Paper Days

When I look back on this time in our lives, when Petunia was three and a half and we were living in this particular house and Lilah was just starting to get out of puppyhood, I will remember the paper. Everywhere in our house, strewn like so many dustbunnies on the floor. A Hansel-and-Gretel trail of white papyrus, showing where our little right brain-driven preschooler had been.

Really, in a house full of toys, you'd think that Petunia would play with some of them. The play food and cookware, the pint-sized plastic tools, the magnetic paper dolls, the MegaBlocks, the miniature vanity, the dolls and stuffed animals. But it is paper that finds its way to her little hands time and again.

Basil and I both took business trips recently. I indulged my traveling mom guilt in a hand-knit backpack. Basil brought back the free pad of paper that came with his hotel room. Of course, the Marriott (or Sheraton? or Renaissance?) logo stamped paper has been what Petunia has played with. It has been completely destroyed and used up.

The paper that litters our house is mostly white - note paper, envelopes, drawing paper. But there is colored construction paper, too, and there are note cards and brochures and ticket stubs. Almost all of it has been altered. Most of it has been cut with the safety scissors that the Easter Bunny brought - turned into hard, irregular scraps with rough edges. Other pieces have been folded over themselves several times, like amateur attempts at origami. The majority have been marked in some way, with crayons or markers or stamps or paint or pen or pencil. Usually indecipherable scribbles that mimic cursive handwriting, but sometimes crude pictures.

I go crazy about the paper. When I try to clean it up, it multiplies in front of my eyes. The carpet and hardwood floors seem to push it up as an early summer crop. There is no getting rid of The Paper. Even when I think that it is all gone, there are tiny scraps that rustle at the edges of the Oriental rug, hiding in the fringe. I see paper in my dreams, swirling like one of those grab-all-the-dollars-you-can boxes inside the tacky tourist towns of my past. My hands open and close frantically, but they can never make all the paper go away.

It is hard to be too harsh on Petunia, though. Each piece of paper has its own story in her world. There are lots of 'constructions,' i.e., the things that tell her what to do. And there are notes to her parents, doctor's prescriptions, cards for her classmates and shopping lists. Paper does not fall to the ground like snow in Petunia's world. It is as if a briefcase of important personal and professional effects was cracked open like a walnut, its contents dispersed by the wind amidst the rooms of our home.

The paper is Petunia's mind at work. It is the tangible manifestation of the workings of her incredible imagination. Each scrap is a souvenir of some idea, some character, some thought, some feeling, some storyline. The little wisps of cuttings are proof of Petunia's genius.

I think about the parents whose children do not dream or think. The children who are in occupational therapy to learn to utilize their fine motor skills in working scissors or folding construction paper between their hands. The children who don't walk or explore or interact. I think how clean those homes must be, how those parents probably long for a child who just this once makes an unexpected mess, a show of progress.

When I look back on this time in our lives, I will remember how Petunia's spirit came shining through her self-directed play like a flashlight on a dark road. How, all of a sudden, it became crystal clear that this child would spend her life creating things, making the world see and feel what was happening inside her mind.

I will remember how the byproducts of creativity and inspiration appeared around our house like tiny weeds, growing quickly, showing up in unexpected places, unable to be quashed or eradicated by even the most heartfelt of adult exasperation.

Run for Your Life

In about ten days, I'm going to do something I've never done before. I'm going to run in a race. Race for the Cure, specifically. Because if I'm going to lose my race virginity (as in, a running race - not as in, sleeping with someone with different skin color than me), then I might as well do it for a good cause, right?

I never, ever dreamed that I would run for fun. That it would be enjoyable in any way.

Back in the days of high school varsity volleyball, when we were doing our summer conditioning sessions, I hated running. HATED IT. We had to go for runs in a line where the back person would have to sprint up to the front. And then the new back person would sprint up to the front of the line. And so on and so forth until we finished our allotted mileage.

I have distinct memories of the early Sunday morning that I had to drive to school to meet my volleyball coach Gretchen and teammate Sarah to pay a penance for breaking one of the team's rules of training: Someone saw us sip a Mountain Dew before a game, and there were no soft drinks allowed on game days. Sarah and I had to run line touches, affectionately dubbed 'suicides,' for about a half an hour. I was only a month or two recovered from ankle surgery and my coach gave me the out to sit and watch Sarah, but I couldn't sit on the sidelines while Sarah killed herself running. So I ran, too. And I had to drive home that morning with my left foot because my right ankle was so swollen and immovable.

Also, running - well exercising in general - brings up my mommy issues with weight and food and body appearance. Because my mom has always rewarded me with new clothes and other goodies when I exercise and lose weight, my default position has been to not give in to her by doing what she wants me to do. Only recently, with the help of my therapist, have I been able to see that I just don't need to let her reward me for doing what she wants. I turn down the offers of shopping trips, and - VOILA! - she doesn't have any power over me any more. And then what I'm doing becomes about making myself happy and not about letting my mom control me. (Yes, I know that discovery isn't exactly going to win me the Nobel prize, but it was a big milestone for me, given the decades of doing something else.)

But for the past several months, I dare say that I have become a runner. Consciously, actively running. For my health, for Lilah's health and for my own enjoyment.

I have a regular route mapped out in the neighborhood that I can easily vary between 2.3, 2.6, 3.0 or 3.6 miles. I've been doing two shorter runs during the week and one longer run on the weekend. I've been working up to almost nine miles a week.

And I like it. And I feel good. And I'm proud of myself. And this week, I really pushed myself. I did the tiniest bit of trail running. Really, it was not even half a mile. And Lilah was way more interested in sniffing the flora than running, so I kept having to tug on her leash while bounding over tree roots and rocks. But I did it. And last week in Seattle, I used the free map my hotel room to plot out a three mile course, and I explored downtown near Seattle Center on foot in the wee hours. I'm already thinking about the kinds of routes I'll get to run this summer while at Lake Norman and the Outer Banks.

Part of my success is my iPod Shuffle. I love that little square of metal. It's loaded up with peppy tunes, and you'd be amazed at how the Black Eyed Peas or Eminem can help me make it up a hill.

A lot of it is how good I feel when I'm done running. I look forward to my running mornings because I have so much energy to get through the day.

It also gives me something to focus on other than my weight. I may not like what the scale says any given morning, but it doesn't seem so important when I can tell myself that I ran 3.3 miles in 40 minutes (including stops for Lilah to do her bidness). Running gives me other numbers to focus on. Ones that make me feel like I'm making big accomplishments, ones that make me feel like an athlete even if I don't look the part.

So in less than two weeks, I'm taking it to a new level. If it goes well, I think I'm going to challenge myself to do a longer race this summer. Yay me.

Planes, Trains and Automobiles

I started my morning this morning at 5:15 am Seattle time, rushing about my hotel room getting ready. I made the decision to forgo styling my hair to get to the busy Sea-Tac Airport in enough time to clear security and have breakfast. I figured that Basil and Petunia wouldn't care about my hair when they picked me up at 6:30.

But it is now 8:30 and I am sitting in the crowded refugee camp that has become the A terminal of Newark Liberty Airport, sweaty from running through the massive C terminal, prisoner of Mother Nature's decision to pound the Northeast with brutal thunderstorms all afternoon and evening. With any luck, I'll be in my bed in the wee hours of tomorrow.

Of course, the most logical way to fly to Seattle from Washington DC is through Newark, which is why I'm here. Or, it was supposed to be.

I was scheduled to have a scant 70 minute layover and be home in time to give Petunia a bath and read her some books before bedtime. All without having to leave Seattle before 7:00 am!

This was what I considered the best option, given my choices. There is only one airline that flies nonstop from DCA to SEA, and it was about $400 more than flights from National (I refuse to call it Reagan-National) with one connection. While my association generally is pretty accomodating about expenses, I thought a $1,000 airfare might raise some eyebrows.

So I weighed my choices: Take a flight that would necessitate me getting up at. 3:3O or 4:00 am, get home after Petunia's bedtime or fly a tight (but not unreasonable) connection through Newark. I went with the EWR layover, thinking that I had beaten the system as much as I could. I'd be able to get a decent night's sleep the night before my trip, and I'd have some quality time with Petunia before bedtime.

On Monday morning, I saw that the Washington Post predicted thunderstorms for Wednesday, and I briefly considered whether my travel would be impacted. But when are the local weather predictions ever right more then 24 hours in advance? And what would I do anyway? Take a redeye on the off chance that the weather might impact my flights?

When I got to my gate this morning, the staff announced a delay for our flight. Bad storms in the Newark area, they said, and we'd be taking off an hour and a half late. So much for my tight connection.

But then the staff revised their prediction: We'd only be leaving an hour late, they said, and we'd make up some time because of a big tailwind. They thought that I'd still make my connection but maybe my luggage wouldn't. Hey, fine, I thought. I just want to see my baby before bedtime.

Then I considered my seat assignment: 24F, nearly the back of the plane. Having a seat in the front could save me ten or fifteen minutes getting off the plane and potentially make the difference in my making the next leg. Unfortunately, the only seats up front were middle seats. On a 5+ hour flight. I gulped and moved to seat 6E. The gate agent also booked me a seat on the next flight from Newark to DCA, leaving at 7:00. Just in case.

The flight got off on its revised time and we were estimated to land in Newark at 4:30-ish. Perfect, I thought. I'd run like hell and make it work.

But then, about an hour or so before we were supposed to begin our descent, the pilot came on the PA. Really bad storms in Newark still. Holding patterns of an hour. We were to hold over Pennsylvania for a bit.

Well, about a half an hour later, he came back on. We needed to refuel and would be landing in Cleveland, details TBA.

So down we went. It was to be a quick stop, though, just a refuel and go. No getting off the plane. I did at least get to call Basil and say, 'Guess where I am!' 'No, not Newark. Somewhere on the Great Lakes.' I also got to call Continental and ask what my options were if I missed the 7:00. There was a 9:30, the agent said, but it was full. Did I want to book a hotel? My seatmates urged me to take Amtrak if no flights were available, and I thought they were right and took my chances in not getting a room in scenic New Jersey.

We got back up in the air and started toward Newark with an ETA around 7:00. Once we landed, I beelined off the aircraft to check a monitor. The 7:00 flight was delayed to 7:30. It hadn't left yet! It was 7:12. I had to ride a shuttle bus to change terminals. Could I make it?

I ran. Like a crazy person. Like I was out for a run, but wearing wedge slides. Carrying a purse and tote bag. In jeans. I was weaving around people in the airport, trying to find the shuttle pickup. When I got there, I had to wait a couple minutes for a bus to arrive, panting and sweating. And praying.

As we boarded the shuttle bus, I called Continental again. They said I had a seat on the 7:00 and that the flight was boarding. 'I'm on the shuttle bus to Terminal A right now. I'll be there in less than five minutes. Can you make sure they don't leave me?' The agent could offer no assurances.

When I got off the bus and bolted up the metal stairs, ducking through the rain to get to the covered staircase, I hustled to the gate. The plane was there, the jetway was against the plane and there were people everywhere in the terminal. But no agent at the gate. I stood at the desk, waiting for someone to show up. An airline employee ran up, tried the jetway door, found it locked and started knocking and yelling. His attempts unanswered, he started stamping and cursing. 'Sir, has this flight already boarded?' I said. 'This flight is closed,' he said. 'But, sir, I have a confirmed seat on this flight. I'm supposed to be on that plane!'. 'This flight is closed, ma'am.'

And then I stood at the window and watched as the jetway pulled back from the plane. I had probably missed it by five minutes.

I threw my bag on the ground and cursed. Tears welled in my eyes. What the hell were my options now? This airport was crawling with people, everyone trying to get out. I called Continental.

I don't expect much when I call the help desks of airlines, but man did I luck out. This woman named Debbie got me a seat on the 9:30 flight to DCA, helped me locate the ticketing counter in this terminal and encouraged me to get something to eat, as I hadn't had a bite in almost eight hours. I got off the phone with Debbie and went to the gate where my flight was scheduled to leave. In a snap, the agent printed my boarding pass with a confirmed seat assignment. I sent mental tongue kisses to Debbie, wherever she was.

And now, I wait, as the 9:30 isn't going to actually leave until about 11:15. It seems like I will get home after all, albeit 17 hours after I woke up and almost seven hours after I was supposed to be home. With an unscheduled fueling stop in Cleveland.

I'd like to think that my luggage will make it by midnight, too, but given the way this day has been, I'll be happy just to have the clothes on my back. And my Blackberry to blog with.

Cursed

When I was pregnant, I worried a bit. I think all women do. I worried about whether or not our daughter would have a hellish time in middle school, whether I'd pass on all the body image/food issues of my mother and grandmother, whether I'd be able to cope with the lack of sleep that comes from being a new parent.

But my biggest worry was that I'd teach Petunia to be a total pottymouth.

I have kind of a foul mouth. Or at least I used to. When Petunia was just learning to walk and talk, Basil really started riding me about my language. He said he did not want our daughter's first word to be 'shitfucker.' (Thanks, McGee, for that gem!)

So I pretty much cleaned up my act. When Petunia is around, she gets a lot of letters. Yknow, 'Get the F out of my way, A-hole!' when I'm driving. Or, 'That woman acted like a total B and stirred the S big time.' Hey, she needed to learn the alphabet, right? I made sure Petunia would know her letters for sure. At least, A, B, D, F, H and S.

I also adopted some of my mother's family's goofy non-curse words: 'Shoot fire, save matches!' 'Cheese and crackers and John R. Coppin!' (Google that name to figure out where my grandfather was from.) 'Oh, fudge.' 'Cheesal Pete!' 'Good gravy Marie!' And so on.

But I still sometimes take the Lord's name in vain. Not as bad as in seventh grade when I shouted 'Jesus fucking Christ!' in the gym locker room, and the gym teacher walking by the door heard me. He shouted in that he was going to stand in the hallway until someone came out and owned up to that language. These days, it's more like 'God blast it!' or 'God darn it!'

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if we didn't take Petunia to church every week and weren't trying to raise her as a good, God-fearing Episcopalian. I guess it would probably embarrass the hell out of us if she said 'God blast it!' to one of the priests some week, as she started yelling in the car the other day in imitation of me.

But I'm struggling. I'm struggling with something to say when I accidentally step on the dog, who has managed to get under my feet while I'm cooking. I'm struggling with what to yell when someone cuts me off when I'm driving. I'm struggling with how not to curse.

What the #($*&@ do you people say in front of your kids when you're mad or hurt or scared? Do I have to totally give up my grown-up language?

Living the Local Food Experience

A few months ago, the 'organic versus local' debate finally made it to the cover of Time magazine, and Yum wrote about it. I was reminded of thoughts I had when Elizabeth mused on the issue almost a year ago. And then, this morning, while I was reading MC Milker's take on 'the organic dilemma,' the issue came burbling back to the surface of my thoughts.

I can't remember the first time I heard about organic vs. local, but I remember reading about ways to get local food. There are farmers' markets, of course, but not all of them are limited to growers. (There are some shady scuzzbuckets who stop at the wholesalers on the way to town, making you believe that you're buying food that came straight from the fields.) And many grocery stores now indicate where food comes from or, at the very least, which food is local. One of the options I hadn't heard of until a couple of years ago was the CSA (community supported agriculture) - basically a food co-op where people buy shares in advance of local farmers' goods, either for a season or for a year.

When the Time article started making its way around the Internet, its link popping up in my Bloglines on more than one occasion, I revisited the idea of a CSA. I spent a little time on Local Harvest and found some CSA's that had Alexandria pickup locations. We joined Olin-Fox Farms for their spring and summer shares.

For the past five weeks, we have been driving to someone's house, just a few miles from our own, and taking our portion of what the farms (most of them in the Northern Neck, I believe) have harvested that week. We've gotten fingerling sweet potatoes, purple-top and hakuri turnips, bitter salad greens, microgreens with pea shoots, herbs (cilantro, oregano, sage, mint, rosemary), shiitake mushrooms, collard greens, kale, eggs, spring onions, asparagus, radishes and flowers.

Now, everything we've received has been of exceptional quality. I can't emphasize that enough. The collards and kale are TO DIE FOR and even the turnips are good. It's been nice having small amounts of fresh herbs, and we've enjoyed the flowers brightening up the kitchen. We got asparagus for the first time this week, and it's amazing.

But the portions aren't overly generous. I know that a share is for a maximum of two non-vegetarians, but that's stretching it a bit. Salad greens have generally arrived in a sandwich-size plastic bag. Our whole share each week can usually fit in a plastic grocery bag.

Two notable exceptions have been the eggs and the collards and kale. We've received several dozen farm fresh eggs and large bags of collards and kale. Sometimes we even have eggs or greens lingering around by the time we pick up our next share. And did I mention they're delicious?

It works out to a little more than $35 a week, which is the cost of the spring share, the summer share, a fruit share (available during the summer only) and the new member fee added up and divided into six flat monthly payments. During those months (mid-March to mid-August), we're only getting twenty weeks of food, due to weeks off here and there for planting and season transition. Though I should add that the nice folks at Olin Fox Farms were nice enough to let me spread the payments out over six months.

But $125 a month is a significant portion (more than 10 percent) of our grocery budget. And for the last payment, we're not going to get ANY food that month. Again, it's because I asked Olin Fox Farms to let me pay that way, but I'm just glad that we'll be taking some trips in August and won't need to buy as many groceries for home.

At this point, the shares have been a little thin to justify $35 a week, though yesterday's haul (the last week of the spring share) was really nice. I understand the weather has been giving farmers fits this year, and things are not growing as well as they could or should be. When I compare the things we've received this season to the produce list on Olin Fox Farms' website, I realize that it must have been a very bad year for farmers. I'm hoping that with the fruit addition in the summer and all the lovely things that will be coming into season, we'll make up a bit in terms of quantity.

If we lived closer to Reedville (which we've visited, by the way, and is absolutely charming), then the costs would be a little lower. We're at the farthest distribution point, and thus our costs are a little higher because of the transportation.

It's hard to compare this experience to shopping at the local Giant or even the relatively new Whole Foods. We're getting small amounts of expensive food that is incredibly fresh and delicious and has a smaller impact on the environment than any of our other food options. It's hard to say whether or not our CSA membership is 'worth' the money. Because...quantity? No. Quality? Yes. Variety? Maybe/no. Feel-good factor? Yes. How do you put a price on those things?

One thing we've learned is how incredibly lucky we are to live in a world with the kind of global transportation structure and technology that enables us to have just about any kind of produce that we want at any time. It takes the suspense out of the seasons. But now, I find myself rooting for the weather, praying for whatever the farmers need to get some new things out of the ground because I'm sick of turnips (albeit sweet, tender ones) already. I wish that we lived in a climate that could sustain citrus crops, and I imagine how exotic and decadent it must have been for the first northerners buying Florida grapefruit from their local grocery store.

If nothing else, I think I have a greater appreciation of the foods that I have access to and the struggles that local farmers encounter trying to make a go of it in this very global marketplace. Those are good lessons to learn even if we don't remain CSA members forever.