Teach the children well

daphne on February 23, 2010

Recently I participated in a conference call with Secretary of Agriculture Tom Vilsack.  By participated I mean that I told him a thing or two about feeding our nation’s children and doing right by our schools.  Either that, or I listened quietly and jotted down a note or two.  It’s kind of hard to remember.

The call centered around Michelle Obama’s campaign to end childhood obesity and the possible role that the FDA might play, particularly with regard to school lunches.  If you don’t have kids in public school you may not know that current lunches are almost as nutritious as chocolate coated bike tires.

We’re gearing up for a change.  But it’s going to cost money.  And it’s going to ruffle feathers.

I know this because our district got a jump start on this by hiring Renegade Lunch Lady Ann Cooper to remake the face of lunch in Boulder County Schools.  She is clearing out the high fructose corn syrup and the chemically constructed chicken nuggets.  She is offering fresh fruits and vegetables and locally sourced hormone-free milk.

Inconceivably, it’s got some folks really upset. Grown-up folks.

It’s mind boggling to me, because surely they love their kids.  And I know that they want what’s best.  And yet they are stomping their feet because someone took away their chocolate milk?

We want our kids to be healthy. To grow strong. To have every opportunity to learn.  So why are we sitting back and watching as their brain cells are taxed with highly processed foods? How can we challenge teachers to feed their minds when we’re not doing our best to nourish their bodies?

Why are we okay with this?  Other countries aren’t.  Other countries have stepped up and said no to things like hormones and antibiotics in their food.  They aren’t thinking about chocolate milk.  They are planning for the future.

It’s high time we take some steps towards ours.

I’m glad the schools are putting the brakes on shoveling bad stuff into our kids.  Now we need to start figuring out our food.  What’s in that snack we throw into their backpacks each morning?  We need to know, because then we can help our kids make smart choices.

We’re the grown-ups here;  if we don’t sell it there’s no way the kids are buying.

It’s Planting Time, Right?

daphne on February 16, 2010

Whooo-hooo!  It’s party planting time.

I know that you’re digging out from feet of snow and shivering huddled around a cup of coffee while your runny-nosed, snow-bound children run ragged through a house that hasn’t been aired out in months, but come on.  I’m ready to get down and dirty dig in some dirt.

My garden is on board. Right, garden?

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Hmm, garden seems to be hibernating.  What am I supposed to do with all this pent up excitement? Thanks for nothing, Pioneer Lady for posting this gorgeous tutorial on building raised vegetable beds and getting me all revved up for gardening.

And thanks alot Gardener’s supply.  You and your incredible and fantastic online garden planner that lets me select veggies and decide whether or not the cucumbers will twine up the same trellis as the snap peas.  Just what do you think you’re doing?

The anticipation is fabulous.  I can almost smell the sun-warmed squash.

So what that it’s not planting time.  This is crazy fun.

Time out.

Crazy fun? Um, hello?

We need to talk.

Perhaps you’re forgetting who you’re talking to.   I am the party girl who raucously rang in her 21st birthday on a Mardi Gras day much like today.

There was drinking and dancing and parades and partying on the streets of New Orleans.

That was crazy fun.  And it was not all that long ago.

Or maybe it was all that long ago.

And I guess it was far, far away.

But how did this happen?

How did I go from shimmying to shoveling?

From drinking to digging?

From partying to planting?

Oy.  I am staring at 40 and getting all hot and bothered about garden planners.  Somebody send help.

Somebody?

Anybody?

Help.

Wanted: Tooth Fairy

daphne on February 10, 2010

I’m not going to lie to you, teeth are revolting.

Not those straight pearly whites sitting nicely in your mouth.  Those are gorgeous.  I’m talking about the natty bloody things that swivel and dangle and eventually jump ship from the mouths of my babes.

Ewwww.  They are so gross.

I am not a wimp.  I can handle this mothering stuff with one hand tied behind the tylenol.  I have weathered dislocated arms and bloody contusions and concussions.  I’m tough as nails.  Just don’t make me wiggle your loose tooth.  I cannot stomach the teeth.

(While we’re at it you may as well know:  I don’t handle eyes that well either.)

I adore my children.  I’m just looking to outsource the management of their eyes and teeth.

Speaking of managing the teeth, I’m in a bit of a pickle.  Having been previously accused of callously recycling precious scraps of artwork, I have taken to saving things, ridiculous things, all in the name of doing this mommy job right.   Which is exactly why I find myself in this current quandary.

There sits, in my bedside drawer, a small vial.

It is a vile vial.

Contained within it’s gruesome hold are nine baby teeth; eight from child one, and now one from child two.  It is disgusting, but I don’t know what to do.  I never got the memo. Are we supposed to save the teeth?  Am I all alone here with my macabre collection, or are parents everywhere harboring vulgar hoards of discarded body parts?

All of which goes to prove my point:  this tooth fairy-ing business should be left to the professionals.

I’m begging you, before another one bites the dust, be our tooth fairy.

There’s a buck a tooth in it for you.

This face?

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Give it a chance.   I swear it’s not one of those only a mother could love.

I Don’t Even Like Whiskey

daphne on February 3, 2010

Not that there’s anything wrong with the stuff.  In fact, a brief perusal of the internet uncovered signs that whiskey is loaded with antioxidants.  I just don’t enjoy fire cascading down my throat, so trust me when I say that whiskey and I ended our affair before it ever began.

I tell you this in the interest of setting the record straight.  Seems I’ve gone and acquired a bit of reputation.

And for that I blame my kids.  Oh those munchkins and the things they say golly gee if it doesn’t make me want to roll them in oats and shove them in the fridge for a day or four.

You know, to temporarily cool their chattering jets.

I’ve heard that kids say the darndest thing.  I just didn’t know that she’d say them to her teacher and a room full of 9 year old punks.

Seems the third grade is all a twitter about mountain men (I take it they are something like cowboys, only less sexy.)  The teacher told her class tales of the wild old days.

My darling explained,

‘The mountain men drank lots of whiskey and they gambled.  Sometimes they even lost their wives in card games.’

‘That’s why I thought of you, Mom.’

Fair enough. My name has long been synonymous with liquor-swilling and Texas Holdem.

She continued,

‘We were talking about whiskey so I told that story, you know, your story. The one with you, in the mountains, with the whiskey.’

My story? I have a whiskey story?  My apologies to the dead horse, but really, I don’t even like the stuff.

And my darling child continued some more,

‘My teacher called on me, so I told the class about that time you drank too much whiskey and then went to lie down and sleep in the street.’

Of course.  Right.  What self-respecting mother doesn’t regale her kids with her sleep-off-the-bender-in-the-road story as she tucks them in at night?

By the way, I thought I’d finally include a picture of my no good, rootin’-tootin’ road-sleeping, saloon-frequenting self.  You know, to go with my new reputation.

Sam