Week one: take two

It’s been one week since we welcomed our baby girl into the world.  One week of rediscovering the snuggles, gassy smiles, dinosaur-squeaky baby sounds, black-to green-to-yellow poop evolution, and the downright joy that comes from holding your newborn in your arms and staring at them in awe.  I could do it all day.  For as many things that are familiar about having a second child, there are many more that have been different this time around.  I expected as much given what I’ve heard from friends and family with multiples, but starting to discover them for ourselves this week has been in general, well, freeing.

The differences started when we first brought baby girl home from the hospital.  When we had our son, I had put painstaking thought into ensuring all the details were in place.  There was the rocking chair where I would nurse him, and the lamp was placed close enough to provide light for feedings and changing diapers, but not so close that it would be distracting.  The changing table was set up and stocked with all necessary supplies in reach. 

This time around, shortly after arriving home our daughter dirtied her diaper.  I turned to my husband with a curious look and said, “Where are the diapers?”  I wasn’t panicked, just genuinely interested in whether we had actually purchased some.  They were in her closet, in the box, rather than organized neatly in a diaper stacker that matched the theme of her nursery.  So we cracked them open, dug up some wipes, and set up a makeshift changing station in the living room (read: towel on the floor).  After all, who wants to go upstairs every time you need to change a diaper?

When our daughter woke up for her first middle of the night feeding at home, I realized again that I didn’t have a plan...and that I didn't need one.  I drowsily grabbed the boppy pillow, propped myself up in bed, and nursed her in the dark with my eyes closed.  Much easier than walking to her nursery to sit in the rocking chair.  And that reminds me, we don’t have a lamp in her room yet.

After we brought our first child home from the hospital, I was obsessed with bathing him and keeping him clean, convinced that lotions were what provided that fresh baby smell.  This time around, I am putting off bathing our daughter because 1) I now know from experience that she will hate it, and 2) I love how she smells on her own.  I’m convinced it’s the sweetest smell in the world and I would only ruin it with soap and water.  She basically stays in a sleeper until her diaper betrays its cleanliness, and the only bathing she receives is in the form of endless kisses from Mommy.

Another thing that has subsided somewhat is the general paranoia of first-time parents.  Of course, I don’t sleep as soundly as I did before, and I’m constantly worrying about her temperature, comfort, safety, etc.  I hear every noise she makes and check on her to make sure she’s okay.  However, the sounds don’t alarm me.  I don’t have a list of questions a mile long for her next pediatrician visit, which somehow doesn’t seem as far away as it did with our son.  My Google history from the past week isn’t filled with phrases like “baby startles in sleep,” “what color should newborn poop be,” and “how long does it take a cord to fall off.”  She’s doing her thing, and we’re figuring it out as we go.  And why waste time on Google when I could be sleeping.

And finally, there has also been a major difference in the expectations I’ve had for myself to bounce back from a serious life event.  I am truly in awe of what my body was able to accomplish – growing a human life for 39 weeks and 6 days, laboring off and on for almost 48 hours, and then finally bringing a beautiful little girl into the world.  I know that recovery takes time, and my body will slowly get back to normal.  I remember being horrified that I had to wear maternity clothes to my son’s first infant check-up (hello, a few days after he was born!  I mean seriously, give myself a break, but I just didn’t know what to expect).  When we took my daughter to the doctor, however, I wore a fitted maternity shirt because that little paunch was what I had to show for what my body had accomplished a mere three days earlier, and dammit I was proud.  I haven’t stepped on the scale “just to see” how much I’ve already lost, nor do I intend to.  And while I feel good I also know that I’m just going to look tired for a while.  My color might seem a little off.  If I do try to wear make-up, I understand it just doesn’t quite “take” like it normally would.  I won’t often have time to blow dry my hair, which all in all just means I won’t look like the regular me for a while.  But that’s okay – I give myself grace, and it is so liberating.

The profound love I have for this tiny little baby is matched only by the equal feeling I have for her brother.  That has not changed with baby #2.  I am just as focused on giving her a happy home and making her feel loved.  However, I now realize how many things are unimportant in ensuring those things happen.  Instead, my daughter and I will spend our time snuggling in the jammies we both wore yesterday, and that is just fine with me. 

The people we are at church

I like the people we are at church.  I don’t know if the setting actually changes us, or if I just have a perception (accurate or not) of how we appear that pleases me.  Even if the morning was filled with battles over why we don’t eat cheese for breakfast or the necessity of using the restroom before we leave, it somehow seems to fall into place when we enter those doors.  Regardless of what happened that morning or even that week, we are there as a family and we are reasonably put together.  We are bathed and dressed up, toddler bed-head deliberately tamed because, after all, it’s Sunday.  We are there for a reason – to share in a community of faith – and we have identified this as important enough to the life of our family that we haul ourselves out of bed each week for the early service.  And sometimes, it just works.

 

I like to think there is a spiritual presence in the walls of the church that places a calm on our morning.   I know this has more to do with a mindset than a setting, but maybe, just maybe this is our weekly recharge and we need this place to help us refocus.  As I sit in the pew next to my son, I don’t think about the times he’s tested my patience that week.  Somehow being in church reminds me that he is an incredible blessing from God, and I only see the positive things.  I notice the way he stares intently at the pipe organ while the music plays and pretends to read the hymnal to sing.  I admire the sweet profile of his face and brush the hair away from his ears.  Fearfully and wonderfully made in the image of God – that’s powerful stuff.  And when he folds his hands in prayer to mimic those around him, I’m convinced he can do no wrong.  I am so grateful for what we have, and it leads me to want to give back.

 

Of course it’s also possible that part of this equation is just my enjoying the perception of family I hope we project.  Fellow church members fawn over our son and tell us repeatedly how adorable and sweet he is.  Who doesn’t love to hear that?  People compliment his outfit and I feel a sense of relief, thinking to myself, “Oh, good, they don’t realize he has exactly three ‘church shirts’ and one pair of ‘church shoes’ that provide for a less-than-impressive rotation.”  I vainly imagine that there is something to be admired about our little family, that we might actually be thought of as having our stuff together.  That thought, even if it only lasts an hour or two on Sunday mornings, is such a refreshing break to allow myself after a week filled with mommy guilt and self-doubt.  For whatever we’ve done imperfectly in the last week, it’s right that we’re there.  And that’s all that matters.

 

Don’t get me wrong, we’ve had our share of, err, learning opportunities with our son regarding whether he should sit in church through the sermon or go play in the nursery, what is an acceptable distance to be separated from Mommy during the children’s message, and what actually constitutes a “whisper.”  But somehow on Sunday mornings I recognize these things as adequately trivial.  My perspective on things that would perhaps rattle me in a different setting is more accurate when I’m in that place.  We’re just an imperfect but loving family working on it week by week alongside everyone else.  We don’t do everything right, but at least our focus on Sunday mornings is in the right place. 

 

That place….I wish I could get there more often.  Sure, we go to church regularly and are often there a couple evenings a week for various activities.  But beyond the physical sense, I wish I could more often get to “the place” that the church provides me on Sunday mornings.  The sense of calm and mature perspective on what really matters, a time to refocus on something outside of ourselves and stop to appreciate what God has provided.  I need to find more moments like this in my day and for my family, because I really like the people we are when we’re there.

We are pregnant

I’ve always been a little snobby about the statement “We are pregnant.”  Yes, it takes two to bring life into the world, and a mother and father both waiting to welcome a child with outstretched arms is a beautiful thing.  “We are expecting…We are having a baby…We are due in 6 months…” – these are all perfectly acceptable to me.  The prep work and anticipation can be shared equally, as can the parenting duties once the child arrives.  But let’s be honest, when it gets down to it, only one of us is pregnant.  Only one of us is physically growing a baby and enjoying all the changes that go along with it.

Pregnancy is just plain hard work, and we as women know that men can never truly understand this.  So we try to make them appreciate it by subtly hinting at what ails us.  “I went downstairs and laid in the recliner last night for 3 hours, did I wake you up?...I just need to sit down - I’ve been in the kitchen all afternoon and my back is screaming at me…I just need to walk – my hips are sore…I don’t have hips anymore, so I don’t know how I’m supposed to cart around this laundry basket...I wish I knew what my bra size was this week!!...No, seriously, do you know what it’s like to feel like someone is clawing into your hip?...Well, I’m standing, so I guess that means I have to pee…Do you know where your sciatic nerve is?  I DO!”  Again, subtle hints.

 

To the general public and anyone who asks, I am an energetic pregnant lady, loving every minute of this ride (which overwhelmingly is true, honest, I really can’t complain).  But the annoyances have to come out somewhere, so we reserve the best for those we are closest to – enter my sweet hubby.  It’s true he will never himself feel what it’s like to be pregnant, but as I think about his behavior over the last few months it makes me second guess my soapbox.  When I interject one of my not-so-casual complaints, he always responds with genuine support and sympathy.  “Go sit down, I’ll do the dishes…Go walk on the treadmill for a while – I’ll handle bedtime tonight…Let me carry that…I’m sorry you’re not sleeping well, should I go to the guest room?...Is there anything I can do?”  And when I wake up in the middle of the night and sit up to stretch, he often silently rubs my back or whispers his thanks for carrying his child.

It occurs to me that perhaps the concept of being “pregnant” can be expanded beyond the literal, physical sense.  If pregnant means your life is completely altered for 9 months in anticipation of a child and you take on some burdens you otherwise wouldn’t, then yes, I would absolutely say we are pregnant.  As my gentleman of a husband quickly bends over to grab our son’s shoes before I have to and looks for every opportunity to make my life easier, I know that his life is different, too.  I know that when he offers compliments and reflexively responds to my complaints with affirmation, he is holding up his end of the deal.  It’s reasonable to think that living with a hormonal, self conscious partner is probably no picnic either, so I’m willing to expand my definition of pregnant to acknowledge that.

This realization hit me like a bolt of lightning when we took a mini family vacation this weekend to an indoor waterpark.  As we were packing up to return home, I watched my husband balance my body pillow on his shoulders, stuff my other pillow under his arm, and fill his hands with luggage as he prepared for the long, cold walk to the parking lot at the other end of the resort.  For some reason that sight grabbed me by the shoulders (oh, my poor, tense shoulders) and shook me a little bit.  I suddenly felt incredibly touched by his willingness to cart around my prego paraphernalia, no questions asked, and his determination to have his wife and son walk no further than 20 feet in the cold.  I was immediately filled with appreciation for all the moments of support – big and small – he has shown over the last few months that I often take for granted.  As I started to catalogue them in my mind, I realized what a change this is in his life as well.  And it occurred to me in that moment: this guy might be a little bit pregnant.

Let them be toddlers

I recently took my son to the library, which he loves because of the children’s room full of legos, trains, and firefighter hats.  Incidentally, this visit went much more smoothly than the last because I am now fully informed of the library’s hours.  Never again will I enter the doors right before the 10 minute warning is sounded over the loudspeaker, only to endure the wrath of a two-year-old who wasn’t allowed time to build the tower of his dreams (seriously, the library closes at 5 o’clock on a Friday?!). 

But anyway, that’s not my point.  The real purpose of this post is to lament about the conversations I overheard from other parents of toddlers.  As my son was occupying himself at the train table, I was distracted in overhearing a woman say, “Did your son just say ‘existentialism’?”  It was a mother of another boy whose age I would estimate at 18 months.  Her question was directed at a father who was hovering over his three-year-old.  “Oh yes,” he replied, “but he doesn’t quite know how to use it correctly yet.  His stronger talent is in music right now.  He loves Mozart, and he has always had an impeccable sense of rhythm.”

Huh?  Did he just say that?  His child is three!  Okay, so all of us think our children are geniuses, but who says something like that out loud, let alone to a stranger?  At least I had a kindred spirit in the unsuspecting mother as she replied only with polite and encouraging words.  She offered such phrases as “Oh, you must be so proud…That’s really impressive…” and multiple variations of this as the father made a spectacle of explaining to his son the proper architectural form to be used in building a structurally sound lego tower.  I did describe him as “hovering” over his child, correct?  That was intentional.

I shook that off as a fluke as I re-focused my attention on my son, who was explaining to me how the choo-choo goes over the bridge.  Yes, this is how a toddler should be.  As I was digging through the parts bin for extra sections of train track, I picked up on another conversation over by the dress-up clothes.  This one was about selecting a preschool.  Two mothers were talking, rather loudly, about the merits of homeschooling vs. Montessori schools vs. a private and very selective daycare.  One planned to homeschool as long as possible, while the other was weighing her options and in the process of conducting interviews.  “I just feel the personal attention and loving environment they receive at home from me is the best option, and then I control the curriculum,” said the first.  “We’re just looking for the best possible environment to help prepare them to be responsible adults and contributors to society,” said the other, explaining why she was also looking at options outside of the home.

Seriously, where was I?  Have I simply been sheltered from these conversations to this point because my son is just now nearing preschool age?  Are the friendly hellos I share with parents of children in my son’s daycare room masking some sort of crazy competitive urges that are just waiting to burst from all of us?  It made me sick.  Not only what I overheard and the thought of what may lie ahead, but also the voice in the back of my mind that started to wander…Should I expose my child to more classical music?  He definitely likes music, but would I say he has an impeccable sense of rhythm?  Should he?  Is his vocabulary large enough?

STOP.  That familiar, second guessing, mommy-guilt voice shut up quickly when my son put his arms around my waist and said, “This is fun, Mommy!  I love you!”  We happily selected some books to take home and went on our way.  As I reflect back on this experience, I learned several things:

1)      I am not ready for my son to grow up.  I’m not ready for parent committees and competitive sports leagues and grade point averages and blah blah blah.  He is perfectly unique the way he is, and I don’t want anyone comparing him to anyone else, and I definitely don’t want him comparing himself to others.

2)      I am in no hurry for my toddler to act like an adult.  Sure, we’ll continue to work on letters and numbers and make sure he has a supportive (yet fun) environment in which to learn at home.  We’ll teach proper manners and respect and make sure he’s helpful and polite.  However, we will also play in the rain, make messes, and laugh at silly things.  Because, he is a freaking toddler.  He has his whole life to be responsible.

3)      I will try my best not to hover.  He will be who he wants to be, and he will be interested in what he likes.  My job is to expose him to opportunities to find what makes him tick, regardless of what that ends up being.

4)      The most important thing to me is the type of person my child becomes.  Not his profession or his IQ or his favorite classical composer.  I’m concerned with how he treats people and that he remains humble and kind.  If he never engages in a conversation like the ones I overheard at the library, I’ll be happy.

5)      We’re in for it.  Based on what I learn from friends and coworkers with older children, it gets competitive fast.  It’s going to be hard – for my husband and I, yes, but more importantly for our child.  As we prepare to send him into the world this was a rude awakening to how huge that responsibility really is.  There’s a lot outside of the walls of our home, and he won’t be two forever. 

This parenting gig is pretty permanent, and I’m realizing the most important work is yet to come.  I won’t be perfect, I will falter many times, and I will no doubt go against the learnings I rattled off here.  I am grateful, however, for previews like this that make me stop and think.  When I get impatient with my son for not sitting still through church or neglecting to use his fork, the library parents come into my brain.  And suddenly, I am fine with his fidgeting and let the table manners go for a second, if for no other reason than spite – spite for those who would force our children to grow up faster than they need to.  It goes by quickly enough.

Ahhhh, memories

I recently had a conversation with a co-worker whose daughter is having a hard time transitioning from the bottle to the sippy cup.  She paused her story to ask, “Did you have any of these issues with your son at that age?”  I opened my mouth to answer and then caught myself instead saying, “Ummm…well, let me think…”  As I searched my brain to confirm how the de-bottling phase had gone I realized I didn’t remember exactly when we first started to introduce a cup.  It was around six months, right?  Or maybe eight?  Did we put water in it or breast milk?  When was the first time he had water?  We started with one of those soft-top cups, right?  For how long?  Surely this is written down somewhere…  What I do remember is that we thankfully had very few problems, so I answered something vague to this general effect. 

The discussion, however, stayed on my mind for a good portion of the day.  How could I not remember the details surrounding something that seemed so significant at the time?  Such a milestone.  I know there are other details that are getting fuzzy until I see a picture from that particular stage to jog my memory or watch an old baby video.  Sure, I do in fact have a lot of these things written in my son’s baby book (read: a well-intentioned spiral notebook full of hand-scrawled notes and stuffed with random pictures and scrapbook paper…for when I have free time).  But there is only so much that we can convey with words.  I found myself panicking that I would lose the experiences – what it really felt like when my son was a baby. 

How is it possible that the last two years have flashed by like lightning, and yet I can’t remember the details of something that feels like yesterday?  How can something at once seem so recent and so far in the past?  If I’m losing details now, what will it be like when my children are teenagers?  Will I remember what it was like to have a baby at all?  I’m not entirely sure why, but this thought scared me.  A lot.  It’s probably due in large part to the fact that the baby stage represents a time when we are everything to our children.  They rarely leave our arms, let alone our sight.  And while that can be exhausting, there is also something gratifying about being needed in that way, in giving yourself completely to the needs of another human being whom you love more than your own life.  It’s powerful stuff.

The older my son gets the more independence he gains.  And as I celebrate his accomplishments and enjoy the lightening of my load, I also mourn the end of his babyhood.  Although I can never hope to remember every single detail of every day of that period, I’m trying to convince myself that’s okay.  First, it’s simply not reasonable or possible to catalog every moment of my life in that way.  As I often need to, I keep reminding myself I’m human.  But more importantly, as I think back to the things I do remember, I’m convinced I’m holding on to the right memories – the ones that will truly help me recall an experience rather than the mechanics of growing up.

I remember exactly how my son looked when they first placed him on my chest, and that the first thing I said after he was born was a tearful, “He’s so perfect.”  And he really, really was.  I remember looking into my husband’s eyes and feeling like my entire world was in that room.  Those first moments are etched in my brain, and I am beyond thankful for that memory. 

I remember the warmth of that tiny little heater’s body on mine as he slept away my maternity leave.  I remember nuzzling close to his face so I could take in the sweet scent of baby breath (before they have teeth and start eating food, they smell SO good!  All. The. Time.).  I remember the peaceful silence of our house at 3 am as I nursed my son and quietly rocked him back to sleep. 

I remember the sound of his little voice when he first discovered he could jabber.  I remember the night we cheered him on as he first started to crawl, and the look of triumph on his face the day he took his first steps.

So while I may not be able to recall exactly how long we spent on mashed avocado before adding pea puree (which I assure you is written down), I have the good stuff on lock.  Sounds, smells, and emotions paint the best picture of that first year.  And they do a better job than any baby book could – whether it is the most beautiful scrapbook or a dog-eared notebook with an ultrasound photo spilling out the side.

Drama

Before my husband and I became parents I never would have imagined the types of things that can cause drama in the household of a toddler.  I would have scoffed at a list like the one I’ve put together, rolling my eyes and thinking, “Oh come on, it can’t be that bad.” 

But now I am a mom, which means I live in fear of making a two-year-old angry.  I walk on eggshells lest a tantrum become imminent.  My husband and I mumble subtle warnings across the dinner table if things heat up: “Don’t make it angry…”  We pretend to be in charge and practice all of the appropriate parenting techniques and disciplinary actions, but at the end of the day I know who rules the roost.

Read on for a few of the top sources of drama in our house.  Disclaimer: this list is not all-inclusive and is subject to revisions and/or massive expansion at any time.  Massive.

·       Bodily functions - The number one source of angst always seems to be, well, “number two.”  Now that I think about it, this fact hasn’t really changed since the day he was born.  He can’t go, he can’t stop going, he refuses to go, it’s a weird color, he gets his foot/hand/clothing/stuffed animal in it, he needs to go just as we’re leaving the house.  If you were to check my internet history, I would bet this topic dominates my Google traffic.  Poo drama.

·       The wrong “Elmo bread” - Several months ago we purchased, on a whim, an Elmo-shaped sandwich cutter and I used it to make my son some toast.  He coined the phrase “Elmo bread,” and from that point on various types of bread, toasted or not, in the shape of Elmo or not, may at times be referred to as “Elmo bread.”  Whenever he requests “Elmo bread” my stomach drops because I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT HE MEANS and I fear the confrontation that may ensue if I get it wrong.  Is it cinnamon toast?  Toast with jelly?  Waffles?  A piece of sandwich bread?  The zucchini/banana/pumpkin bread that may be in the bread box?  Carb drama.

·       Dirty laundry – Some mornings we can get dressed without incident, shoving a shirt over our son’s head before he has time to even realize what color it is.  We high five and let out a sigh of relief as we happily head downstairs.  But some mornings he takes great interest in his wardrobe, scanning his closet slowly and meaningfully in order to inevitably request something that is in the laundry basket.  Most likely because he wore it yesterday and it has green paint on it.  Is it too much to expect a two-year-old to process the logic that dirty clothes need to be laundered, and this isn’t exactly something I jump at the chance to do every single day?  Wardrobe drama.

·       Helping out – Bless his heart, my son loves to help…err, feel like he’s helping.  The problem surfaces when the thing that he really wants to do has already been done.  Last week he started to throw a fit because he wanted to get the toaster out of the pantry (probably for Elmo bread) and it was already on the counter.  It had literally been sitting there for over 24 hours.  In situations like these I often start to explain to him that I can’t undo what has been done, but then I typically give up, put the toaster in the pantry, and help him awkwardly carry it across the kitchen.  As I stumble to crouch down and support the weight of the toaster while lifting up the cord so he doesn’t trip, he struts across the kitchen with a huge smile on his face.  Re-do drama.

·       Cups – Now that our son is using “big boy cups” at the table, it has opened a world of possibilities.  Green, blue, tall, short, Buzz Lifeyear or plain, and some nights he still requests a sippy cup.  But on those occasions, of course, he needs to help pour the milk and put the lid on himself.  His preference for lid fastening seems to be of the “semi-tight” variety, so this often leads to spills.  Can we sit down and eat yet?  Beverage drama.

We do our best to be on the alert for hot-button issues and diffuse the situation quickly.  But the #1 lesson I have learned in parenting so far is this: Just when you figure it out, whatever it is, it will change.  Like, tomorrow.  Flexibility is key.  That along with patience, lots of deep breaths, and plenty of snuggles and giggles that remind us it’s so worth it.  Drama and all.

The Kids' Menu

We just returned from a week-long family vacation – my husband, my two-year-old son, and me.  Traveling with a toddler no doubt brings to light many needed lessons regarding the virtues of patience and flexibility.  One thing, however, that became painfully clear to me on our trip is this: Kids’ menus are awful.  Just awful.

After my son turned one, I was able to remain blissfully unaware of the kids’ menu for several more months.  He wasn’t consuming a large quantity of food, and we weren’t doing any lengthy traveling.  I could fairly easily pack his dinner with us if we went out, or at least bring fruits and veggies and feel confident he could scrounge off our plates to round out his meal.  But now he’s almost two and a half, and the child eats.  Add to that the fact that we’ve become more adventurous with him in the last year and taken longer vacations; there’s only so much I can stock in a tiny hotel refrigerator.  So naturally, my eyes are drawn to the kids’ menu, as our options are to buy him a full price entrée that may go untouched, or choose the economical route with a portion sized just for him.

Returning to my initial point: kids’ menus are awful.  Awful food, awful selection, zero health benefits, and most of the time my son won’t even eat it!  Don’t get me wrong, I’m not opposed to an occasional “treat”, and yes, he had his fair share of french fries while we were away.  I can get on board with vacation being partially about indulging – enjoying activities and foods you may not normally partake in at home.  It’s not like I had a salad at every meal.  And I also understand that dining out isn’t meant to be a daily occurrence, so ideally these things are being balanced with normal eating at home.  However, being faced repeatedly this week with an endless parade of processed meats and fried foods as the featured options for a child started to make me think...

Why are these the foods that are generally understood as being especially for our kids?  When we think about typical kid foods, why are the first things that come to mind chicken nuggets and hot dogs?  I refuse to believe children eat these things because they demand them.  Our son didn't know what a french fry was until we introduced it.  These “kid” foods are marketed to them, and we are buying it.  They’re convenience foods – quick, easy, and fun to eat.  When we process chicken (bones included, and bleach it, etc….) we can make it into any shape we want.  What child wouldn’t want their dinner shaped like a dinosaur?  Blech.

About a year ago I read a book called, “Salt, Sugar, Fat: How the Food Giants Hooked Us.”  Based on detailed research, it describes how the processed food industry has literally calculated how much salt, sugar, and fat they need to pump into their products to make them as addictive as possible.  And much of this effort, sadly, is aimed at children.  Sugary cereals, juice drinks, lunchables…they prey on our natural desire for convenient and portable ways to feed our family.  And the more we keep buying it, the more it supports their bottom line and encourages them to keep doing it. (I'm going to stop myself here and just offer this small aside: I highly recommend this book!)

My point is, our food culture has just gotten to a bad place.  We regularly eat processed foods (and I say we because I’m not innocent, but I’m trying) and rarely read labels.  We believe health claims on the front of boxes.  We purchase kids’ meals at restaurants because we have kids and they need to eat.  And I'm not talking simply about a difference between healthy and unhealthy – this is a difference between real food and imitations.  The good news is we as the consumers hold all the power – we vote with our dollars.  We can choose to buy local produce and fresh foods.  We can limit our consumption of processed foods and demand better options.  I constantly remind myself I can just as easily steam broccoli as I can warm up a hot dog.  And it is just as fast (and SO much better) to grill our own hamburgers at home as it is to rely on that place with the golden arches which shall not be named here.  And more importantly, doing these small things teaches my family about the value of good food.

Likewise, we now plan to more often resist the kids’ menu.  Our most successful dinner outing with our son this week was when we opted to order him the shrimp cocktail appetizer and a side of rice.  Add to that the olives they brought to the table when we arrived and the tomatoes pilfered from our salads, and the child was on cloud nine.  Real food: everyone likes it.  We were so relieved we went back the next night and did the very same thing.  So eventually, perhaps the people selling us this stuff will catch on.  Restaurant owners will realize if they really want to do parents a favor, they can offer child-sized portions of actual entrees.  When planning the menu, maybe the chef won’t give up when they get to the kids’ menu.  After all, kids are real people, too, and in every other regard we give them our very best.  Why stop here?

Don’t misunderstand me – as soap-boxy as this may sound, I by no means pretend to have it all together.  My child doesn’t eat only 100% organic and natural food, and I sometimes rely on convenience.  Yes, I’m sure he will eat from a kids’ menu again at some point, and for goodness’ sake it’s summer so the child can (and does) have ice cream.  I’m just a disgusted consumer trying my best to stick it to the man.  I don’t want my child to grow up not knowing where potatoes come from, or unable to recognize the natural shape of chicken.  I want him to help me select ingredients for our dinner at the farmers’ market and then shuck corn and snap beans together on the deck at home.  I want him to appreciate and enjoy food the way it was meant to be experienced – fruits, vegetables, and treats included.  The kids’ menu is a symptom of a larger problem, but it is in our power to redefine it.