My Shampoo-free Experiment: Some people call it "crazy," I call it "open-minded"

So.... I read a lot on the internet, and it's gotten me to do some crazy things. Sew things I don't know how to sew, cook weird food, eat (sort of) healthy, go natural, save some money, spend more money than I save.

There are some things that are still on my I'll-never-try list. I would link to them, but it skeeves me out. Let's just say, no matter how green I get, I like bathroom materials to be disposable.

I'm open to learning about new things, and I love the idea of getting back to simpler ways. Part of that comes from my Life in India adventure - when I had to make do without a lot of the "modern conveniences" (read: chemicals and preservatives that make life easier).

So, when I read a post about going shampoo-free, I was hooked. The more I read, the more I decided that it was time to stop stripping my hair of its natural oils, time to stop slathering my head with the equivalent of dishwasher detergent, time to save the money I'd been shelling out for the varying plastic bottles lining my shower.

I did my research, and collected the supplies for this new lifestyle: baking soda to wash, apple cider vinegar to rinse, and little plastic bottles to mix everything in. My side of the bathroom turned into a science experiment - all in the name of natural living.

I had to go through a two-week "transition" period where my hair got used to not being stripped of its oils every day. I actually thought that wouldn't be so bad, since I'm not a faithful hair-washer anyway, but it was pretty gross. Gross, gross, greasy gross. I planned the transition period when Ben was traveling, as to save myself some embarrassment.

Eventually, I made it through the transition, and my hair started to appear "normal." Not what it used to be in my shampoo days, but it wasn't really greasy. To be fair, it wasn't really pretty, either.

I began to notice that in the one month of shampoo-free grooming, I didn't get one compliment on my hair. Not even the "I don't know what to say, so I'm just going to tell you your hair looks nice" compliment.

That's right - one month with no shampoo, no conditioner - just a science experiment on my head.

I'm sure to some people the results would be acceptable; worth it, even. I, however, eventually had to accept the fact that my hair was ugly. Ben suffered in silence, but you should have seen his face when I finally washed my hair - it was like the husbands on Extreme Makeover.

Hair is supposed to be pretty, and for a while my open-minded foray into green living clouded my memory of what pretty hair looks like. I even convinced myself that my hair looked normal. I'm here to tell you, my friends, it did not.

I am now enjoying my beautiful - stripped down and reconditioned -  hair. I am so thankful for it coming back to me after how I've been treating it that I'm going to treat it to a great haircut.

Congratulations to my husband. He's made it through the Shampoo-Free Experiment, and I've yet to tell you the stories of my commitment to Leg Waxing, which involved a very long period of not shaving. Poor Ben. He's stuck with me forever.


(PS, I'm sure that this works for some people, so give it a try if you're so inclined, but don't say I didn't warn you.)

Orphan Sunday

Today is Orphan Sunday. I don't know who designates days and weeks and months to specific causes or issues. Because, really, orphans are orphans every day.

Every day, there are about 143 million kids who live as orphans - meaning whether their parents are alive or dead, they are not in the picture. 143 million children with no "night-nights," with no "I don't care if you don't like it, I'm your Mommy and I said so."

Every day, 143 million kids walk on this planet, knowing that if they skin their knee there's no one to run to with dramatic weeping, searching for kisses.

143 MILLION kids who don't know what it means to "love you to pieces."

That's a lot of kids.

Not everyone can adopt. Not everyone should adopt. It's not like buying a puppy or sponsoring a child, even though it seems to be the hip, Hollywood thing to do.

But, today, everyone can acknowledge that there are 143 million orphans in this world. We can acknowledge the facts, take in the reality, and remember the faces.


Today, one of my kids is an orphan. But, someday - he won't be.

Racial recognition: Yesterday, it happened

Baby screaming, screaming on the monitor - not in distress, but in over-tiredness and anger that it is still naptime. So excuse the poor writing about to follow, it's the screaming 3 inches away and my constant almost baby, almost.


Mom? I'm Brown.


Well, yes honey, you are.


Daddy's brown too - he's dark brown. I'm light brown. Why are you guys white?


Well, who's "you guys"? 

You, and I think Talya's white.

Well, Talya's light brown like you are. I'm white because my Mommy & Daddy are both white and white and white make white. You're light brown because your Mommy is white and your Daddy is brown and white and brown make light brown. Your baby brother will be black because the Mommy & Daddy that made him are black.

I thought for a minute of the whole, "God made you light brown" thing, but I thought it would be good to go ahead and explain that our colors are a product of our genes, not God and a paintbrush. Plus, it can't hurt to go ahead and lay the groundwork for Mommies and Daddies making babies, right?

Mom, I like Indian food because I'm brown.

Ahh, I see where this is going - already with the questions of how race has an impact on what we are supposed to like and what we are supposed to do. I am excited and scared at the opportunity to speak into this - to start to celebrate my kids' colors without letting the world define those colors for them.

This whole color realization thing is kind of a surprise. I've been wondering when it would happen. Simon has seemed decidedly ignorant of the fact that his Mommy is pasty and his Daddy is cocoa-colored.

But, it's not totally a surprise, and it's certainly not an accident. In preparation for our adoption, I've been reading more and more about how kids process race. One thing that's been interesting to note (this Newsweek article addresses it) is that many well-meaning parents specifically do not talk about race, so as not to draw attention to it. Often, however, that ignorance of color is exactly what sends some negative message about race.

I grew up in a home that was absent of racism. I never heard my parents talk disparagingly about ethnic minorities. But, we also didn't really talk about the subject much at all. The result was that I grew into a woman who isn't racist, but who is often afraid of these touchy subjects. My guess is that my experience is shared by many.

So, we've been trying to make race/color/ethnicity/culture a regular part of our dialogue. I want my kids to know that whatever shade their skin, it is a part of them that we love - it is not a secret, it is not shameful, it does not make them better than or worse than anyone else.

I have some throw pillows in my living room that are embroidered with, "I Love India." Simon asked me what they said, and seemed confused.

I love India because I'm brown. You can't love India because you're white.

I love India because I love you and I love your daddy and your Amma & Appa, and you are all Indian. I love India because I've been there and I know people there and it's a part of me too.

Okay, then.

I have a feeling we'll be at this for a while. And, I have a feeling sometimes I'll mess it up. Someday, I'm going to make a joke and it will come out wrong. But, hopefully, if it's okay for us to talk about it here - in our safe, multi-colored home - it will be okay for us to mess up once in a while.

But, we seem to have Lesson One down:
White + White= White
Brown+ Brown= Brown
Brown + White= super cute

Owning my "It"

Did you know that this is NaBloPoMo, or National Blog Post Month? This month, bloggers are supposed to post every day for 30 days. I hear it's fun. I failed on day 2. Kirsten is giving it a go, though, so go read about her cute family while I slack off.

Anymommy, who is also on a NaBloPoMo writing streak, had a great post today about the age-old "How Do You Do It All" question. The answer is, of course, not doing it ALL, but doing IT, whatever your It is. Her It does not involve cooking dinner.

It was really a freeing/guit-inducing/self-realizing few minutes to think about what my It is, and what my It isn't. Have I lost you with all of the Its? Bear with me. Or not - there are other bloggers posting every day this month if you get bored.

I have long been a proponent of the idea that something has to give. Yes, I can give you a clean house and healthily-fed children, but in exchange you will get a very cranky, Type-A, overly-focused, no-fun-at-all Mommy.

I can give you creative crafts and freedom for playing, but in exchange you get a house strewn with yarn and tiny pieces of paper plates that have been cut with safety scissors.

I can give you time outside for bikerides and trips to the park, but in exchange you get frozen pizza for dinner - the cheap kind.

I have been learning to continue to pursue personal growth (how can I become better at the things I really enjoy doing) while I embrace my It. I just got through the whole Martha Stewart Living magazine in 16 minutes, because I skipped over all of the projects and recipes that just would not be a reality for me.

So, here's my It:
I don't clean. I've been getting better, but if you stop by and the house is spotless, it was Ben. If you stop by and there are at least two clean surfaces (for example one counter and the kitchen floor, or the table and the living room floor, or the dishwasher is empty and groceries are put away), then there's a good chance I have worn myself out with my cleaning efforts.

My It no longer involves coupons. A little, but not a lot. My It involves Trader Joes, and my happiness with the food I buy and my budget have both improved. Shopping has become a fun family activity, and I feel less guilty about frozen meals when they say "organic" or "natural" or something like that on the label. Also, I feel like from buying from a smaller chain, I am contributing less to the monstrosity that is our food industry. I may be wrong on most counts, but I am right about the parts about it being more fun and less money, and that's enough for me.

My It involves very little time spent on the floor playing. My It involves more trips to the library and the museum than to the basement. I like to get out.

My It involves obsessively checking my email, my reader, and facebook. My It involves PBS Kids so I can do those things.

My It involves having a lot of people over a lot of the time into our messy house. My It involves trying to cook for those people, because I really enjoy it. 

My It currently involves a lot of felt, a new sewing machine, and stacks of pool noodles as I attempt to make some special Christmas gifts for the little ones in my life. My It does not involve organizing those things or putting them away.

What's your It? Are you still trying to find it, like me? Have you embraced it? Or, are you really able to do It All?

An Ode to Halloween

Okay, so it's not really an "ode." There is no rhyme or verse or rhythm to my love of Halloween, but there is a huge amount of poetic sentiment to it.

I grew up going to a Christian School (of which my Dad was the principal, no less) and to a fairly conservative church, so there were a lot of varying opinions about the holiday - ranging from "It's Devil Worship" to "It's the Best Holiday ever!" Um... maybe I was the only one who held the "pro" position to such an extreme degree.  Being that my creative Dad was in charge of the school, he got to get around the whole Devil thing by having Storybook Character Day, where we all dressed up like characters from our favorite books...because who can argue against reading?

After Storybook Character Day, we rushed home and put on our real costumes.  My costume rules are much like my cake decorating rules: it doesn't have to be perfect, but it has to be at least mostly homemade. It has to involve duct tape and cardboard and cheap face paint. Seriously. One year, my parents caved and dressed me in some store-bought Smurfette costume - the kind with the plastic mask and the smock tied around your clotes: LAME.

To be fair, the creativity gene that I inherited from my Dad is only dominated by my cheap-skate gene. So, for the past two years, Simon's costume has been straight out of a plastic bag - because it was given to him. Last year, a police man, this year a fireman.

Taly has not been so lucky. For the past two years, her costumes have been made from white sweatsuits and electrical tape (2008: jailbird, 2009: dalmatian).

But there is more to this Halloween thing than just the opportunity to dress up. (Oh, and by the way, don't think it's just for kids in this house - Ben and I rocked our Adam & Eve fig leaves!)

I love Halloween because it's stupid and everyone does it. It's not about anything deeply symbolic that we can all argue over. There are no "Keep the Hallow in Halloween" bumper stickers. There is no pressure to travel across the country for one large, high-maintenance meal. It's just some dumb day for fun, parties, and junk food. It gives pumpkins a reason to shine - because seriously, if it weren't for Halloween, how would the pumpkin farmers stay in business?

And, that's what this is about - the pumpkin farmers and keeping them in business.

Oh, and the candy. Especially the peanut-y kind, which my kids can't eat, so Ben sorts into a special bag for me to devour. I mean, really, it was a great day, and I'm a little sad it's over.

I will now go comfort myself with a Peanut Butter Cup.

3 Hours Later, half-way Vaccinated

My kids haven't really gotten sick. I mean, they've turned into hacking snot-buckets several times, but our house has never really known the feverish-pukey plague. I am so thankful for that, and am trying my best not to tempt the Flu Bug to visit. But all that relative health has lulled me into a comfortable state of denial about the flu - even the dreaded H1N1.

I was't really planning on the vaccination - for a number of stupid reasons. One: seriously, ANOTHER shot?! This is just getting cruel. Two: how bad can the flu be? Three: I don't do lines, especially when it's chilly. Four: I'm getting more and more natural in my old age - trying to subtract chemicals from our life, not add them.

But, I read at Sy's school that our county's H1N1 clinic was happening yesterday, and so I started to wonder if I should brave it. Honestly, I wouldn't have thought twice about it had the weather been cold and rainy, but I knew it would be a nice day.

Not knowing what to do, I posed the question to the all-knowing Facebook. It's kind of like "Ask the Audience" on Millionaire. If you don't know what to do, ask the audience, and they will tell you. I got one no, four yeses, and two votes for Oil of Oregano, which I have never head of before. The Yeses win, especially since one came from a doctor, one came from a nurse, and one came from a mom who recently brought her child home from the hospital.

So, I sucked up all my moans and groans about personal comfort, and piled the kids in the van to head out to the Fairgrounds, where the clinic was being held. First point: The Fairgrounds sounds fun, but when there is no fair, it's just a really big gravel parking lot and some empty barns.

The clinic was scheduled to start at 2:00, and since I Don't! Give! Up! Naps! Ever!, we arrived at 2:15, at which time we got in the back of a line that was probably already two thousand people long. We waited and waited, shuffling forward every two and a half minutes. The first hour of the line was on the side of a road, so I vigilantly protected my one-year-old from dashing into traffic. With all of my energy focused on the traffic, I gave up all pretense of protecting my kids from eating rocks, picking up trash, holding hands with potentially germy kids, etc.

Two hours into the line, as the end started to come faintly into view, the line moved in front of some sort of corrals for cattle. In mass proportions, all the kids dashed over to what looked to be the first thing more entertaining than gravel. I had to rescue my kids twice from getting locked into the corrals, and am now wondering if there is Cattle Flu, which they probably got there.

I will say this - my children were fantastic. I had no idea they were capable of standing for three hours, doing nothing. (I had no idea I was capable of that.)

Simon brought a backpack full of books, and near the end, he got a good little story time going with a bunch of other bored kids. It really was precious.

Eventually, we made it into the building, where I had to make some game-time decisions. Like: is now the time to tell them that when Mommy said, "We're going to get some medicine," Mommy meant, You are getting shots? Thankfully, Sy could get the nasal spray, and both of my kids barely made a peep when they got their injection/mist. They even let me get the vaccine, which I only did because it was a spray and I am wussy about needles - would rather have the flu, thankyouverymuch.

It is then - after the three hours of waiting is over, when you are congratulating yourself for mere survival - that they tell you, "By the way, the kids need to come back in 4 weeks for a booster." Awesome.

But, Ben just called to tell me that Sy's classroom has a large sign announcing that someone in there has H1N1... so I guess half-way vaccination is better than nothing.

Reason to Celebrate

This was a rough week for me... as you can tell from what was probably an overly-dramatic post last week. Ben was out of town, I am waiting for word on my baby, I got the rough and stressful fundraising news, and did I mention Ben was out of town?

Another low-light of the week incuded watching Taly face-plant off some playground eqipment. Um, hi? Montgomery County? Playground rails are more helpful if they don't start at the child's head. Oh? What's that? Playgrounds are only really safe if parents are vigilantly watching? Right. Thanks. Learned my lesson.

Thankfully, she was fine. And the scrape on her chin and bloody lip healed just in time for her face-plant on the sidewalk yesterday. The only things to blame for that one are little feet that can't quite keep up with the rest of a toddler's body.

But, there is reason to celebrate! A huge reason, actually. My year-and-a-half ordeal that some would call potty-training, but that I lovingly refer to as Mommy's Worst Nightmare, has ended.

Remember back to the doctor's appointment of tears and trauma? In the midst of all the wailing (mine) and screaming (Sy's), I mentioned Sy's poop problems to the doctor. She told him that once the pull-ups in the bathroom were gone, there would be no more and he'd have to go in the potty.

My kid is not stupid. He told her, "Don't worry, we can go to the store and buy more."

I said (in my head), "Whatever lady. I am SOOOOO done with this poop nightmare. If he wants to poop in pull-ups until he's 10, then so be it." And then I never brought it up again.

Well, recently, Simon announced that once the pull-ups were gone he was going to poop in the potty. Yeah, okay, like the time that once you turned 3 you were going to poop in the potty? And, once you turned 4 you were going to poop in the potty? Mmmm-hmmm.

Ben talked him into sitting on the potty wearing a pull-up to poop as a sort of baby step toward the goal. That baby step only resulted in me cleaning poop up off the floor, and I thought the trauma would set us back another year.

But, the other day, Sy walked out of the bathroom, pants around his ankles and announced that he had pooped in the potty. Since he'd already flushed, I had no way to verify his claim. So, I did what any skeptical, frustrated, husband's-out-of-town mom would do, and I checked his butt. Sure enough, there were traces of poop. TMI?

Well, it's done. He keeps pooping in the potty, and now he's taking care of all wiping duties as well. I feel like I've graduated from some sort of disgusting boot camp, and I deserve a major graduation present.

And, Simon, now that you're finally doing all of your bathroom duties in the bathroom, Mommy officially considers you old enough to keep your bathroom stories to myself.

So, to the Longest Poop Saga Ever, I give a hearty "The End!"