Snack attack

This is how I wake up: a little, warm body nuzzles up to me, close close to my ear, and whispers: Mama, I'm hungry. I want to eat, RIGHT NOW. I want to go to Trader Joe's and have banana, waffle, smooth drink, bacon, hard boiled egg, scrambled egg, RIGHT NOW. I really hungry, Mama. I can't wait.

or

A littler, warmer body nuzzles up against me and pats my boob and says Taste? Taste? and starts to undress my sleeping sleeping body until I say: want to nurse? and I hear yes, yes, yes.

And the game is on, all day long. I've told you before how these kids can eat, and I am not lying, it is a sight to behold.

A few weeks ago I queried a friend who is also raising two little hungry Paleo people - what are you feeding them for snacks? Do you feel like your kids eat fruit all day long? I wasn't exaggerating: a quart of blueberries, three apples, two bananas, half a cantaloupe, a bag of raisins - gone, in the span of one day, as if a marauding band of fruit bats flew in, kicked ass, and left without cleaning the juice off the floor. I was tossing good stuff in between there, but let's face it: fruit is convenient, and easily accepted, and it wasn't until it started disappearing at such an alarming rate that I started to consider that perhaps free rein wasn't the best approach to snacking in the house. This friend agreed, and summarized her detente with the ways things were: I figure they eat well otherwise so I try to just let it go.

So there I was, hitting the Farmer's Market three times a week to keep my fruit bats fed. I stopped offering it at meals. (I'm slow, people. This was a revolutionary concept to me).

Then last week I got another text from her: we are two weeks no sugar except for one piece of fruit in their lunch. No more meltdowns after school and they are eating their dinners much better.



There's a back story here, to support her decision to make these changes, but it's not mine to tell. But what is mine to tell is how she inspired me to start really thinking about the logical disconnect in my own practices. What I know to be true about sugar and what is advised by researchers as judicious fruit intake (2-3 servings of fruit daily for a metabolically healthy adult) did not match with my practices in the house. My kids weren't gulping juice boxes or eating cookies with lunch, but they were getting a daily infusion, at least every three or four hours, of fruit, augmented throughout the day with other tiny boluses of honey or maple syrup (a tablespoon in the waffle batter, a bit stirred into plain yogurt, a smooth drink made with dates or banana, berries, and coconut milk to start the morning, Lara bar on the run...I mean, there was a reason why I started asking about sweet intake. It seemed to knit together the entire day!). And there have been meltdowns, Jesus, this has been the summer of meltdowns. Not to mention the sticky stuff all over the table, the floor, a 2 1/2 foot line of fruity hand prints dragged through the entire house. But this wasn't really about housekeeping. Like so many things with a Pale-template lifestyle, the proving ground has to be our own experience. I would never go to the trouble I do if I didn't experience dramatic changes in my physical and emotional health because of our diet and lifestyle. And so I walked into this with an open mind: how would they respond? Would the mood swings continue, the refused naps and dinner strikes and late bed times go on? If so, it wasn't worth the work. But I was curious. Just that weekend Jeff had observed that when Benen really started to lose his shit, he could usually organize himself once we fed him. So I felt like we had nothing to lose, and possibly something - some sense of calm and happiness - to gain.

We gave it a try. With my friend's input, since she was a few weeks ahead, she suggested a that I be up front with them (well, at least Benen. Gemma is a little easier - out of sight, out of mind) about what we were doing and why. At five, Benen has enough awareness about what it feels like to crash off a sugar high, so I explained that we were going to see if maybe he was having so many problems feeling angry and crazy because maybe he was eating too much sugar, even if just in fruit. I told him he could have one treat a day, like a piece of fruit or a Paleo cookie or a smoothie, and that we would have it after we had been busy with our bodies. He took it in stride. Then I got rid of all the dried fruit, Lara bars, and fresh fruit in the house, putting it out of sight. I planned to include lots of "safe starches" throughout the day,  made sure that I had plenty of snack options stocked, and I waited (and said no, kindly, a lot for two days).

The first day was funny. If there had been any question in my mind that my kids were little fruit addicts, my doubts were put to rest by 10 a.m.. They both asked for fruit, raisins, smoothies, and bars several times throughout the day, starting in the morning, in bed: Mama, I want an apple. I can't wait. Which gave Gemma reason to start yelling Apple! Apple! Apple! We had picked 30 pounds of organic Golden Delicious apples the previous Sunday (before I decided to give the limited fruit thing a try..) and they were sitting in the kitchen, waiting to be canned into applesauce.  They got moved into the garage and I made pancakes, smothered in butter, and fried eggs,  and I heard nothing more about it...for two hours. In between meals, every time they asked for sweets or fruit, I offered them hard boiled eggs, cheese, roasted broccoli, nuts, sliced turkey, ham, carrot sticks. Half the time they just drank some water and kept playing.

After our big activity in the morning I made them a smooth drink - 8 ounces of full fat coconut milk, half a frozen banana, a handful of blueberries and their daily dose of fermented cod liver oil, as well as some immune-boosting herbs to fight off colds. They slurped it down, wasting not a drop (whereas in the past they would often not finish) and when Benen asked me later in the day for more fruit, I just reminded him that he had already had his treat for the day. I got a few "Oh mans!" and "Darn its!", but that was the sum total of his resistance.

Then there was the baby, unable to say much, but ever so eloquent and clever in her communication: she dragged a jar of peaches I had canned this summer out of the pantry and brought it to me."Taste this!". I made her lunch, which she devoured, nary a complaint.

I gave them yogurt plain, or sprinkled with a little cinnamon or some frozen blueberries. Both of them are wolfing down the yogurt, with little poker faces, and Benen's yelling: Sour! Sour! as he asks for more.

And? That was it. Since I figured it was only fair that I adhere to the same rules, I was the one with a headache. Turns out I eat a lot of fruit and "goodies" as the day goes on, and stepping back from this was enlightening to me about my own habits. By the end of the second day Benen was asking not for hot chocolate popcorn chocolate muffin cookie (a kind of mindless mantra that he chants throughout the day, like Chinese water torture on my brain) but egg and goat cheese, sweet potato, turkey, rice. a mantra I can say yes to without reservation, without bargaining.

The conclusion? Smooth days. Literally no need for discipline a few days, and very little intervention needed the others, whereas most days lately have had an emotional roller-coaster flavor that nobody has enjoyed. Benen's capacity for impulse control has increased, notably. They are as energetic and silly as ever, but I'm not seeing the extreme highs and lows that I was seeing. They are both eating more food at meals, and they aren't hounding me throughout the day for food I prioritize as less-than-ideal. Not to say Gemma didn't just about jack a kid at the park today for his banana. Gemma is napping with more consistency and they are not fighting bedtime. We already have a strong daily rhythm, lots of outdoor time, and set routines to facilitate all the things that need to happen in a little person's daily life. It was pretty interesting to me to see how so small a change in their diet could have such a profound affect. But when you're parenting small ones, it's the little things that can make or break a day. A fifty-minute drawn-out bedtime drains the piss out of me. Having to call time-outs three times before 9 a.m. - I'll do it if I must, but what if I don't have to? I didn't get into this gig to be a cop.

Last night we had dessert to celebrate a friend visiting. We baked peeled, cored apples, stuffed with raisins, cinnamon, toasted pecans and almond extract, topped with a knob of butter, for about an hour at 350 F. We whipped cream with a little bit of vanilla and topped the warm apples with the cream. Benen ate his whipped cream and left the apple, which made me laugh. Gemma ate two raisins and then left to play. It's wonderful to be surprised by them.

Why am I sharing this with you? Not so that you, too, will pull the sugar rug out from under your feet. That's totally up to you. I'm sharing this with you to demonstrate that most of my ideas about my kids and food are simply that: preconceived ideas. I am continually surprising myself as I confront my own beliefs about what it means to nourish and care for these wonderful little people. I assume they won't eat something, I assume that sweet treats need to be a part of our daily fabric. In reality there is little basis for these ideas beyond cultural norms, and physiologic habit. Part of my work is to challenge those norms when they no longer work for our family. In this case, I had only a hunch to go on, but I can't tell you enough how much more peaceful it is at our house the last five days.

Having spent most of the last three years eating very little sugar myself, I know now that my children are developing a strong awareness of how what they eat makes them feel. I realize I cannot keep them in a sugar-free closet  - nor would I choose to shelter them that way- we attend parties and picnics and potlucks, we like to roast a marshmallow over the fire-pit sometimes, I like to turn up the bluegrass and bake cookies during a Fall rain. Birthdays are a big deal in this house. Cake and ice cream will happen. But it doesn't need to be all day, every day.

What I can provide to them is a template for wellness, and choice, that allows them the mental and emotional clarity that good nutrition brings. And snacks. Lots and lots of snacks.

I can't claim this roasted broccoli recipe as my own. Several woman at our gym shared it with me and I've been making it at least three times a week in the afternoons as a snack. Benen and Gemma will eat a pound of steamed broccoli tossed with a lot of grass-fed butter like its popcorn, this is just a slightly fancier take on the idea (and it is stupid delicious, it is possible that I may or may not have eaten a pound of broccoli by myself this week as a snack). We also tried it with green beans this weekend, which Jeff pronounced as "potato chips". So I guess if you have a potato chip hankering but want to stay Paleo, there is that.

Roasted Broccoli

1 pound organic broccoli florets, cleaned and dried
1/4 cup olive oil
sea salt and black pepper to taste


Preheat oven to 400 F. Toss the broccoli with the olive oil and salt and pepper on a cookie sheet and roast for 20 minutes. Remove sheet from oven, flip broccoli, and roast another 15-20 minutes. The broccoli will brown and crisp in spots; it is absolutely delicious this way.

Prep time: Less than 5 minutes. Cook time: 40 minutes.

And if you really need to indulge yourself (and why shouldn't you?), dip it in this:

Better Ranch Dressing

1/3 cup raw tahini
2 tablespoons rice vinegar (or other lightly flavored white vinegar, such as champagne)
2 tablespoons dried dill
3 tablespoons olive oil
1/4 tsp sea salt

Combine all ingredients in a blender and blend until smooth. Add water to thin to desired consistency. Store up to two weeks in refrigerator. I made this a few weeks ago and have been fantasizing about dipping hot wings in it.
Prep time: 5 minutes
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What do you feed your inner fruit bat?

Make room for air hockey

Playing - spontaneous, totally-in-the-moment playing - is a balm I often overlook. It dawned on me last Thursday at the bowling alley, a fine place for inspiration.  Benen's homeschool league was done with its two games and the kids were cutting loose in the arcade when my friend and her husband dropped two quarters in the air hockey machine and headed off against each other: not a game of extreme skill, but it was fun just watching them: her absolute focus and fierceness, his strategy, and even more compelling, their two daughters, adrift in the arcade, doing their own thing, enjoying the gift of parents who play arcade games together. It was this short game of air hockey that reminded me: this is how you stay married. This is why you get married. So you always have someone to play air hockey with. So you always have someone to play with, in those tiny moments between raising babies and cooking dinner and earning a living.
I think of my favorite couples. They're the ones who know how to play, together. The ones who share an obtuse passion for high-altitude hiking, or paddle-boarding, or marathon games of Uno or Scrabble, or use words like "Shazam!" in their conversations with each other.
I think of my sweetest moments with Jeff: yes, there have been two long, wild labors where we marveled at our babies at the end and would never see each other in the same light, there has been the intensity of a wedding, the day in and day out of coming home to each other, of easing one anothers' fears and worries, but what about the time he taught me how to make myself dizzy by spinning around with my head on a baseball bat and I propelled myself into the hedge of our new home? How about the Depends that showed up in the grocery cart at the check-out stand, or the 1-800 phone sex operator I dialed after pissily demanding the phone number for a business associate? Jeff's capacity to play with me, in the end, seduced me, and it seduces me to do this day. His fearlessness in seeking my hand in play is a love letter, an invitation to trust and be fully myself, and it's hard to say no to such an offer.
I thought about this, as I watched my friend and her husband play air hockey. That fifty cents was an absolute investment, no doubt about it, in the bank of marriage, and the bank of personal happiness, and the bank of enjoying life. Like me, these people have responsibilities. They have groceries to buy and dinner to cook and kids to read to. But they recognized the value of embracing the fun in life at that moment, and it's a lesson worth remembering for me. I love routine, and I love time to myself, but I love, perhaps more endearingly, being asked to play.

Yes, we need lots of rest. We need to keep tidy homes and cook nourishing food, and eat it, and connect to each other with stories and laughter, and work through the pains and unpleasantness of our lives, and get the kids to bed, and pay bills. We need to move our own bodies and we need to ease and flex our minds. Our lists are big.

And we need to play, to connect through play, not just with children and our dog, but with other adults, and by ourselves. Have you seen me in my front yard at 9 in the morning with my jump rope? I got moves. The kids can vouch for it. Have you seen me bust out the robot dance moves? Unlikely, I try to keep that under wraps. But I've seen it. I know the value of cracking myself up.

Play equalizes us, feeds us joy from an endless spoon, and reminds us of our purpose. Feed yourself, feed your love, feed each other, playfully. Take five minutes, drop the list, and kill it in air hockey. You will never, never be sorry that you stopped to play.
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What will you play today?




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Eat salad.

It's hot here, like the kind of hot where I cannot bring myself to walk outside at 10 in the morning to walk 12  feet to the garden. I spend a good part of the day bargaining with myself, trying to weasel my way out of the meal plan for the day so I can avoid turning on the stove. By the time I capitulate it is too late to stick with the plan and so we have been carving away at a 15 lb. ham, eating a lot of eggs, and frying hamburgers (not that that's any cooler, but it is fast and we really like burgers around here). Raw salads have been the mainstay side since I am just too fucking hot and lazy to cook a vegetable, but I want to love my salad, not just chew it. And I just cannot go one more night thinking of people pouring olive oil and vinegar on their salads and lying to themselves that it tastes good...a slimy leaf, an acid-bath leaf, a dry leaf...nor can I stomach the idea of people pouring (soybean oil, corn syrup, silica?!) bottled dressing all over their greens and calling it food. I actually die a little inside when I open a refrigerator and see bottled dressings. Enough that I am willing to pour olive oil and vinegar on my salad and lie to myself that it tastes great.  This heat is bringing out the winning-est points of my personality. I'll quit while I'm ahead. What I'm trying to say is, make your dressing at home. You will feel competent and thrifty and it will be delicious, and you will not be ingesting anti-caking agents.

Here's my basic dressing. We make three or four standard dressings and this is the easiest. I make it in a jam jar and get a few good runs out of a batch. Why does it taste so much better than just dousing your tender little green salad friends in olive oil and vinegar? I don't know, mustard seed magic?  Having it premixed in the refrigerator means that a can of tuna or smoked oysters and a bag of washed greens just turned into a lunch worth eating, versus a lunch worth wolfing down. A good quality balsamic will cost you a bit more but makes a world of difference.

Basic Balsamic Dressing

2 tablespoons Balsamic vinegar
3-4 tablespoons olive oil (I use extra virgin)
1 heaping teaspoon whole-grain Dijon mustard
cracked black pepper, about 1/4 teaspoon
optional: 1 clove crushed garlic

Put everything in the jam jar, hand it to the baby to shake and turn up the Chaka Khan, or shake it yourself, well, until you break a sweat in your hot kitchen. Stores well for ever in the refrigerator. I like to dress the whole salad before I serve it, tossing it with my hands so leaves are evenly coated.

The no-no list, and the yes! instead list

(beautiful hand-sewn kitchen towel from my friend Molly).

Short, sweet and to the point, since I don't much care for focusing on the negative. And because there are a bazillion web and print resources that go into great detail about what to eat and not to eat, etc.

Not in my kitchen:

• Seed oils, anything that pretend to be butter but isn't, shortening
• Grains. There hasn't been a bag of flour in my house in three years. We use coconut flour or almond meal for the occasional treat. 
•  Legumes. Not a bean in sight.
• Processed food - this includes juice, salad dressings, condiments like ketchup and mayonnaise, relish...
• Sugar
• Peanuts
• Potatoes
• Soy-based foods
• Corn (with the exception of popcorn, which we serve as an occasional treat for the kids).
• Beer

What you will find:

• Loads of produce and fresh fruit
• Coconut oil, grass-fed butter, grass-fed ghee when I am inspired to make it, grass-fed beef tallow, lard from pastured pork, olive oil
• Organic sausages, bacon, cold cuts - nitrate free - used sparingly
• A chest freezer full of our cow share and our pork share, all grass-fed and local, wild-caught seafood, the occasional pastured chicken, quart jars of bone broth, salsa, and teaspoon-sized pellets of beef liver to add to ground meat
• Eggs - from our hens, we also buy free-range eggs from the local Farmer's Market 
• Lacto-fermented foods: kimchi, fermented tea, saurkraut
• Nuts, nut butters (almonds, walnuts, macademias, pecans are favorites)
• Dried fruit
• Whole-fat coconut milk in tetra packs
• Vinegars and other cultured condiments, like coconut aminos, tamari, and fish sauce
• Dried medicinal herbs like nettle, oatstraw and burdock
• Sea vegetables
• Herbs and spices
• Celtic sea salt
• Tea and coffee
• Canned fish: sardines, smoked oysters, salmon and tuna (packed in olive oil or water)
• Maple syrup and raw honey
• Whole fat plain yogurt (for the kids)
• Raw/artisan cheese (sparingly)
• Organic heavy cream, for occasional treats
• Fermented cod liver oil

and usually:

• Dark chocolate (without soy lecithin)
• Wine

(the two food groups, right?).

This isn't to say we don't have the occasional treat. This is to say that I don't routinely keep them in the house.

Not in our bedrooms:

• Television (actually, not in my house - it lives in the garage and comes out for special occasions only)
• Any light-emitting devices, like clocks or electronic equipment
• An alarm clock - I have kids!

But you will find:

• Shades that make for a very dark room
• A very comfortable bed

Not in my life (at least worthy as a goal!):

• Sustained undertakings and people that stress me out, pull me away from my family without giving back richly, or feed negative behavior patterns.
• Sedentary behaviors
• Consumerist-based forms of entertainment that encourage me to spend money, be passive, disconnect from my family and use material resources
• A jammed schedule
• Extremes in parenting - either too strict or too permissive
• An absence of spiritual connection

Instead I fill my life with:

• People who love me and my family, who feel good to be around, and who inspire me and challenge me
• A commitment to move my body daily - be that through chores, a walk with the kids or dog, a stop at the gym or a run with a friend
• A sincere commitment to living frugally, and developing life-skills that are as useful as they are fun (like gardening, canning, knitting and sewing)
• Community-based pastimes like Toddler Art Group and our homeschool group, and our gym, that encourage connection, spirit and creativity
• A schedule built around the concept of rhythm - time to contract, time to flow, lots of flexibility and space built into it
•  A commitment, renewed daily (sometimes minute by minute) to parent in a proactive, peaceful, collaborative way.
• A spiritual practice based on gratitude, awareness, inter-connectedness and the power of affirmation.

On our path these past few years we have changed a lot of habits to get to this place. Yes, we've changed the food in our house. But so many of the changes have been so much more monumental to me: walking away, slowly but surely, from a job that I loved dearly, but that drained my energy and emotions for the love of it, and left me too shelled out to be the parent and wife I like to be. We've made choices about our money that insure us security and good food, but I am still cooking in a (slightly ripped apart) circa-1950's kitchen, we rarely eat out, and, surprise surprise, bling bling ain't happening here. One of the dearest part of all of this, to me, has been my transformation to my feelings about money. We have less than we have had in the past, sure, but I feel incredibly content. We make these choices not out of the primary motivation to get ahead or save a buck, but because they are right: right for us, for our commitment to our Earth, our community, our family, each other. Giving up the physically grueling aspect of a sport I loved (distance running) in order to be better rested and more fit, learning to accept small messes, an imperfect house, half-completed projects and lost connections in the name of some sleep and family time - those have been big lessons, and are works in progress, really.



Recently we made a very conscious choice for me to give up most of my "down time" (time I would have, more or less to myself, while Benen was in school and Gemma napped or played)  in favor of homeschooling. Which has meant, more than ever before, that I have to cultivate self-care with vigilance. So on that note, I'm heading home and going to bed (I'm in the reading room of our local library, stealing my quiet moment).

But I wonder: what have you changed, or what would you like to change? Really, I would like to hear.

The empty chair

I believe in the home-cooked meal and the sit-down dinner.

It's old-fashioned, and a little fussy and inconvenient. But to me, it's a boat in the rocky ocean of the end-of-the-day with two small children. More than likely someone didn't nap, or someone didn't get to play Candyland 16 times, or Jeff is stuck in traffic. There are a million excuses to skip the whole affair, heat up some hot dogs, and call the day a wash - every day. Regardless, we sit down.

It took me years - years, people - to make peace with washing my dishes by hand every night (no dishwasher in this house). It took me slightly less time to make peace with my obligations as a parent to set the tone for a connected and loving family - all the way through the witching hour of dinner. All of these things took work. It took time to teach myself how to cook, to plan menus, and it takes a minute, pretty much daily, to muster courage - because that's what it takes to make a meal with a toddler laying on the floor between your feet, eager to, um, "help" me cook while the five year old is doing something vaguely electrical in the garage- to commit to dinner on the table.

Of course it would be so simple to tune out on the computer, open a bottle of wine and a package of salami, encourage Jeff to heat some left-overs when he got home, serve the small people freezer waffles and grapes, and call it a day. But it would break my heart, and I'd be left terribly hungry and drunk, and they would complain - and, p.s. no freezer waffles here. And it would be such a crime, because here is the scoop I am learning about feeding children: they like to eat with us. They like to sit down at the table, and talk over us, and drop sweet potatoes on the dog, and scream until they are nursed five minutes into dinner. And I like it, too.

Our mornings are full of reliable rhythms. By afternoon things always unravel, usually in the form of a naked free-for-all (by them) involving mud and shovels while I cook, and the dinner table is a locus to recenter and reconnect before we head off to bath time and bed. Sometimes it is the first time since breakfast that I sit down, deliberately and with full attention, and talk to my children (I'm talking to them all day, trust me, but at dinner we are all less busy and the focus is on each other). It's usually the only time in the day I get to talk to my husband.

To be honest, it felt like an enormous pain in the ass when we started sitting down every night to eat together. I was pregnant with Gemma, and I was determined to establish patterns of gathering that would help steer us through our days. Benen was four and...recalcitrant. We insisted, gently, daily. Now I know we would be lost without it.

I tried to pull a fast one on the kids a few weeks ago when Jeff was on an evening bike ride. I did heat up hot dogs, and sliced some cucumbers, and served the whole gourmet affair with grapes. I poured myself a glass of Sauvignon Blanc and sat down to my Applegate Farm Organic Nitrate-Free Grass Fed Woowoo Hot Dog and I fully intended to zone out with my trashy vampire love story. And Benen called me out on it: "Mama, no books at the table! Mama, what made you happy today"? (It's our version of grace, and gratitude practice, that we each go around the table and tell what made us happy that day. Benen usually does a ventriloquist act for the baby in which he figures as the hero: deep voice: Gemma Louise, what made you happy today? squeaky baby voice: Um, Benen George)! So that's what I've created, little beams of conversant light at my table.

The process has been long, but it has also weathered our transition from creating special meals for Benen to eating the same thing as a family. No special foods for the kiddos. What you see is what you get. I make an effort to include one nutrient-dense food that I know they have enjoyed in the past, and we leave it at that. Resisting the temptation to haggle and bribe at the table is something I could improve upon. But usually, everyone eats. We laugh a little, we throw food on the floor, someone cries or spits, we share the events of our day, and we eat.

Ahem. Lest I sound to lovey-groovy here, let me say: sometimes there's an empty chair. Sometimes there are two empty chairs. Sometimes it's just me and Gemma, with our napkin rings and water bottles, and two untouched place-settings staring at us. Because I can muster all the energy in the world to keep my end of the bargain, but life happens, and sometimes Daddy is kept away. And sometimes, after sitting down, I am told, in slightly hysterical tones that five year olds are very, very good at: I don't like that!. (That is usually something he has eaten bucket-loads of before. Ah, to be fickle and five). I can encourage a taste (with the option of spitting it out, always considered good fun to watch if you are the baby) but I am not so good at mind-control and forcing the issue, and rather than endure twenty minutes of chair gymnastics and gun noises, we give Benen the option of being excused and hanging out it in his room. An option that he has been exercising liberally as of late.

Benen once woke Jeff up at three in the morning complaining he was hungry and Jeff made him eggs, sucker. I'll make him eggs at 8:30 in the morning.

I see his absence as an inhalation of air, a growing sense of self, as he approaches six. It's just a season, a season where it is more important for him to feel sovereign over choice than it is for him to feel connected with us at the table. I fully expect that an exhale will follow, and he'll be back with us every night, talking (and talking, and talking) and eating enthusiastically. Surely the proud mama in me cringes when he opts to leave the table, but I'm walking that tightrope that all parents walk, hoping to honor our children as much as we hope to share our values. I've learned one thing in no uncertain terms in my five years as his mother: I won't win a food battle. That doesn't mean I have to surrender to his whim (we would be eating popcorn and hot chocolate five! times! a day!), but it does mean I can use those 38+ years of experience I've gained to creatively - and sensitively - feed him. I'm waiting him out. Someday he'll be 15 and playing some kind of sweaty, grunty sport, and growing hair and muscles in places I once cuddled and cooed over, and he will be hungry.

I've got a place set for him, and any sweaty, grunty friends he might want to bring home, too. But they have to tell me what made them happy that day.

The Key

I wanted to tell you all about the chicken I roasted Wednesday, because believe me (and we are picky about our roasted chicken around these parts) it was news-worthy. And I will get to that, in good time. But something sits a little more present in my heart than roasted chicken right now, even if the baby did suck the bones meatless and drink all the juice. (If you can't wait, I'll say this: pastured chickens, and David Tanis).

Spirit running. That is what I want to tell you about today.

We've established that I am a little bit of a dirty hippy. That when my friend says to me, after hearing me pour out a knot in my soul, "I will ask the trees to take care of that for you" I just say thank you and mean it, deeply. That showers are not as high on my priority list as fermenting kimchi or making Little Red Riding Hood finger puppets. So bear with me when I talk about this peculiar form of metta that has transformed my loneliness and occasional self-loathing into tender connection with all the aching in the world.

Metta, in practice and in word, is lovingkindness. Sending out an intention of hope for peace, fearlessness, and ease to all living things, yourself included, holding all living things in equal regard. It's the root of compassionate living, the action essential for coming closer to a place of acceptance and understanding for the tough, wild world we inhabit. I first learned lovingkindness practice when I was seven months pregnant with Benen, laying on my side on an enormous Oriental rug in the Craftsman living room of a Berkeley midwife-cum-Buddhist teaching mindfulness parenting and childbirth classes, in preparation for our home birth. Just in case you were skeptical about the hippy credentials.

Classic metta practice starts with yourself. You focus your intention with some breaths in and out, and then send yourself lovingkindness: may I live with ease, may I be free from fear, may I know peace, may I be happy. You cast the net of kind intention out further and further as you ride the meditation through: to your family, those you love very best, to the people in the room with you, to your community, your city, your state, your country, to the world, to George Bush and Saddam Hussein and every small child in the world, to every criminal and parent and lonely person and dog and insect, repeating the intention for all. I envision that when this works well, your heart is glowing like a red ember, your smile is soft and quiet, and your body is shining with the rightness of your regard for the world.

Well. Forget sending metta to the crooks and tyrants. I could never get past myself. For while it was easy, so so easy, to send a dear and heartfelt wish to my tiny unborn baby, to his Daddy, to all the men and women in my life and in the room and in my community toiling and working, it was nearly impossible for me to send it to myself. As soon as I sent myself these telegrams of benevolence, my ego would rise up and argue - peace is not possible for you, you fear far too much to ever be without, and the whole practice would fall apart, and I would be left with frustration, and more self-doubt, and a very hollow-feeling practice.

I clung to metta, practicing it with half-hearted diligence, for many years. I argued it. The more time elapsed, the less hopeful I felt for myself. Perhaps peace would always elude me. Perhaps this inner critic was telling the truth. The turbulence of being a mother to young children certainly didn't help. A quiet heart is a rarity for me. But I don't like to think I'm that different from others. The path that I am pursuing is a path open to anyone who desires it and works at it. I knew what I lacked was not discipline or faith, but a key, a way of seeing that fit for me.

Earlier this year, I started sitting some evenings with a group at a church near my home. The instructor was everything I never liked in a teacher: impersonal, quiet, maybe a little uptight?, and full of nervous tics and throat-clearing that made me want to rocket out of my seat. When, after a few weeks, I asked him about my problem with metta practice, he surprised me (oh the beauty of people!): "Can you tell that critical voice to shut up? Can you just say, Fuck You, I'm busy right now, you'll have to come back later?".
I could. Still I struggled, but at least I felt I had some purchase on finding some peace. Fuck You, I'm Busy is right up my alley in the lexicon of protective mechanisms. Plus, it made me like him a whole lot more that he was so insightfully crass.
Each session we ended with a brief practice of metta. A few weeks later, he handed me the key I didn't know I needed. Since then metta has blossomed into a visceral, tender exercise for me. I can access it in a way I never could before, and I can conveniently sidestep the critic by use of a proxy in my heart. Here is how it works:

The Key

Start the practice by inviting into your heart someone you love and admire dearly, someone who embodies great kindness to you. (This was easy for me. I have no shortage of people in my life that I adore. Instinctively my mind invited in our midwife, who has birthed our two babies with us and cared for me through the extremes of my pregnancies. She possesses a spiritual force and earthy maternity that is, above all, calm and non-judging. She was just what my heart needed).

Hold this person in your heart and sense the peace and kindness they exude. Sit with them and enjoy sharing your heart with them.

Speaking through them, give metta to yourself. Have them wish you ease, freedom from suffering and fear, a life of peace and happiness.

Enjoy the warmth of accepting this person's kind intentions. Carry this warmth further, extending metta to those in the room, those in your family, community, etc.

At the end, I always thank Beah for residing in my heart. Somehow knowing that I can invite her kindness in at any moment, that I can borrow her experience and energy to help steer me right, has been monumental in changing my practice, and my relationship to compassion.

So what does inviting an Earth Mother into your heart to love you when you cannot love yourself have to do with a Paleo lifestyle?

I'm not so sure, but something makes me want to say: everything. This lifestyle we have embraced, it's an inside job. It's about being strong and energetic and healthy, yes, but none of that is worth anything without a soul that is connected, that is contributing to the world. The vastness of the human spirit and the capacity to love are the biggest marvels of my daily life. I see it in my children, in my husband, in my friends. It happens on the floor of the gym and at the kitchen counter. It's the magic and the impetus for everything I do.

Today we had a Hero Workout scheduled at our gym. Hero Workouts honor American men and women who have died in the line of duty. They are named after a particular hero, and where most of our workouts are short and intense, these workouts are grueling and long. One typically gets one's self through the mental struggle of a Hero Workout by reminding ones' self that the person it is named for is dead, and you are not. It sounds dramatic and it is. Twenty minutes into my workout, I was feeling pretty tapped out. I wanted to go home. I wanted caffeine. I wanted a shower. I wanted to sit down. When I push myself physically, past the point where uncomfortable was ten minutes ago, a vast vulnerability opens to me. More than once I have cried at the gym. This morning, as I headed out on the last mile of the workout, I summoned strength. I didn't want to run alone, I didn't want to listen to the negative haggling in my mind as my tired muscles covered the mile of pavement.

So I invited someone in. Not my midwife, who, just being honest, I don't see as much of a runner. But a good friend, someone I have run many miles with, and who moved away this summer. "Hi Brook", I said to her, as she ran up alongside me and matched my pace. My words were no longer my own. I felt her, the way a heart sings joy when you hold your baby. "I've missed you". My voice cracked and tears welled in my throat. I know I have been missing her, but goodness, here was all the loss welled up in that vulnerable space I was telling you about. I almost had to stop. My breathing became so ragged that I had to slow down for a minute, get my throat relaxed, swallow the tears. But I ran in tandem with her, slowly increasing the tempo of my pace, because I was always chasing her when we ran together. My mind was held by her presence. There was no self-doubt or criticism. Perhaps I lack mental fortitude for summoning others when the shit hits the fan. But then what is interdependence for, if not to carry us through the hardest and darkest parts of our lives? The last 400 meters we gathered speed, I was not running in a parking lot past dumpsters and cars, I was running in the heart of what really matters, in the place where love and belief can carry you further than you dare to imagine, in a place where for those last eight minutes we were both at ease, and free of fear, and full of peace, and happy.

And that is Spirit Running.

So in whatever you do that is hard today, and tomorrow, and the next: may you be at ease, may you be free from fear, may you know peace and happiness. May you call into your heart whomever holds you up, and may you know that you are never alone.
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How do you summon kindness?

Step up to the plate

I keep standard mom crap on my refrigerator. Art work, schedules, a calendar, a to-do list. But my favorite thing is a small list of single-sentence reminders that lead me into the kind of empathic and inspired parenting I (try try!) to practice. The first sentence is so elegant to me: Just for today, step up to the plate and be the parent.

It's easy for me to forget that one. It's easy for me to want to jump into the boxing ring with the five year old. It's easy for me to give up and yell and be five myself. It's easy for me to get carried away in an emotional tide when I spend all day with really small people that have really big emotions, and it's not so easy for me to remember that I can cast a wide and strong net of loving intention to counter that tide. So I cherish the reminder.

Every time I read it, I say under my breath: "and swing!". Because it's not enough for me to think like a  big girl. This house needs action. We need an example. We need mama to show us how it's done.

And that is where I start to think of all the places in my life where things become infinitely better when I just step up to the plate (and swing). Food's a good place to start, but it's just one place.

I'll be honest, I want you to eat well. I want you to love your food, know where it came from, have a hand in preparing it, and enjoy the whole process. A friend once told me that her philosophy towards dinner was that not every night had to be a celebration - I think her point was that sometimes a simple dinner is all that's needed- but I bristled at the thought of not having a celebration each evening. Doesn't mean we clink the crystal and light candles every night at the Meaty house (though we probably do more than many), but we do have small threads of custom that bring us to the table and hold us there while we eat.That is celebration, in my book. I look forward to dinner every night, even on the nights when I don't feel much like cooking, or the nights when we totally ruin the food, or someone at the table is out of sorts, or wailing, or angry, or missing - because through all of this, we are still sitting at the table, we are still connecting. So yessirreebob, I want you to know what I know - that joy of connection. That means more to me than a tasty grass-fed rib eye. But it's all up to you. You are the one who must step up to the plate.

And that means you have to act. You have to decide how you want to feel, how you want to work. Health is our birthright. How different people experience health is up to them. It is not our birthright to gain two pounds a year for the rest of our lives, manage our stress and fatigue with caffeine and alcohol, and reach for a prescription when we experience discomfort or pain. But many of us have determined, to varying degrees, that that is our right. (I'm not exempt here. Did you see how big my coffee mug was this morning?). By virtue of failing to grasp our birthright, we have, in essence, stepped up to a plate where we are never asked to swing. When I am feeling less than vibrant in my health and life, it is ultimately because I am failing to take responsibility for some part of my life. I am choosing to squander sleep in favor of reading, or (fill in the blank.. drink too much, eat too much sugar, not watch my words with my children), you get the idea.


Of course our world makes it easy to deny our birthright, and of course you know this, too! Convenience is to be had if only you lose sight of your birthright.  Radical thinking, making your family a place of peace and joy, building communities, and social justice - these things just can't take place if you are too sluggish, anxious, fat, zoned-out or depressed to take care of yourself and your own family. Before I throw myself over the conspiracy-theory ledge, let me just back up and say: it's hard to be connected to joy, and to each other, when we are mired in physical and emotional misery.

I don't much mind what you decide to eat. I think eating Paleo makes ecological and biological sense, but I am not about to begrudge you your sandwich. I don't think it's the only way to eat. I do think it's right for us, and we have been doing it for a long time now. I do think you should accept responsibility for what you decide to eat, and understand how what you are eating is affecting your body and your spirit.

I  do think your choices - in food, in lifestyle, in parenting, in all things- should be mindful and intentional. I think you should step up to the plate, and then, oh yes, I think you should swing.

Because here's what's on the other side of the swing: another turn at bat. Eating well takes some work. Cooking your own food takes work, sourcing local meat and produce takes a little legwork. Getting to bed early enough to give yourself some deep, quality sleep takes some discipline. Sitting down to dinner as a family, or to breakfast, or even just for a snack together - like a fricking three-ring circus, sometimes. Turning off the computer and playing outside with your kids might take work. Stopping at one glass of wine might take work. Speaking kindly, or not at all: sometimes that requires a little effort. Here is what I know, and here is what I practice: Being a happy woman takes work. Swing!
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When you step up to the plate, what do you whisper to yourself?