Seven

Last Monday was our seventh anniversary. I had piano lessons and taught class; Basil had a vestry meeting at church. Petunia stayed home with a babysitter. It was not terribly romantic.

We celebrated our anniversary on Saturday night instead. At Farrah Olivia by Morou (he of Iron Chef America fame and formerly of Signatures, the Jack Abramoff restaurant downtown), we decided to mark seven years with seven courses of a chef's tasting menu and the accompanying wine pairings. It was spectacular. Here's a quick rundown:

1. smoked escolar with red wine powder, wasabi sauce, soy "caviar" and honey ginger; chenin blanc
2. painted carrot ginger soup with leek cream and chayote; viognier
3. salmon with fermented couscous; chardonnay
4. quail with cinnamon and figs - the tiny quail leg was actually baked in a fig; pinot noir
5. duck breast with cranberry sauce and Brussels sprouts with dates; merlot
6. filet of beef with black truffle corn, raisin sauce and espresso power; cabernet sauvignon
7. apply pastry with spice ice cream and cherry compote; sweet white dessert wine that I can't remember
* after-dinner drinks (at our expense); plate of tiny biscotti, chocolate cookies and to-die-for truffles with "Happy Anniversary" written in chocolate script

The escolar, duck and filet were just out of this world. All of it was good and so interesting and unexpected, and it was beautiful in that minimalist, deconstructed sort of way. The wine pairings were out of this world - everything matched up like a song - and the extra sweets at the end were a very nice touch. The truffles were so soft I don't know how they held their shape.

Basil and I used the seven courses to reminisce on our seven years together. It got a little blurry, both the details of some of the dates and through all the alcohol, but we remembered things we hadn't thought about for years...the neighbor whose license plate said "NDORPHN" and who played Norah Jones at full tilt every night, the bathroom of our old apartment collapsing in water damage while we were gone one weekend, me going postal on a growth of bamboo while six months pregnant, bringing Petunia home from the hospital with Basil white-knuckling the steering wheel over the Memorial Bridge and down the GW Parkway, figuring out a way to install a baby gate at the odd-shaped landing of our old stairs, taking Petunia to the emergency room when she was dehydrated from a virus, the way Petunia hated being at home when we were packing up the old house and all the rooms were filling with boxes, our trip to Vancouver - which helped get us in the habit of date nights and time alone as a couple. It was fun trying to remember what each year had brought us.

As our anniversary approaches and then fades, I find myself listening to two songs a lot. One was "our song" that we danced to at our reception. And the other was the runner up. Looking back on it, we should have just made people wait while we danced through both - they're sort of his and hers. See if you can guess (or remember) which one was which.

First can be heard here. Second can be heard here.

I think for the big party that we throw ourselves for our tenth or twentieth anniversary, we'll dance to both.

Car Seat Neurosis

Almost five years ago, I was pregnant with Petunia, and Basil and I had to begin understanding the world of baby gear. For the uninitiated, Planet Baby is quite a place. Vast warehouses full of plastic, wood and fabric (but mostly plastic) in varying shades of pastels and the occasional primary color, all with claims of necessity for a baby's health, happiness, ability to sleep, intelligence or edge in life. It is not hard for a young couple expecting their first child to end up drowning in baby stuff, much of it totally unnecessary.

But there were some things that were musts. Unlike Sacajawea, we would be driving our baby home from the hospital, which meant that we needed a car seat. Seems simple, right? Wrong. Everything in Planet Baby is overwhelming, including the one thing you're required by law to have (if you plan to drive anywhere). There were different kinds of car seats, not to mention all the different brands and after-market accessories. Even the government doesn't recommend one kind or one brand - just making sure that any car seat you buy fits your car and is used correctly.

Our first choice was the kind of car seat - infant only or infant-toddler convertible. We assumed we'd go with the infant only seat, as it seemed de rigeur that babies only moved from place to place in those plastic buckets with the handles and sun shades. The books all said those would last the first year. But then on a trip to Great Beginnings to check out furniture on day, we saw a young couple there with their baby. They were looking at convertible car seats and explaining to the sales person, 'She's only five months old and she's already outgrown the infant seat!'

Basil and I exchanged shocked looks. Babies could outgrow the bucket seats before their first birthday!?! But those bucket seats were anywhere from $100 to $250! While their portability was attractive, their ability to damage my back and have a short-lived use was not. So we started exploring the idea of just using a convertible seat from the very beginning. After talking with a friend who had twins and had put them in convertible seats from the start, we became convinced that it was a possibility.

Basil and I set out to find the convertible seat with the highest height and weight limit out there. We wanted this thing to last for as long as possible, so we'd really get our money's worth (or someone else's money, if it were a gift) out of it. After testing some seats in our Saturn SL2, we settled on a Britax Marathon. Facing forward, it could safely handle kids up to 48 inches tall or 65 pounds. Petunia could conceivably ride in it until her fifth birthday.

Fast forward nearly five years, and Petunia is still in her Marathon. It's the only car seat we've ever owned, though we have washed it thoroughly a couple of times and moved the straps up as Petunia has grown. She is technically old enough (four and a half years tomorrow) and big enough (40 pounds, even) to move into a booster seat, but I am in no hurry.

Petunia is still small enough to fit into her Marathon, and she isn't complaining about riding in it. Basil and I don't have his and hers cars - we have two cars for the family, and we take turns driving them on different days. Whoever is driving Petunia gets the Ford Freestyle, where her car seat is installed, and whoever is not driving Petunia gets the Saturn. There's no moving the car seat back and forth. Also, unlike many families, we don't have a baby waiting for his/her turn in the convertible seat after outgrowing the infant seat.

I was thinking that we would move Petunia up to a booster seat early next month because we are flying to Chicago as a family, and I thought we would want something that would work on the plane and in the rental car. But the American Academy of Pediatrics doesn't recommend using boosters on planes, and it's easier just to rent a car seat from Avis with our car. For our trip to Orlando in June, we're taking the AutoTrain down and driving back. We know our Marathon fits fine in the Saturn, so we'll just use it on the way back.

Basil tells me that the time is soon coming for her to move into a booster, but I can't get super excited about it. I know that booster seats are safe for older, bigger kids, but it doesn't feel like graduation - it feels like a demotion (see page 2 of that link). I can't explain why I feel such a panic at the idea of moving Petunia into a booster. I'm not an especially hovery parent (at least, I don't think I am), letting my kid get some bumps and bruises along the road of life so long as there's no serious danger.

But for some reason, the car seat thing just freaks me out. Maybe it's that I remember the accidents I've been in throughout my life - getting broadsided on the passenger side by someone running a red light when I was about eighteen...being rear-ended while waiting to make a left-hand turn when I was about six...spinning my car around and riding the passenger-side wheels of my car down a retaining wall backwards (facing oncoming traffic) on I-71/75 when I was sixteen. Maybe it's because growing up I had a stepfather who was a police officer, and he would come home with these grisly stories of the accidents he had worked during his shift - severed limbs, a decapitation, gross manglings and deaths. Maybe it's because I have an alcoholic father who has been arrested for drinking and driving more than once, and I'm always amazed that he hasn't killed someone on the road.

If I could put Petunia in a big strong bubble to ride in the car for the rest of her life, I swear I'd do it, as long as she could hear the radio and see out the window. But I know that's not an option, and I know that her sturdy Marathon - always installed so it doesn't move so much as half an inch in any direction - will be retired to the garage sometime in the near future, as her shoulders will likely reach the top of the straps before the end of this year. (She has a long torso and is likely to outgrow the straps before she reaches 48 inches.) When the time comes, we'll get her a snazzy booster seat that can last several more years, but I'm not hoping that day comes anytime soon.

Breaking Up is Not So Hard To Do

I just saw my therapist for the last time, at least for the foreseeable future. I'd been mulling the decision for a month or so and in the last couple of weeks, I decided that I was done with therapy for now. But then I had to tell her that it was over.

Other than a month or so of seeing a counselor through the Senate's Employee Assistance Program, I'd never done therapy before. And I didn't know how to end it or what to expect. But I just knew it was time.

My therapist, referred to me by a friend and blog reader, helped me with a great many things. In the fourteen months I have been seeing her, my relationships with my family have changed so much. I feel very in control of the way I interact with my mom and my dad, and I even feel more at peace with parenting Petunia. I really liked the way that she helped me with my food/weight/body issues.

But this fertility journey of mine? Not her strength.

I can't tell you how many times this past winter and early spring she has mentioned how so many people adopt babies and then get pregnant themselves. One time, I finally responded, 'I don't actually think that happens to many people' and she looked sort of stunned. A few sessions later she told me about a new client who couldn't have a baby with his wife, adopted a baby and then his wife got pregnant. She concluded the story with 'See? It does happen all the time.' I didn't really feel like arguing that a handful of lucky anecdotes does not a statistic make, but I did file that comment away.

I have not been diagnosed with any sort of fertility problem (though I plan to start discussing possibilities with my doctor this summer), so the assvice doesn't sting me quite as much as it might sting others. But it did strike me as ill-informed and inexperienced. And since my quest to get pregnant is really the thing that is weighing on me most these days, I decided that my therapist was not the person to help me emotionally on this journey.

Prior to today's appointment, I had made up my mind that I was done. I wasn't really sure how much to explain and when in the session to do it. During the first half of our session, I mentally waffled for a bit, wondering if I should go through with my decision. But then the conversation came around to my fertility journey and she asked me - with a straight face - if I laid still for awhile after 'being intimate' with Basil, or if I ever propped my hips up with a pillow. Right then, I knew that she couldn't help me anymore right now.

So I waited until the end and told her that I thought I was doing very well these days and was ready to take a break for awhile. She took it very well and said that I was the best judge of how I was doing. I didn't tell her that I might get another therapist - one who specializes in infertility counseling or at least has a lot of experience with it - if I end up doing a lot of tests, drugs or procedures. It just didn't seem important to explain, and I think things ended better that way. If I ever have non-fertility-related issues, I may well go back to her.

I feel really good, that I've made the right decision both in stopping therapy for now and in not getting into too much detail about why. I still don't know where this fertility journey is taking me and whether or not I have a problem. But at 23 months into trying to have another kid, I identify with the infertility community and have a lot of the same feelings. And if I need another therapist on this journey, I plan to find one who has good infertility etiquette.

Next Stop, the Commune

Last year, Basil and I tried out a CSA. We liked the food we got, but to be honest, it wasn't much for the money. It was about $35 a week. There were a few weeks of bounty when we got piles of corn and tomatoes, but usually our share could fit comfortably in one canvas grocery bag.

The fall share was particularly disappointing and reminded me more of our experience in the spring. We got small amounts of everything, and what am I supposed to do with two Thai eggplants for a family of three? We generally had to supplement from the grocery store for our produce needs.

What really turned the tide in not re-upping with the CSA are the trips Petunia and I paid to the Kingstowne Farmers Market on Friday afternoons. We didn't go every week, but we went at least six or eight times in August, September and October. I took $35 each week - the same weekly cost of our CSA share. And the difference was staggering.

I have pictures at home (will try to post them later) that I took on Friday evenings, comparing what we got from the CSA on Thursday afternoon and what we bought at the farmers market on Friday afternoon. For $35 at the farmers market - where everything is grown with 125 miles of the market - I came home with bags of broccoli, lettuces, beets, peaches, apples, potatoes, squash and other produce. I also bought something indulgent each week, like a homemade jam, a specialty bread, locally made yogurt or kettle corn made right in front of eyes. My $35 also bought Petunia a cup of fresh-made ice cream to keep her happy while walking around, and it bought me a big cup of fresh lemonade for the drive home. Like I said, the difference in quantity was staggering.

Basil and I also appreciated that we could support local agriculture (and felt good about the fact that the farmers market works with WIC so it was never just a bunch of rich white people walking around) while retaining some power as a consumer. Our CSA gave us a lot of different kinds of greens each week, and often that was the bulk of our share. We love kale, collards and other leafy things that we would eat raw, saute or throw into a frittata. But it got a little old and monotonous and, quite frankly, hard to believe each week when the farmers market was still full of so much variety. At the farmers market, I could choose what I wanted, buy enough for us as a family (or for a dinner party) and still get three to five kinds of vegetables and some fruit.

Now we've taken our local eating to a new level. I just ordered us a quarter cow from Chicama Run, approximately 100 pounds of beef from a cow raised solely on grass just a couple hours away in Loudon County. We will get our share in November. It will be about $450 for those 100 pounds, which might be high for ground beef and stew meat but is incredibly low for steaks. And besides, comparing it to grocery store meat is a little bit apples to oranges because this is grass-fed AND -finished beef, which is generally regarded as healthier as it is lower in saturated fats and higher in unsaturated fats. I'm excited to try it out, and I think fall will be a perfect time to stick a bunch of beef in the freezer for winter.

In the mean time, I've got my eyes and ears peeled for someplace to buy pasture-raised chicken and free range eggs. Oh, and I made my own granola over the weekend. It's a maple granola with walnuts and dried cranberries, and it is delicious. I've been eating it for breakfast every morning this week, and this morning Petunia had some (minus the cranberries, picky girl) and loved it. I feel like breakfast is the one meal where we are still beholden to the center aisles of the grocery store, and I've been trying to figure out how to change that. I may end up making a batch of granola each weekend, which would help reduce the amount of processed grains we eat in the morning and probably save us money, as I'm sure that the unit cost of homemade granola is dramatically lower than a box of Cracklin Oat Bran.

I am officially becoming a hippie, and I totally don't care. It won't be long until Basil and I are making cheese in the kitchen like Barbara Kingsolver.