The walk to and from school each day gives me such an amazing window into the world of my children. My six year old wants so badly to walk. He never complains about it. Never remarks that the half-mile trip (one way) is too long or too boring. He absolutely loves to walk to school.

On the few mornings that we need to drive (the days when I work and have to drop him off to make a meeting), he lets out a long sigh and moans.

Yesterday, we left the house with a little spring in our step, lots of pretty leaves all over the place and it was a bit balmy outside. Felt wonderful. I pushed a stroller with my two youngest while my six year old walked next to me and said this “Hey mom, I love it when we walk to school.”

“Why honey?” I asked.

“Because I get to talk to you.”

Okay, seriously people, does it get better than that? I could not make this stuff up.

It’s like in that one statement all the horrible parenting moments of the last week were erased. Like the giant pink rectangle eraser they use in school. My walking to school and simply talking with my child wiped out an entire week of my short temper and “I need coffee before I can be nice to you” moments. Just like all the eraser dust on the paper, we walked to school and it all just sort of blew away.

So we walked. We talked about Star Wars and how many pockets he has on his backpack. We talked about why leaves fall off trees and why some people rake them and others do not. And, again, I kid you not, he asked me what people do with the leaves and I got to explain to him what composting was. seriously!

And know that not every moment is like this. Like right now, while I am blogging and it is pouring outside, he is watching the Deadliest Catch and is mesmerized by crab fishing on the Bering Sea. So yeah, not the best afternoon.

On the way home from dropping off my oldest, I was in a rush. Trying to get home so that I can get things done. We passed another mom cramming kids into a mini-van as quickly as possible, backpacks flying around, doors sliding shut.

We passed another woman trying to scoop up leaves off her driveway as quickly as she could. She looked like she was trying to make a quick dent in the raking before work.

Another woman came bolting out of her house, grabbed her Chicago Tribune off her sidewalk, and raced back inside as fast as she could.

I was panting and sweating from walking home so fast.

My middle son, my three year old then asked me this, “Mommy, why are all the ladies in such a hurry?”

Ahhh, very insightful, I thought.

“Why are all us ladies in a hurry?”

Now I am a feminist sort of gal and I have male friends who stay home with kids and mom friends who work. And this is not a discourse on gender roles. But at that moment, that walk home, everyone scurrying about was female.

And I was no different.

And I was suddenly aware that on the one hand, I was “Mom of the Year” as I had just walked to school and offered a discourse on composting (that was actually well received). And then in a matter of five minutes I was sprinting home with the stroller, launching my kids over cracks in the sidewalk. Sailing past other women fretting over the school drop off or the leaves.

“Why are all the ladies in such a hurry?”

I was in the driveway cramming them into the car for an errand when it hit me that I had suddenly stopped being that walking mom, that talking mom. I was now psycho, screaming mom. Hollering at them because they climbed into the car and then over the seat and were walking all over the front seats of the car with wet shoes.

I was upset because we’d lost a sippy cup somewhere along the way.

I was short-tempered because we had places to go, errands to run, and had less than three hours to do them before I needed to be the walking mom again and pick my oldest up from school.

I was no longer the walk to school and change the world mom. I was crazy, neurotic, drive all over the place mom.

And I chose to drive those errands that day. I had legitimate reasons. And this is not a blog post on why you should walk everywhere (although that does help).

But it is simply an observation of how crazy life got the moment I added my car into the picture. When my destination was a leisurely walk to school we were calm and collected. When my goal was to get home as fast as I could to jump in my car and drive all over town, it was chaos.

And if I walked some of those errands, I could not have accomplished as many tasks, but we could have continued to walk and talk. And if I can manage to walk and talk, then life is not such a hurry. And conversations that change little lives can happen.

Also known as “how to stuff your daughter into a new pair of jeans.”

A pure mama post.

Today I woke up our 22 month old and held her on my hip as we browsed the closet. Hair standing on end from a good night of sleep. All warm and soft after being under a fleece blanket for the night. We both stood in our pjs and digested the options for attire on a rainy Thursday in Chicago. “Spider shirt” she finally said.

Indeed, “spider shirt” it is.

An orange little hand me down number with black spiders wearing purple head bows and big green smiles.

“Spider shirt” she squealed when I set her down and slid it over hear head.

Next came the pants. Seemed a denim sort of day. Normally I dress her like I dress myself, lots of elastic. Who wants to be reminded of their waistline all day long?!

But today, denim it was. A cute little pair of Gap jeans I’d scored at a garage sale for a buck. And let me just say that I stumbled upon the best garage sale in the world last summer. Some mom with a ga-gillion dollar house had about 10 boxes of clothing in her garage. All name brand or boutique stuff that she likely had spent thousands on.

A frenzy of moms like myself were ripping through these boxes like madwomen, paying a dollar for barely or never worn items that originally had tags upwards of $30 or more. I grabbed a pair of little gap jeans with pink stitching all down the leg. “score,” I said to myself.

So today we finally donned that denim. It was tight. Really shapely for a pair of 2T jeans. As I started to wedge her baby legs into them she looked at me strangely. With a “hey mom, where are the stretchy yoga pants” sort of look. And they were only at her mid-thighs at this point.

And here is the part I will delete by the time she is in middle school. But at this age, her little thighs are so chubby and so amazingly, adorably cute that I could bite them! Oh I love them so!

But really, they don’t fit into this pair of hip little jeans I had for her. As I yanked them up over her thighs her eyes sort of popped a bit and she yelped “ooeeaaah” and then she looked at me and smiled as I snapped them.

It was a bonding moment I will not forget. And I know that I am probably being dramatic and over playing this moment. But it was like she totally got that wedging yourself into a pair of ill-fitting jeans was a rite of passage. A part of womanhood that she was just ushered into. She honestly looked at me and smiled after I managed to fit them on her.

And then, sitting on the changing table, she lifted her spider shirt and began to poke at her tummy that puffed over the top button of the jeans. “oooeeeaaaahhh” she said again.

And then, just moments later, she is with me in my room. And I am pulling on my own pair of jeans that do not fit quite right. The ones that I have not had on since last Spring. The ones that smell like the wood that comprises the top shelf of my closet because they’ve been up there for months.

“oooeeaaahhh” I said as I did the required squat and walk routine, designed to stretch out the leg of the pants while somehow convincing me that they still fit.

Sucking in my gut and my breath I said “see honey, mama does this too.”

“This” is ridiculous is what “this” is. And I just want to point out that someone needs to make it socially acceptable to show up everywhere in elastic. I think the whole world would be a happier place with more elastic. This is probably the only thing I miss about pregnancy, elastic pants.

But at the end of the debacle, there is something to be said for sharing a moment with your daughter. One of understanding, of humor, and of realizing that it is you and her against the world. Two women with chubby thighs and pouchy stomachs can get far in the world if you’ve got a family that loves you and could care less!

oooeeeaaahhhh

I remember a trip to our local pharmacy last year. It was a few weeks before Halloween and my middle son, two and a half at the time, was toddling behind me through the seasonal aisle, en route to pick up a prescription. As I walked blindly past all the candy and odd accoutrements that accompany Halloween, he did not.

I was at the end of the aisle before I realized that he was no longer on my heels. My moment of realization came when I heard shrieks of fear and turned to find a trembling child who was face to face with a giant rubber witch. It was about three feet high and was designed to cackle when someone walked past. With a crinkled nose and a crooked smile it howled something like “watch yer step or else you’ll die.” 

And while I can’t remember her exact words, she definitely warned of death. 

Thankfully he was wearing a pull up!

He was upset. The rubber witch was bigger than him and for the first time, he’d come face to face with Halloween.

Now please know that I am not against Halloween. On October 31 we will be dressed up with the best of them, hopping from house. Stocking up on Pal Bubble Gum and Twizzlers.

And I will pull all the Bit-O-Honey’s out of their bag because I secretly love these odd candies and wait all year to eat them. Sort of like stale Peeps at Easter.

But lately I have been overwhelmed by Halloween. I was heading home the other night from a meeting and passed a street where no less than four houses in a row had Halloween lights in the bushes and on the house. It looked like Christmas.

On our street there are faux graveyards with floodlights splashing across headstones and giant spiders stuck to sides of houses. There are headless zombies on front porches and black cats dancing across windows and doorways. The amount of time, energy, and money that goes into Halloween is stunning.

I realize that I might sound like that cackling, grumpy witch at the moment. And it’s not that we don’t decorate for the season. We’ve got pumpkins and mums out. And that’s it. 

And my kids don’t seem to care. They’ve never asked for spiders the size of a Volkswagen to be glued to the side of our house. Actually, my oldest asked me the other day when Halloween would be over. Of course I asked him why he wanted to know.

He simply said, well Mommy, there’s lots of dead stuff all over and it gets a little scary.

He’s right. Looking at it from his six year old point of view, I could see what he meant. It’s scary when you don’t understand death or mummies or who Jason or Freddie Kruger are. When the Scream mask makes you, well, scream. 

And as a parent, I do my best to talk it through with him. We don’t turn off all the lights and hide. We give out candy. We wear Star Wars masks. But we also limit the chaos.

For lots of reasons. It’s a bit freaky for a kid. And it either trivializes or glorifies death and well, I’m not a huge fan of death. Bit-O-Honey’s yes. Death, not so much. And it spends a ton of time and money and resources and on things that maybe we don’t need. Maybe some of us do. But I feel like a few pumpkins and some natural ways to celebrate the season. A few window decals for the kids or a bat hanging in a tree might just do the trick. 

I get caught up on how much we spend on decorating for the holidays. Because now, Halloween, has become a biggie

According to the National Retail Federation’s 2009 Halloween Consumer Intentions and Actions Survey, Americans will spend, on average,$56 on Halloween. The holiday as a whole is expected to kick 4.75 billion dollars into the economy. Over 1 billion of which is expected to go into decorations.

I just wonder if there is another way to approach the holiday. As the holiday that ranks second in spending only to Christmas, it seems perhaps we could do a little less spending and a bit more thinking. Then maybe we would not traumatize toddlers at the pharmacy or maybe we could funnel that money to fight some of the scary realities of our world rather than showcase them on the front lawn.

Just my .02 for the treat bag.

This past week I was walking home from the school drop-off with a newish friend. Swapping stories about the basics of our lives. Marital status, where we grew up, favorite pastimes. When it came time to exchange the details on all the places we lived before landing in our current community, a contrite little sigh slipped out.

“Well,” she exhaled. “We used to live in the city, used to live in Lincoln Park and then Rogers Park, but you know, it came time to move to the burbs once we had our second child.”

She was apologetic and somewhat remorseful about living in the suburbs. As if it was an embarrassing accident, a sly little secret that she occasionally let people in on.

This is the same groan I’ve heard from many suburbanites. Perhaps it is indicative of what many suppose is an unreflective life. It’s often assumed that if you have a suburban zip code that you’ve also lost the part of your soul that cares about issues beyond your fenced in backyard.

Last night I joined a wonderful and uplifting conversation in the city, in Lincoln Park to be exact. A room full of white, swanky 20-30 somethings. Young professionals who love that they can walk to the dry cleaners, pub, Whole Foods, and their favorite bistro. All good things indeed.

The conversation centered on global and local issues of living in true community, knowing neighbors, living in mixed race and mixed economic neighborhoods, advocating for the poor and the planet, living with family and changing culture. All amazing, worthwhile pursuits that, if accomplished, would enhance our world more than any policy handed down from Washington.

And while everyone was polite, there was an overwhelming sense that somehow, suburbia represented most of the issues we are facing today, from climate issues to gentrification. I spoke with an energetic gal who was giddy to have met me until she learned that I had commuted in from the suburbs for the event. She sighed a bit, smiled, and was done chatting with me in under a minute.

And as a defensive suburbanite, I could not help but notice the fact that the room was filled with a homogenous pile of people. All white, most wearing expensive clothing (designed to look like it was not). They had amazing thoughts and ideas so this is not to discredit them, it really was an insightful event. But Lincoln Park is a mostly white, affluent, and fairly transient community. It’s sort of an extension of college in many ways. And while most were happy to be there, and honestly, I would be happy to live there too, more than half of that crowd will have moved on to another place within 5 years.

When asked how many of them had moved in the past 3 years, 3/4 of the room raised their hands.

And I could not help but reflect on the fact that I, in my first suburban home (in the town I still live in), had more diversity than that entire room. An African-American family on one side, Polish immigrants on the other. A Mexican and Pakistani family across the street, and Irish family (the husband was actually from Ireland) behind us. When they moved out another African-American family moved in. The home we live in now (less than a mile away from the other) is different but not by much. We played last week with a family from Mumbai/Bombay who lives across the street. A Canadian lives next door to them. Up the street a Chinese family and another family of Indian descent. Elderly folks and newborns up and down the block in each direction. 

My hope is for the blaming and bashing of suburbia to end and the beginning of a truly reflective conversation to begin. It is possible to have rich experiences of community, mixed neighborhoods, and a concern for the world while living outside the city. I will be completely honest when I tell you that NONE of my suburban friends are careless or indifferent about the world or their communities. None of them.

They partner with their schools, local charities, they clean up parks, they walk everywhere that they can, they take the train, they take the bus, they know their neighbors, they make meals for people, they babysit one another’s kids. they do life together.

And I understand that you will find segregation, over-consumption, and ignorance in the burbs. This is not to excuse these behaviors. But we have to reach a point where we engage suburbanites in the conversation rather than simply sloughing them off as the impossibly ignorant over-consumers. Americans in general fit this description, not just those who chose the burbs. We need to see suburbia as a fertile field for change rather than the receptacle of all things thoughtless.

One last comment, when it comes to whole of urban/suburban life (where statistically 80% of Americans dwell) it seems that we consistently judge those who are farther out from the city. Most who live in the city shrug their shoulders at those in what David Brooks calls the inner-ring burbs. I live in the “inner-ring” where I can hop a train and do not see track housing, so I have snubbed my nose at those in the “exurbs”, in track housing without a train station. Those folks can look down on the people building the newest homes on the outer edges of urban sprawl. The ones who “stole” their view of the landscape.

The trick is to start looking in. To ask ourselves what is good about the city or the other suburbs and rural communities around us and start strengthening those things because they make sense, not because they are an urban or suburban thing to do. It’s more about making a commitment to live a life of community and connection wherever you are, not about a trendy loft or edgy coffee shop.

And ultimately, I hope the conversation is more about our love for neighbor rather than our disdain for neighborhood. For out of love the greatest sacrifices and commitments are made. Out of disdain we just further alienate and separate ourselves.

Is there a rule book out there for blogging? Something that tells a chatterbox like myself what she is and is not allowed to do when it comes to a blog? You see, the pressure to type something witty and savvy can break my little hyper self down on occasion. I spent my evening roaming the internet, reading all these sharp and savvy people. Everyone from Bill McKibben to my mommy friends who blog. They all seem to have something to say. 

Sometimes I do but tonight, I do not. It has been almost a week since my last post, the pressure is mounting. So I am eating a giant bowl of Pirate’s Booty and wondering if it is okay to say that I have nothing to say.

For the past two hours (yes, I have devoted two full hours to the nothingness you are reading), I have waffled back and forth over what to type. Been musing over everything from waste free lunches in school cafeterias to why none of my pumpkins grew, to whether or not the US will blow all the upcoming global climate talks scheduled for December in Copenhagen, to why we are still the international standouts who never signed the Kyoto Protocol.

And I am tired and really am sort of lost on whether or not the acceptable atmospheric concentration of CO2 should be 350 or 450 ppm. And then if I start musing on those things I will likely fall asleep and put you to sleep as well. But then I will wake up worrying about these things because we do need to lower our concentration of CO2 and it is only increasing.

So I will lay in bed tonight and wonder if I should get up and turn the heat down a few more degrees. And I know this drill because I have done it many times. I will turn my thermostat down and then will sneak into the bedrooms of my children and will pull blankets up to their chins and tiptoe out. 

And the adrenaline of almost getting caught slipping out of my daughter’s room will keep me up for a good 20 minutes after I put on my socks and slide back into bed. So I will lay there wondering if all our worst climate fears will be realized. If we will end up living Inconveniently with Al. And I will feel utterly helpless. Like my few degrees on the thermostat will not do a thing. And then I will get mad at vague things like “the system” and “politicians” and “Washington.” Which is to say I don’t know really whose fault this all is, probably just my own selfish fault. I’ll own it.

And I will wonder if the climate will ever change in such a way to make a drought-riddled wasteland out of the fertile little midwest where we live. I will wonder if my kids will ever be homeless and hungry. I wonder about the kids in Bangladesh, slated to be one of the biggest climate catastrophes. And I honestly don’t know which predictions will be true when it comes to Bangladesh. But I do know that they are stuck purely by geography. They are a low point on the globe so they will suffer, even though they contribute basically nothing to the global concentration of CO2. So that unfairness sucks for them. 

I think about that for a bit when I cannot sleep.

This is my short and sweet way of saying that I really have nothing to say but sometimes, in a strange way, that says it all. Because I did not force myself into creating content that is not there. I simply decided to let my mind and my heart wander here the way it will in a few hours when I try to sleep.

Did I need to confess all of this or should I just have logged off for the night? What’s the rule here?

Perhaps I should have, it would have shaved some slim shiver off my carbon output for the day. Lights are lit. Laptop is plugged in. Kids are in bed, awaiting my late night blanket tuck and run.

So maybe there is not a rule book or a manual for these thoughts. But just like there is no rule book for calming our climate crisis or living simpler lives, what you need to do is already trickling through your mind and heart each day. You just need to start somewhere, even if you feel like you’ve nothing to do or say. Even if you know nothing about rising sea levels of waste free lunches. You know enough about life and people to make at least one wise decision. Walk somewhere. Skip a purchase.

And suddenly people will think you’ve lost your mind. But really , maybe you just cut through all the junk and found out what it was you were meant to say or do all along. Which is to say, it does not have to be all that complicated, debatable, political, controversial, or even scientific all the time. Sometimes, it’s just what keeps you up at night that you act upon.