On my desk where I write sits three combs; a tiny nail clipper; an orange bead from a broken kiddie necklace; two pink pipe cleaners; a broken calculator; my camera; Purell; wipes; bank statement from a year ago; an unsent thank-you note to Auntie Boo from Christmas – whoopsie!; a random unfunctioning TV remote; a January Us Weekly stolen from the dentist; a Rolodex from the ‘90s; mouse stickers; a 2004 birthday card; T-Ball raffle tickets expired in March; Target sunglasses; Miss Kitty sunglasses; sunglasses with one lens missing; spinning “organizer” crammed with 30,000 pens; pencils; air tire gauge; more hair combs; mangled Post-Its; broken iPod earphones; rusty Leatherman; red puzzle piece; very tired hair elastic; Aleve cold & sinus packet of eight with one missing. . . need I go on?

And this is just my desk. A 4” x 3 ½” foot space.

Now take this list of crap, times the size of everything by twenty, add wheels or dust or broken musical bits to most of them and – voila! – that’s my basement. Crammed. Full. Stuffed with crap.

So here my house is, overwhelmed by crap and I’m feeling boxed in, swarmed, like I have thousands of mini, black ants crawling all over my body and I can’t – get – them – off!!!!

And then I stop.

And remember.

As a child of the late ‘70s and early ‘80s, my indoctrinated guilt kicks in. I remember the sad tales our parents would tell of the kids in Ethiopia who didn’t have enough food on their plates followed by the frightening pictures of tiny, stick bodies with bloated bellies, giant brown eyes staring up at you in desperation.

“Mommy, why are their bellies so big?” we would ask. “Because they’re filled with air, honey,” would come the reply.

Air?????

This was usually followed by an, “And how lucky you are to have this broc-turk-cheese-brussel sprout stew on your plate! Eat every – single – drop!” And boy we were lucky to have that broc-turk-cheese-brussel sprout stew on our plate!

And that’s the ambivalence I have about the crap in my house. I am completely, totally, and absolutely very, very lucky to have every single yellow plastic paperclip that continually gets stepped on in the laundry room by the basement door, but I am, at the same time, completely overwhelmed and disgusted by it all. I am full already, Mom!!!

Our consumerism disgusts me. And we just can’t stop it. And it’s getting worse as the kids get older. I am full. My house is full.

I am overwhelmed by crap and I just can’t stop eating.

By Annie B. Yearout

Labels: Annie B. Yearout, appreciation, cleaning, colorful foods, consumerism, crap, Ethiopia, laundry room, mess

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My older son, Paul, is obscenely tall for his age. At seven, he is almost up to my shoulder and I can attest to the fact that it is not the result of healthy eating. He wasn’t always this way. At two-years old he ate peas by the fistful. When we went out I valiantly packed my rice cakes (assuring him they were ”cookies” and quite a treat). I offered rolled up slices of non-fat turkey and cheese cut into shapes with mini cookie cutters. All was well until he got introduced to chocolate at a birthday party around the time he was three.

It was then that he turned to the dark side. Of chocolate. As a chocoholic myself, I was not unhappy about sharing my passion for the sweet. Together we baked cookies and I found it to be a helpful currency during potty training. And, of course, all of this coincided with the birth of his younger brother, Eric.

I wasn’t mashing baby food this time. I discovered Z bars and stopped making my own trail mix. But now, at seven, my son is out of control. Of course I have nobody to blame but myself. The other day he informed me that he could live on chocolate. Unfortunately, that is not exactly practical. Damn society and its health standards!

I try to refrain. I resolve to give him a balanced diet and I make sure to offer a great assortment of healthy food. We sit down to a home cooked meal as a family every night but every meal is a series of negotiations. It seems that every week another popular menu choice falls out of favor. “I don’t like steak anymore.”

Back when he was an only child I had time (and energy) to monitor every bite. But life is busier now and I don’t even have the desire to place as much importance on diet. I can only hope that this is a phase and that eventually he will eat more than the very greenest tips of a broccoli stalk.

Various studies show that bright colorful food is the healthiest. As long as that includes Pepperidge Farm Rainbow Goldfish -- I’m OK.

By Cathy Burke

Labels: boys, Cathy Burke, colorful foods

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My eleven-year old son, Nick, was one of those picky eaters. 

A white eater – left to his own devices he would eat only white bread, white rolls, potatoes sans skins, pasta and his very favorite, steamed rice. 

Most parenting books said not to make food an issue.  But my husband and I forced some concerns.  He had to eat green vegetables.  He eats a bowl of steamed broccoli almost daily and has for years.  We no longer buy white bread although I just stopped cutting the crust off the wheat bread last year.  We’ve exposed him to so many different foods because we like variety and different ethnic flavors.

But Nick held fast to his love of white -- until about six months ago.  Then he started ordering mussels, which his dad loves, but I won’t touch.  Ditto for linguini with clam sauce.  Nick seemed to relish his willingness to try new foods as much as I enjoyed this change. 

We went to France for sixteen days in June.  Our first trip as a family out of the country.  I hoped Nick would try new foods but figured cheese, baguettes, pizza, and pasta would be available.  Nick tried everything that came his way: ratatouille, crepes Suzette, tapenades, escargot, rabbit, duck confit, several types of pate, cassis gelato, stinky cheeses, and panna cotta. 

I have a picture of him digging into duck confit at a Paris bistro with a look of wonder and delight on his face.  He made a list in his journal of all the new foods he tried.   

I write this as a ray of hope for parents of white eaters. 

It gets better. 

Or sometimes it does not. 

I have a sixteen-year old nephew who lives on white dinner rolls. 

Bon appetit!

By Marianne Lonsdale 

Labels: By Marianne Lonsdale, colorful foods, white food

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