Archive for May, 2012

May 30, 2012

to bean, or not to bean

by maria polonchek

Okay. Once I tell you the name of the book I read recently, you will know where this post is going and you may very well choose to completely ignore it. The book was Eating Animals, by Jonathan Safran Foer. (Seriously, Jonathan Safran Foer. You are not a law firm. You could cut back on the nameage.) Eating Animals is his first non-fiction book after the novels Everything is Illuminated and Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. I’ve had Everything is Illuminated on my “To Read” list for two years now, but haven’t gotten to it yet. Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close has been made into a movie and got action at the Oscars, but I don’t know what was said because I was only paying attention to Penelope Cruz and her Spanish wonderfulness.

I’m sorry. This has absolutely nothing to do with the post. I just wanted to look at her for a moment. (image: tapety24.org)

ANYWAY. As some of you early followers know, I have an ongoing interest in food. I want reiterate that I’m not interested in dieting, as in short-term eating (or not eating) with the intent to lose weight or change the way I look. This is not the relationship with food I want to model for my kids. But I am interested in diet, as in a long-term investment in nutrition, sustainability (for both me and the planet), and how food makes me feel.

Do you remember, Katie, when you gave me a hard time about going gluten-free? (Which was fine because we shared lunches, which meant YOU had to go gluten-free and, besides, I deserve a hard time about most things I try.) As I mentioned in a previous post, I’ve experimented with lots of different ways of eating, from Paleo (the “caveman” diet) to vegetarianism. And it’s true that new information on diet can morph into “fads” that come and go and often, as a result, is mis-understood. But I guess I’m open to fads because I learn new things to incorporate into a long-term way of eating, after the extremes fizzle out. For example, I’m pretty sure EVERYONE could benefit from having more veggies at breakfast.

Of course, Katie, you have had it nailed all along with your “everything in moderation” approach. But one of us needs to be fun to tease.

It seems that if a person really wants to, she can can get her hands on a lot of sound information about food. I’ve read The Omnivore’s Dilemma, Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, and Fast Food Nation. I’ve seen Food, Inc., Super Size Me, and King Corn. I cook with Food Matters and Healing With Whole Foods nearby. (Wow. That was a lot of links. I’ve still got to get to Forks Over Knives, too.)

So, while I found myself getting all worked up as I read Eating Animals, I also practiced an exercise in awareness by paying attention to the reactive chatter in my mind and not jumping to any huge conclusions. (Except for the bowl of cilantro-lime shrimp I abandoned after the chapter on seafood. Never one to waste, Chris finished it for me.) Jonathon S. F. uses personal narrative to appeal to the reader’s emotions in this book and makes some pretty huge claims that seem, at times, unreasonable.

It’s just the kind of writing that sucks me in.

In the style of mental rebuttal you had with your pastor in one of your recent posts, here is the dialogue in my head as I was reading:

  • This whole family is going vegan, like, yesterday.
  • Wait. Not sure Chris will go for that. Maybe just vegetarian.
  • Wow. “Cage-free” and “free-range” mean nothing.
  • My cousin was right. I can’t just pat myself on the back for eating “humanely raised” animals. I’ve got to question the slaughter methods. As long as the USDA has control over slaughterhouses, these animals suffer horrible deaths.
  • Well, seafood might be good for me, but it’s terrible for the environment.
  • But how are we supposed to get Omega 3s and B-vitamins?
  • Wait. Jonathon S.F. says he’s writing this because he wants to know how to feed his son. If he’s so concerned about the environment, how can he justify having any children? Our food problems aren’t getting any better by overpopulation.
  • Ohhh….I can’t go there. I have three children. And they’re pretty cool. I like to think I did the future a favor by having them.
  • It’s interesting that vegans and vegetarians don’t talk about the environmental and social impact of their diets: what about the overworked soil, pesticides, and conditions for the migrant workers who are picking all their food?
  • Dang. The only possible way for me to feel good about the way our family eats is to grow and raise our own food.
  • That’s not happening any time soon. Dang.
  • Don’t. Know. What. To. Eat.
  • Maybe we should at least get a pet chicken.

It goes on and on until I come full-circle and pretty much continue to keep doing what we’re doing. I’m planning one more vegetarian meal a week and did ask the butcher at Whole Foods where our chicken was slaughtered.  She gave me loads of information, including the name of the farm we could tour. But when I suggested this possibility  to the kids, I didn’t realize that they didn’t realize that farmers buy and raise animals specifically to kill them.  They knew we are eating animals, but they thought we ate them after they had died of old age, a distinction I take for granted.

Taj said, “I’ll visit that farm to tell the farmers they are being selfish. They’re only considering their own species.”

The twins both said they were going vegetarian, which I thought was great, until they refused to eat more vegetables. Then, they decided to eat the chicken. Kids are not so unlike adults.

I guess for now, I continue to educate myself and make the best decision with the information I have. But I wonder: how do other people approach the food conundrum? I see everything from willful ignorance to extreme activism. I seem to fall somewhere in the middle which, considering that we ALL eat, EVERY day, seems to be the least I can do.

May 26, 2012

the women we leave behind

by maria polonchek

(image: internetblog.org)

There’s been a lot of Internet chatter in my virtual neck of the woods lately. Much of it regards people who have vaginas. Women attacking women over lifestyle choices in the name of feminism. Women’s reproductive health limited by the votes of men. Women opening up about (and some probably hiding from) the very real fact of post-partum depression.

I’ve been thinking about what I want to add, if anything, to these discussions. And then last night a headline caught my eye that zipped shut the chatter and debates in my mind and left me full of grief, frustration, and an overwhelming sense of compassion. Forgive me for being slow to learn about this case (I get most of my news from clips of Weekend Update with Seth Meyers—online, no less, so even my Saturday Night Live News isn’t even live…) but I finally read about Bei Bei Shuai.

Bei Bei Shuai is a Chinese immigrant who attempted suicide in Indiana when she was 33 weeks pregnant after her boyfriend confessed that he was married to, and had a family with, another woman. He left Ms. Shuai crying and begging on her knees in a parking lot, throwing money at her as he walked away. She wrote a suicide note and took rat poison, attempting to kill herself and end her pregnancy.

Friends intervened (I’m guessing she wished they hadn’t) and took her to a hospital where she was saved and her daughter, who she named Angel, was delivered via C-section. Angel died a few days later, in Ms. Shuai’s arms. After Ms. Shuai received psychiatric treatment for a month, the state charged her with murder and attempted feticide.

Obviously, this is sticky. Your opinions and beliefs about the ethics in this devastating story hold implications for women’s reproductive rights. But I don’t want to get into all that. There are other people out there doing a better job than me at getting attention for their causes and holding up Bei Bei Shuai as a prop, no matter what side of the debate they fall on.

What I want to do is offer a voice of compassion and understanding and encourage our readers to do the same. I haven’t even discussed much about my own (excruciating) experience transitioning into motherhood seven years ago. (Hoping there will be a book coming out about it!) But I have a feeling that there must be a few people who know me who wonder about my openness and honesty on this blog and in the essays I seek to publish. Some may wonder if I’m trying to get attention. Some may be embarrassed for me, or themselves, depending on how close they are to me. But I write what I do for times like this: when a stranger out there acts in a way that has people outraged and buzzing and referring to her as a “fucking selfish asshole” and a “stupid thoughtless bitch,” two things I read in a comment section before I realized I should not be reading any comment sections.

I share my experiences because if a white, privileged, educated woman who has incredible familial and social support can get as depressed as I did during and following my first pregnancy, then I can’t even imagine the struggle and despair someone experiences when she doesn’t have the resources I have. It’s devastating. It’s inhumane, the lack of support and resources we offer the women who stop being women and become incubators for the babies we celebrate, photograph, honor. We love the babies. We buy them strollers that cost as much as it would to feed families living in poverty; we dedicate rooms to them that could harbor a dozen refugees; we run out and purchase vehicles that are safer and bigger than the safe, big ones we already own.

But where are the women? Who are the women? Who was Bei Bei Shuai before she became pregnant and a burden that her boyfriend couldn’t handle? Who was she when she reached such an unfathomable low, one that most people never see, that she wanted to end her life and her pregnancy? Who was she when she held a dying infant in her arms, the result of an action that most probably was beyond her rational control?

I don’t know who Bei Bei Shuai was. Or is. Neither does the state of Indiana. We only care now, not really who she is, but what she’s done.

I’m sorry, Bei Bei Shuai. I’m so sorry to be part of a culture that is obsessed with pregnancy and birth and acquisition of babies to the detriment of the women who are pregnant, birthing, and caring for those babies. We failed you and we fail countless other women every single day.

Where are the women? Who are the women? Once they become mothers, they’re mothers.

The women, we leave behind.

May 25, 2012

these days

by maria polonchek

What a sweet, normal-looking pony. (image by seller “carolmcniel” at ebay.)

Yes, I had a bunch of important and meaningful things to write about today and the list just keeps getting longer.  But I’ve found myself inadvertently sucked into a strange new world and, to avoid using any kind of willpower whatsoever, I’m going to indulge in and blog about my latest obsessive-compulsive side tour, all thanks to the wackiness that is ebay.

Here’s what happened: Sola discovered My Little Ponies at the YMCA’s child center. She’s probably especially taken with them because I haven’t bought her any new toys in her first 2 1/2 years amongst this consumer-driven culture we’re part of. (I’ve gotten her some dress-up clothes and tutus, which I count as something….)

So, before going to the Y, she’s been making do with the boys’ old train set, a basket of Hot Wheels, and a tub of dinosaurs. Don’t get me wrong; she seems to enjoy them well enough, and we have other things: art supplies, dance music, and sometimes I give her empty toilet paper rolls. She sleeps with a couple of baby dolls her grandparents gave her, but I’ve never seen her play with anything like she plays with these ponies. She loves the ponies. She lines them up, carries them around, gets very sad when we have to leave.

I guess this is sort of like air-brushing? (image: ponylandtours.com)

So I looked into getting her a few My Little Ponies to have at home. And, for those of you who haven’t been My Little Pony shopping since 1984 (or EVER), let me tell you: the new ones are pretty slutty-looking. It’s disturbing, really. They have these longer, leaner legs, Angelina Jolie alien-eyes, and their hindquarters (they are HORSES, after all) are raised up and bumped out in a way that seems more appropriate for the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue than the “ponies” section of Toys r Us.

Okay. Call me old-fashioned, but I refuse to board slutty-looking ponies in my home. I did a search to find out where I could get the originals I played with as a girl, and of course ended up on ebay. This is where things get emotional. I had forgotten, until the past few days, how much I LOVED my My Little Ponies when I was young. When I started weeding through the options for Sola and ran into their names—Bowtie, Blossom, Bluebell—it all came flooding back. I remember now which ones I had and which ones I wanted; the way my sister and I got lost in Pony Land for hours; the way we lined them up and carried them around and cried when we had to put them away, just as my daughter does now.

And I don’t mean to offend MLP collectors out there, but…well…I thought I was a bit obsessive. Some of these people not only know the names of the ponies, but the year they were produced, whether they are “flat foot” or “concave foot,” and disclose whether they have “tail rust” in the seller description. (Even after spending gratuitous amounts of time looking at images of plastic, pastel pony-butts, I have yet to understand what “tail rust” is.)

And then I came across this description:

THESE ARE VINTAGE PONIES ALMOST 30 YEARS OLD!! IM NOT GOING TO NOTE EVERY TINY LITTLE SPECKLE, WE SHOULD BE GLAD TO FIND THEM IN GREAT CONDITION THESE DAYS

SOME MIGHT SHOW THEIR AGE MORE THEN OTHERS…HEADS MAY OR MAY NOT TURN…some might rattle..ALL PONIES ARE SUBJECT TO HAVE A VERY VERY SMALL DOT SIZED SPOTS /MARKS, RUBS, OR STAIN…

ALSO I DO NOT COUNT FACTORY DEFECTS AS FLAWS SINCE YOU’D GET THAT EVEN IF THE PONY WAS NEW OUT OF THE BOX!

So now I’m feeling a little self-conscious. After all, these were MY toys. My manufacture date precedes theirs. (By how many years, I’ll never tell.) (Three.) If they are vintage, I am vintage.

Some might show their age more than others. Some may rattle. Some have flaws that you’d get even if they were new out of the box.

And, the best? We should be glad to find them in great condition these days

Well, what am I gonna say now? I bid on Peachy and Tootsie and got them for a steal, and with combined shipping, to boot. Sola—my NEW little girl, in EXCELLENT condition—is looking forward to getting them in the mail. I’ll keep in mind that the further from the manufacture date we get, the more valuable we become….and now I’m going to go check my backside in the mirror for tail rust.


May 24, 2012

not knowing what to say

by maria polonchek

Most of the time, I think co-blogging is a great idea. Some of the time, though, I wonder. For instance, right now, I have a long list titled “blog ideas” that includes: some thoughts on the latest book I read about food; ideas for design on a budget/ with kids/ as a renter; motherhood and feminism; some connections between writing about faith and writing about motherhood; my experiment with making my bed every day.

But. I’m kind of frozen because none of that seems important after your last entry and the news about Scott’s dad. And I’m one of those people who never knows what to say about this kind of news….I’m so sorry. Of course I am. But I can’t say I know exactly what you guys are going through and if I can’t fully empathize, I sort of freeze up, for some reason. I guess I don’t want to say the wrong thing. And I’m pretty glad you told me over the blog and not by phone so you wouldn’t have to gracefully endure my bumbling and stuttering and end up trying to make me feel better about my lack of empathy and eloquence rather than me trying to make you feel better about a Very Real Thing you are experiencing right now.

I guess this is partly a bridge for tomorrow’s entry, when I attempt to get to that “blog ideas” list, and partly a way for me to acknowledge that you and your family are hurting and scared and hopeful, all at the same time, and that I feel pretty useless as a friend, though this is definitely not about me.

I’m here, both virtually and literally, if you need to talk. I love prayer beads. I bought some once, in Ireland, when I was there for my senior trip. I returned home and gave them to my best friend, who grew up Catholic. She used to take me to church with her in high school and it was such a refreshing difference from the churches I grew up in. I loved the cushy kneelers, and the memorized prayers (like chants, almost), and the line for communion. I wasn’t supposed to take communion, because I wasn’t Catholic myself, but I didn’t know. My friend never told me. It doesn’t matter now, because she isn’t Catholic anymore, anyway. But it was a small town and there had to be people in that church who knew the girl visiting wasn’t supposed to be taking communion and maybe someone should say something.

But they let me do it anyway.

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