Every few months I resolve to be greener in my approach to household cleaning products. I go out and buy some new non-toxic cleaner that won’t leach chemicals into my house. Most recently I purchased a concentrated cleaner from Shaklee. Just mix it with water and it will clean anything in your home, my Shaklee rep promised. Well, I tried it on everything in my home and, guess what, it didn’t clean a darn thing. Not the grimy windows, not the greasy stove, and certainly not the ring of soap scum in my tub. Anywhere serious cleansing power was needed, Shaklee was not up to the job. So what do I do? Well, I pull out my Windex, my 409, and my Tilex Soap Scum Remover and I get this house clean! But I’m not happy about it; I worry about the chemicals I’m breathing in when I spray out this stuff. I worry about the toxins settling into the ground water or being washed out to sea. And I worry about the accumulation of toxins in my son’s little body and how they will affect his health as he grows older.

But then I think, how bad are these chemicals, really? I mean, if they were that bad, there would be a recall and the offending products would be pulled off the shelf, right? So maybe I don’t really need to worry about it. Except that I do worry about it and my brain feels like it might explode from going round and round on this issue. In order to even sleep at night, I have to focus on the small victories, like the fact that I switched my husband from using bar soap—which left a huge slimy scum trail underneath the soap tray in the bathtub—to a liquid body wash. I had tried for years to convince him to use my body wash but he stubbornly resisted. Finally I bought him some manly Suave Body Wash for Men in a dark blue masculine bottle and he started using it. So thumbs up for me; the huge slimy soap scum trail no longer exists in my tub. And that not only cuts down on chemicals used, it cuts down on the effort and time needed to clean. Win-win all around!

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Do you have any green solutions you’d like to share? Please let us know in the comments!

The events of last week made me question my decision to become a parent. My son was VERY DIFFICULT last week. Perhaps it was because he was just getting over an ear infection; perhaps it was because he is freaked out that we’ve put our house up for sale; or perhaps he just occasionally needs to be a Royal-Pain-in-the-Ass. Whatever the reason, he would not cooperate in any way with any request. Now, I try to be polite and positive with my son. I try to respect his preferences for a certain cup, a particular shirt, or a specific routine. But there are times when he just needs to SHUT UP and do what I tell him. Last Wednesday morning was one of those times.

Mornings in general are difficult for my son. He likes to eat his breakfast over the course of an hour, nibbling a piece of cereal here, taking a sip of orange juice there, and drawing a picture all the while. Then, perhaps, he’ll get dressed. At five, my son is perfectly capable of dressing himself. Yet, a reminder from me to get dressed results in a litany of whining: “Mommy, you dress me. Mommy, I can’t get dressed. Mommy, I need you. Mommy, I fell down.” This last is accompanied by a dramatic dive to the ground where he rolls around yelling, “Mommy, help me. Mommy, I fell down. Mommy, mommy, I can’t get up.” Even through my annoyance, this reminds me of the 1980’s commercial where the old lady has fallen and can’t get up so I sort of laugh but I’m also irritated. Usually, at this point, in order to head off a full-fledged temper tantrum, I go into his room and get him dressed.

But last Wednesday, perhaps because of a lack of sleep, not enough caffeine, or the accumulation of three month’s worth of attempts to get him out of the house and to school on time, I lost my temper and yelled at him. I rarely yell at my son. I put on my stern voice sometimes, but mostly I speak to him with patience and courtesy. He was so shocked at being yelled at that he ran to his room and hid in his closet. I abandoned any schedule I had hoped to keep and left him in there for about an hour, while I made myself a cup of hot tea with extra honey and checked my emails.

He finally came out of his room and peeked into the office and said in a small cute voice, “Mommy, I don’t want you to be mad at me anymore.” I swallowed the rest of my anger and pulled him onto my lap where we had a nice conversation about behavior and cooperation. The rest of the day, he stuck close by me and gave me lots of hugs and kisses. “Mommy, I love it when you love me,” he said. Who could resist that?

It’s been rainy and warm here lately, not my favorite combination of weather conditions. I like a rainy day and I like a warm day but not together. I prefer rainy and cool or sunny and warm. But I can’t control the weather any more than I can control my lust for chocolate so I just keep eating it and eating it—I mean, putting up with it. But all these clouds have got me feeling kind of blue. Or perhaps it’s the piss-poor economy, or the mood-changing Clomid I’m taking to try to get pregnant, or the overwhelming task of packing up boxes to prepare for our move to a new house. Whatever the reason, this November rain has got me down.

I’m fighting back with exercise, green tea, and chocolate, the first two to offset the last. I’ve stepped up my walking routine to include the occasional 10-minute jog. I even go in the rain. I usually like a rainy day and it doesn’t bother me at all to get wet (unlike my wussy husband). I’m also drinking my Yogi Energy Tea (http://yogitea.com). I love this stuff; it’s green tea with caffeine and it comes in a cool box. It promises “a natural energy boost.” And, lastly, I’m eating lots of chocolate. I’ve completely abandoned my Chocolate-Only-On-Weekends rule, but only temporarily. I’ll get back to it soon. I swear. For now, though, it’s really helping me through my dark days. So it’s totally worth it. Really. I also treated myself to two Cokes this week instead of one. Then I drank half of each bottle each day so I really had four days of Coke this week. Okay, so that’s probably not so great, considering the fact that it took me two years to kick my addiction to the stuff.

Another thing I’m doing to fight the blues is cleaning and decluttering. I find it soothing to live in a house with no crap lying around junking it up. After I get rid of the clutter, I clean. You’d be surprised how much a sparkling, uncluttered house can spark your energy levels. Completing unfinished projects really helps, too. I sewed two buttons on my husband’s coat and one back onto my son’s pajama top. Wow! It only took me 10 minutes but I felt so much better afterwards.

More rain is being predicted for next week, but it’s supposed to be cold this time. This is better for me because the cold gets me moving. The heat slows me down and makes me grumpy. But there will still be clouds and it’s still November, so I’m stockpiling supplies of chocolate and tea. I purchased a new rain coat with a liner so I’m all set for long walks in the cold, rainy days ahead. Fighting the blues is a daily battle; some days you win, some days you lose, but it’s always worth the fight.

A barista at my local Starbucks is interested in my caffeine intake. A recent conversation with said barista went something like this.

Me: I’d like a tall Chai Tea Latte, please.

Barista: Sure. Uh, do you know that the Chai has caffeine in it?

Me: Yes.

Barista: Well…you’re pregnant, right?

Me: Uh, yeeeees.

Barista: (Hesitantly) I just needed to let you know that.

Me: O-kaaaay.

A bit surprised and not able to eloquently communicate all it was that I was thinking in that moment, I feebly walked over to the pick-up counter to wait for my drink. (Perhaps one of my biggest weaknesses is not being able to clearly communicate in uncomfortable situations.)

In my mind though, I was hopping mad. I do happen to know that a Starbucks Chai contains caffeine and I also know exactly how much – 75 mg for a tall cup, well within the daily 200 mg recommendation for pregnant women. I’ve done the research so that I can indulge every now and then when I’d like a treat.

Standing there waiting, I could feel the eyes of other customers on me, no doubt thinking that I’m a horrible person for drinking a caffeinated beverage while pregnant. I might as well of whipped out a cigarette and a flask of whiskey and really indulged myself.

Over dinner that night, I told the story to my husband. He said, “Maybe it’s a Starbucks policy for employees to notify pregnant customers of beverages that contain caffeine. You know, for liability purposes.”

“Well then do they inform obese customers about the number of calories in their brownies?” I shot back at him.

In all honesty, I hadn’t considered his point of view and it got me thinking. So I called Starbucks Customer Service and spoke to a very pleasant woman who wanted to help answer my question. She called the location of the Starbucks where I purchased my drink and asked about the store’s employee policies.

After a couple of minutes, she returned to the line to tell me that it is not an employee requirement to inform pregnant women of the amount of caffeine in its beverages. She went on to say that the barista probably had good intentions, but it was clearly not an appropriate thing to say and proper communication skills would be defined to the barista.

And would I like to receive a couple of coupons for my next visit to a Starbucks? Sure, I would like that indeed.

I’m reading an incredibly well-researched book called “The World Without Us” by Alan Weisman. It’s also an alarming book in that it uncovers ways in which humans have changed our environment, usually for the worse. One part that particularly stuck with me was about a seemingly innocuous product, a small plastic resin micropellet known as a nurdle. Nurdles are typically under 5mm in diameter and are formed as a raw material or are ground down from larger plastic elements.

Something that small can’t possibly be harmful to the environment, can it? According to British marine biologist Richard Thompson, (as reported in Weisman’s book) it can. He studied 40 years of water samples taken around the British Isles and discovered that the incidence of plastic in the ocean tripled from the 1960′s to the 1990′s. Most disturbing was that the samples had been taken at a depth of 10 meters rather than at the surface, where most plastic floats, indicating that they had measured just a portion of the true amount of plastic swirling in our seas. Worse, the grinding action of waves against shorelines reduced the particles to a smaller and smaller size, and finally into a powder. Smaller particles means that smaller organisms can ingest them. Thompson ran an experiment where he fed appropriately-sized plastic particles to lugworms, sand fleas, and barnacles, each of which consumed them. Smaller particles passed through the digestive tracts but larger ones stuck to the intestines to cause fatal constipation.

Plastic does not biodegrade; Thompson and his team estimate that plastic particles will be around for thousands of years. Also problematic is that plastic absorbs harmful toxins from everyday items like copy paper and fluorescent lights. Animals that ingest these chemical-laden plastics will suffer unknown effects from the release of these poisons. Pre-1970 PCB-injected plastic (polychlorinated biphenyls, much of which is still floating on our oceans, is known to cause hormonal disorders in fish and polar bears.

So what does this mean for you, the average person living your life and minding your own business? After all, you aren’t the one dumping nurdles into the ocean. Except that you are, if you are using any of the new facial scrubs like Neutrogena’s Deep Clean Gentle Scrub. I was seduced into buying this and abandoning my old standby, St. Ives Apricot Scrub, by a commercial with a young glowing woman who applied the gentle microbeads to her already flawless skin, washing away a busy day’s worth of blackhead-causing dirt and oil while simultaneously exfoliating dull, dead surface skin to reveal healthy, fresh skin below. That’s right, nurdles have found their way into facial scrubs.

Anything called a microbead is suspect. In the ingredients listing, look for anything with the word polyethylene in it. Polyethylene is plastic; avoid it. For myself, I’ll be going back to my tried-and-true St. Ives, which relies on ground up walnut shells for its exfoliating properties. I can’t stem the production of 250 billion pounds of nurdles annually, but I can keep them out of my shower.

Read the Book:

Learn More:
http://nonurdles.com/
http://earthfirst.com/many-face-scrubs-contain-tiny-water-polluting-beads-of-plastic/
http://www.slate.com/id/2193693/

I walk.

I walk in the cool morning air, I walk in the late afternoon sun, I walk in the evening’s chill. I walk fast, I walk slow, I stop to take pictures. I walk up hill, I walk downhill, I walk around the track at a nearby state park.

I walk.

I walk in the woods, I walk around my neighborhood, I walk on the treadmill at the YMCA. I walk in the woods for a spiritual experience, just myself on a leaf-strewn path among towering trees. I walk around my neighborhood when I’m pressed for time. There’s nothing spiritual about this walk; I spend most of the walk cataloging my neighbors’ landscaping mistakes. On bitterly cold or very rainy days I walk on the treadmill at the Y. I spend this time critiquing other people’s bodies, my own fat butt flopping up and down behind me.

I walk.

I walk, I walk, I walk. I walk a mile-and-a-half loop around my development, I walk for two hours on wooded trails, I walk for 30 minutes on the treadmill. I don’t lose weight. I go home and reward myself with a brownie (or three).

I walk.

I walk to clear the cobwebs from my brain. I walk to energize my creativity. I walk for fitness and for strength. I walk for myself.

I walk.

I’m not a health nut. Let me start by saying that. I’ve always been somewhat concerned about what I put into my body and now that I’m a mom, that concern has only multiplied. But after a casual lunch conversation about four years ago, I have waged my own personal war against high fructose corn syrup (HFCS).

During said lunch, I was drinking a bottle of Lipton Brisk Iced Tea and somehow my co-worker and I got into a discussion about the label’s list of ingredients. (I’m quite the riveting lunch conversationalist.) One of the many polysyllabic ingredients was HFCS and my co-worker pointed out that it’s everywhere, in practically everything we consume. I thought he was exaggerating. However, after raiding my pantry later that day and reading labels, I realized that his statement held a lot of truth. Uncovering the HFCS soon became a game for us. We came into work each day naming new products that contained it. Cereals! Bread! Fruit drinks! Ketchup! Wait – ketchup?!? Yes, ketchup! The game continued on and on, sadly, as the list was seemingly endless.

This game was turning into something much more serious for me. I wanted to know more about high fructose corn syrup and what harm it could cause. A little research explained that HFCS is a sweetener created by processing cornstarch into fructose with the help of enzymes. A cheaper alternative to sugar, HFCS extends the shelf life of processed foods and drinks, so it’s hardly a surprise that it’s included in so many items we eat.

The problem though is that processed foods made with HFCS are high in calories and low in nutritional value. Consuming these items on a regular basis – and considering how ubiquitous HFCS is, that’s not very hard to do – can contribute to weight problems, which in turn can promote conditions like type 2 diabetes, high blood pressure, and coronary artery disease. Couple this information with the fact that obesity rates in America grow higher each year and it starts to make a gal wonder.

So when I saw recent commercials from the Corn Refiners Association claiming that HFCS is essentially the same as sugar, I was surprised, not to mention annoyed. Considering that HFCS is processed, it can’t compare to the intrinsically natural quality of sugar. How could it? Although the commercials would have consumers believe that it can, it’s interesting to note that funding for the Corn Refiners Association’s research came from companies like Pepsi Co. and the American Beverage Association, who would stand to benefit from the consumption of products made with HFCS. That’s not what I would consider credible research.

The fact that most of these commercials are targeted at moms makes me even more enraged. What’s a mom to do? For the past several years, few items with HFCS, if any, make it onto my weekly shopping list. It’s certainly challenging to find items without HFCS, but it can be done. For example, I’ve learned which brands of bread are HFCS-free (Vermont Bread Company and pretty much any brand from Trader Joe’s are quality choices), which granola bars (Quaker Simple Harvest is a winner), and which cereals (good old Cheerios is a tried and true option). Plus, I’ve been buying more whole foods – fresh fruits and vegetables and whole grains, which are better choices for my family anyway. This mom won’t blindly drink the Kool-Aid, nor will I fail to be able to articulate why HFCS is tough to swallow.

I got the coolest tampon case for my birthday. (See pic below.) I really love this thing: the cover design is fresh and dreamy and it opens up to hold two jumbo tampons or three slender ones. This is so much better than that plastic Ziploc bag I had been carrying around.

Tampon Case

The only bad thing about this case is that it would only get me about 2 hours of time away from the house. With my heavy periods, I can bust through a super tampon in an hour. So I’d need three of four of these puppies for an entire day away from home. Plus, where would I put the pads? I always double up: pads and tampons. Because leakage occurs, girlfriends.

Still, it’s a really cool little case. Thanks, mom!

(You can buy them at ClassicHardware.com)

It’s November 1st, the day after Halloween. It’s 10:21 a.m. and I’ve just dipped into my son’s candy haul and gobbled down 3 Snickers and 2 Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. The wrappers litter the table around me as the sugar hits my veins and pumps through my body. I close my eyes and think about all the things I have always liked about Halloween: the candy, the dressing up as someone else and going out after dark to collect candy, the candy, the candy, the candy.

Sure, other holidays have candy. Christmas, yes: homemade fudge, Hershey’s Kisses in my stocking, and desserts galore. Easter, for sure: chocolate bunnies and candy-coated chocolate eggs. But Halloween is unencumbered by all the religious gobbledy-gook that are attached to those two holidays. On Halloween, I’m not eating the flesh of Christ or an egg symbolizing the tomb that gave Jesus a rebirth. On Halloween, candy is just candy.

Even better, the whole point of Halloween is—you guessed it—the candy. Why do we get dressed up in scary costumes to go Trick-or-Treating? It’s not for fruits and vegetables, it’s for CANDY! Sure, Halloween started out as a pagan festival, scheduled for the last harvest days and start of the long winter which brought deaths to old and young. A day when the line between living and dead was blurred and spirits walked the earth. But that was a long time ago. Today, any kid will tell you that Halloween is all about the candy.

In fact, my son just made that clear last night. As my husband walked him around the neighborhood, collecting treats from indulgent neighbors, my son repeatedly exclaimed, “I LIKE Halloween. I mean I REALLY like Halloween. Even I like the CANDY. I can’t wait for NEXT Halloween.”

I used to have this unbridled enthusiasm for Halloween myself. It’s always been one of my favorite holidays. (Have I mentioned the candy?) But the older I get, the more it just seems another chore to struggle through. Pull out the storage boxes from the crawl space; clutter the house with bizarre and frightening creatures; locate, buy, and carve pumpkins; find candles for same; buy candy at the last minute to minimize overall exposure to its seductive force; dress the kid and take him around begging for food; pass out candy to other people’s greedy little kids; eat large quantities of candy over the next few weeks; walk around feeling permanently light-headed and sick to the stomach. Well, okay, the eating part I can handle.

This year, sick with a cold, recovering from a crappy day waiting in line at the DMV, tired and headachy, I found very little to like about Halloween (except, of course, the candy). The doorbell starting ringing while I was cleaning up the dishes. Someone in my immediate vicinity was actually heard to mutter, “F—ing kids!” I don’t know who said it, but I hightailed it to the door, plastered on a fake smile, and said, “Happy Halloween!” while holding out a large basket of assorted candy.

It’s always interesting to watch the kids make their choices. Some kids just plunge in a hand and come up with about eight pieces. To these I caution, “Only take two.” Most of the little brats ignore me and scamper off with their haul. The youngest children, whose parents hover nearby, can stand and stare at the basket for minutes, trying to decide on the best choice. Usually a parent will just grab a piece and hand it to the kid, then usher them away, eager to get the whole thing over with so they can go home and watch TV. I guess I would probably fall into this camp, but luckily my husband is a sweet and patient man and is willing to be the Trick-or-Treat leader for our son.

After several aborted attempts to wash the last cooking pan because of doorbell interruptions, I give it up and decide to fortify myself with a glass of wine. Luckily, my husband and son come home soon after and they take over the passing out candy duties. My son actually likes doing this. He carefully chooses one piece of candy and hands it delicately to each child. Mercifully, we run out of candy sooner than expected. Our last batch of kids were almost as tall as me and came in a posse of at least thirteen. Now that’s scary.

My son is hyped up on sugar and a Halloween High so it takes him a long time to fall asleep. But no sooner do we shut his door, my husband and I are inspecting the contents of his pumpkin bag. He’s still small enough to not notice missing candy so we delve in with impunity. Hershey’s Miniatures in my left hand and another glass of wine in my right, I mellow and start to remember again all the things I like about Halloween: the costumes, the candy, the pumpkins, the candy, the kids, and the candy.

Monsters eat everything.
Everything is not safe from a monster.
Monsters do not have an enemy.
They are the worst enemy on the planet.
Even the rock monster is the biggest monster on the planet.

My son dictated those lines to me last week. In case you can’t tell, he is obsessed with monsters. Not the hide-under-the-bed, go-bump-in-the-night kind of monster, but land monsters, sea monsters, rock monsters, and random everyday monsters. He talks about them, draws them, and acts like them. He makes up new ones and assigns habitats and personality traits to them. He writes books about monsters and illustrates the text that I write down for him. Here’s one that he did recently:

Some things that I am particularly proud of are the page numbers and the names of the monsters, Mantitalia and Jaligon. I also am impressed by the fact that he is writing little books with stories that (sort of) have a plot.

Now, if I could just get these published…