I live in organic kale smoothie, non-BPA, gluten-free, cloth diaperin’, homebirthin’, breastfeed them till they go to college, crunchity green land. That is, we live in the mountains outside of Boulder, which is like Boulder, but one step closer to your friends living in an Ashram and serving up their placenta for Thanksgiving dinner. And I am an active participator in this culture. Well, not the whole placenta-eating-part.
But I do have some confessions to make to my friends and neighbors:
I had an epidural…twice…the very moment that I could and I would never ever ever consider the possibility of not having one.
I loved having my kids in the hospital. I loved being surrounded by all of the shiny sterile equipment and labs and white-coated doctors and Percocet and people telling me what to do and when to do it. It made me feel safe and taken care of and, well, safe.
I begged let the nurses take my newborn babies each night I was in the hospital so that I could sleep. Because trying to keep a baby breathing with the power of your minds-eye is not conducive to sleeping.
Seven years ago when my son was born, I had never even heard of a Doula. And then when I did hear of one, I said “I’m not paying someone for that, that’s my husband’s only job.”
My daughter’s butt isn’t as skinny as it seems…she’s actually the only one wearing disposable diapers at Library Story Hour. I know. Sorry environment.
I think that dehydrated seaweed is a mean snack to give your kids.
I buy organic milk. But, on occasion, I have also been known to put Hershey’s very non-organic chocolate syrup into it.
I only do yoga to try and make my butt look better. When the teacher asks us to create an intention at the beginning of the class, mine is always secretly…”to make my butt look better.”
There is a mean little unenlightened part of me that feels happy when one of my kids hurts themselves while throwing a fit.
Oh, and I watch TV. And not a Computer-That-I-Pretend-Isn’t-A-TV. An actual TV…in my living room. And I just sit on the couch and watch it, without being on a treadmill or anything.
I don’t even know what Kombucha is.
I always have a block of Velveeta hidden in the back of my refrigerator. For cheese-melting emergencies.
My kids regularly eat gluten. And once, on vacation, I let my daughter eat marshmallows. For breakfast.
For a thrill, I sometimes pick out eggs in the store that are only free-range and not free-range and organic. I figure at least those little chicken butts have been outside running around.
And finally, I don’t think that Amino Acids are a good salad dressing or that Brewer’s Yeast should pretend to be popcorn salt. I’m sorry, but yeast on popcorn just makes the popcorn feel sad.
I hope we can still be friends.