the bubbles don’t have feelings while wondering if I should just give up and tell her the bubbles are happy and be done with it.

Anyhoo, the soup is good. Lots of veggies eaten quickly. It’s also easy and yummy. I’m not super-fond of curry so I use half of the recommended amount. It’s from the Café Flora Cookbook. They recommend toasting and grinding your own spices. Yeah, that would be nice. I just use regular ground spices and it works well enough.   

Ingredients

  • 1 medium butternut squash (2.5-3 pounds)
  • 1 tablespoon vegetable oil
  • 1 large yellow onion minced
  • salt
  • 4 cloves minced garlic
  • 2 tablespoons minced, peeled, fresh ginger
  • 2 tablespoons curry (I only use 1)
  • 1 teaspoon cumin
  • 1/2 teaspoon coriander
  • 1 bay leaf
  • 1 (14-ounce) cans coconut milk
  • 1 tablespoon fresh lime juice
  • Optional: pinch of cayenne pepper or hot sauce

Instructions

  1. Peel the squash and cut it in half. Remove the seeds, and cut squash into 1 to 2 inch chunks.
  2. Heat the oil in a heavy-bottomed soup pot over medium heat. Add the onion and 1/2 teaspoon salt, and saute until the onion is soft and translucent, about 10 minutes, stirring several times. Add the garlic and ginger, and cook 2 minutes more.
  3. Add the curry powder, cumin and coriander, and sautee for 15 seconds, stirring constantly. Add 4 cups of water, the squash, and bay leaf and bring to a boil. Lower the heat and cook, covered, at a low boil until the squash is soft, about 20 minutes.
  4. Remove the bay leaf and puree the soup in batches in a blender, being careful to fill the blender jar no more than halfway.
  5. Return the pureed soup to the pot, add the coconut milk, and bring just to a boil. Take the soup off the heat, add the lime juice, and salt to taste. Add cayenne or hot sauce if you want and serve.