perfection's pitfalls

Oh, my - I think we hit a blog record on the last posts. Readers came out of the woodworks to comment - how blogospheric.

Thanks, by the way, to magid who not only offered a little butt-saving on a publication that I volunteer for, but also provided this: http://www.dialahuman.com/ A nice shortcut to getting a human being to talk to at a number of companies, which is pretty damned crucial when trying to interpret ingredient lists.
Note: Hain Celestial, the quiet king of processed organic foods, does not have a number listed. Which, considering their track record vis a vis customer service is, well, to be expected. I hate it that Big Organic (to quote Michael Pollan) has such an uncaring ear on the other end of the phone. Or email. But maybe it's the Big in 'Big Organic' that does it.

Okay, moving on from Michael Pollan - more about him and his book some other time.
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I used to watch reruns of Everyone Loves Raymond, a funny, funny show about a guy with rather insane parents who live right across the street. And have a key. The bit that's echoing in my head right now is from an exchange with a retirement community manager and Debra, Raymond's wife. The topic? Debra's mother-in-law, whose sense of perfectionism has had some, well, impact on her fellow community members.

Debra: But what about the show?
Manager: She is the show. Everyone else quit!

Sometimes, to echo my previous post, best is the enemy of good. Or even functional. Damn, but the universe does like to rub it in a little.

I've been working on a local bleeding disorder publication as a volunteer. I took over copyediting duties (temporarily, thanks to magid), and helped organize issues. I pushed for more original content, and organized a printing schedule. I was thorough, focussed, energetic, dedicated...and possibly a wee bit scary.

Finally, one mom gave it to me straight. I had sent her an edited draft of her article, and asked her to consider doing x, y and z (and possibly also c through q), and she threw up her hands. I'm exhausted and overworked, she said, and I just can't keep up with this. I'm sorry, but this is as good as it gets.

Not wanting to 'be the show,' I backed right off, thanked her for her efforts, and sat on myself. This is allowed to be as good as it gets. It is, it is, it is. Damnit.

Something cosmic has my number, that much is clear: like the rest of my hard-headed family, I tend to be tough to budge once I get an idea in my head. Polite, demure repetitions don't work - blunt honesty and a touch of rubbing my nose in it, however, is far more effective. And unpleasant, but that's the price we type AAAs pay for our tunnel vision. So, the lessons in the joys of imprecision (imperfection?) continued ruthlessly...

The Man wrote his first article for said publication. It was an analysis of trends in the growth of wages vs the growth of medical costs, specifically health insurance. Good topic, very much of interest, and it was going fine until he wrote...

If the current trend continues, the American family will have to choose between paying for health insurance or paying for other necessities for life.

Oh, jeez. I saw the numbers - he's right. Assuming the numbers are right, of course. But could we write that, without a. sending people into a panic and b. having done lots of research to be absolutely, positively sure and c. offering some positive option as to what folks can do (why create all that anxious energy, if you aren't going to focus it somehow?). Nope. Can't. See earlier quote from stressed out volunteer mum. So the article went off to the layout guy sans the sentence, but the numbers all still in there.

Both the imprecision and the realities the Man was turning up and in equal parts saddening and irksome. Where the hell are my rose colored glasses, anyhow? What about a little soft shoe? A little smoke and mirrors? Even the Spanish Inquisition - nobody ever expects them, you know.

Seriously, though, precision and perfection seem to just be setting us up for a fall right now, at Chez Imperfect. Quitting the spandex-clad gig didn't quite seem to do it, but maybe a conceptual shift will. Rain expected tomorrow? Family hike planned? Packing the slickers here, folks, but going even in the wet. Finding the Eldest hauling the Toddles around by the hood of his sweatshirt? Teaching focus on others by making the big one feed the little one dinner. Poor kid had to stay in his seat until his little brother was done (snigger). It's imperfect, it's wickedly amusing (to me), but what the hell, it is certainly functional.
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Of course, now that I've given my wee speech, I should admit that there is one place I do not find myself willing to accept imperfection: my home care company (h.c.co).

The grumpy couriers continue. Friday night one turned up, rang the wrong buzzer, called and left a message on the machine (for which I am grateful) to say that we weren't home, and clearly this wasn't his fault. (I take it that we have a reputation which makes him so preemptively defensive?) I raced downstairs and caught him, and he told me all about how he's an electrician with 25 yrs experience who has been out of work for a while now, thanks to the boom in foreclosures. Um, good to know, dude. Thanks.

I stood there, awkwardly. I considered trying to show him that he was doing something of value, something important to us - we really needed the kid's meds, thanks for bringing them - but it was obvious that it would only highlight the non-electrician part of his life, and tick him off even more. Agh. So I exclaimed over his bad luck, looked appropriately shocked, and accepted the package of medication.

But why, oh why was I getting a delivery on Friday night? Ah. Well, I'd ordered a month's supply of clotting factor from the h.c.co, told them I'd call the HTC nurse and negotiate the details with her as to how many vials of the stuff, and how big the doses should be. I called the HTC, told the nurse how many vials of 1000 units, 5000 units and 250 units we'd used over the past month, detailing any bleeds that had lead to extra dosing. I explained that we would probably need a similar quantity this month, I was putting in an order and could she call me to review specifics? They got ahold of her first (probably beeped her, the so-and-sos) and decided to send me 4 doses. Of, by the way, the smaller dosage size.

WTF?

I counted very very high, and called the HTC. All a mistake, I was told. Sigh. I'm tired of mistakes, of getting 8 butterfly needles when I asked for 50, getting 4 vials when I need closer to 25. Yes, thanks to Mister Grumpy Courier-Electrician guy we have the rest, but bah, humbug. I do not wish to cut my h.c.co slack, I instead wish them to have the precision that so appropriately eludes the other aspects/personages in my life. Unfair? Ah, what the hell. Maybe once my grumpiness level drops, my ability to accept the h.c.co folks as human will return, but maybe not.

Maybe I need something like the Man's formula for calculating his stress level (no, apparently he can't just do an internal query, there needs to be a model, weighted elements, and probably a macro). Maybe something like this, to measure and analyze my grumpiness:




Hmm. Doesn't look so good, does it? Maybe it is time for that hike.


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I never promised perfection, let alone consistency. But recipes, well, that I did promise! This one is a new favorite, courtesy of Spring and her ever patient husband.

The Artichokes of Springtime

4-6 artichokes, halves and the choke removed
3 lemons, sliced thinly
1/2 c. white wine
1/2 c. olive oil
small sprinkling peppercorns
mint (dried or otherwise) to taste
salt
6 cloves garlic, peeled and smashed with the side of a knife
2-4 thinly sliced onions

Mix all ingredients but the artichokes and spread over the bottom of a roasting pan. Lay artichokes on top, cut sides down. Cover with foil.

bake at 400 until done - about an hour. Test an outer leaf for tenderness (discreetly). Serve, using the lemon-onion mixture as topping and sauce.
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Got this in my email. The New England Hemophilia Association is raising funds for their summer camp, which is for families with bleeding disorders. Apparently, NEHA needs some new equipment (too true, I'm told - the camp's beyond barebones), and decided to hit the guys up, right before Mother's Day. Sneaky. And because I admire sneaky, I'm helping. Here it is:
NEW ENGLAND HEMOPHILIA ASSOCIATION
BLOOD BROTHERS – BLOOD SISTERS Bracelets Available Now!

Own a unique piece of jewelry designed especially for NEHA
and help us buy some new equipment for Family Camp

These beautiful bracelets are made with red garnet beads and silver accents. The center alphabet blocks, “BB – BS”, represent our community of Blood Brothers and Blood Sisters

Bracelets cost only $20, with $8 from every sale going to NEHA

Bracelets will be available for pick up at three upcoming NEHA programs
(SpringFest is May 12th, right before Mother’s Day – hint, hint)
or, if you prefer, we would be happy to mail it to you.
(Please note: Mail orders cannot be guaranteed before Mother’s Day)
--------------------------------------------------
NEHA Blood Brothers-Blood Sisters Bracelet Order Form

Name: _______________________________________________________________
Amount Enclosed (checks payable to NEHA): ___________________________________

Small (6½ “) Medium (7”) Large (7½”)
Quantity: _________ _________ _________
~ additional sizes available on request ~

SpringFest (5/12) Picnic (6/10) Family Camp (7/25)
I will pick up at: _________ _________ _________

Please mail to: _________________________________________________________
Order Forms should be sent to:
Sue Dowling @ NEHA / 347 Washington St. – Suite 402 / Dedham, MA 02026

If you are coming to SpringFest, please send your order via email to
susandowling@newenglandhemophilia.org and you can pay when you pick up

missing the point

okay, that's it - I quit the supermom gig. Admittedly, parts of that gig won't quit me, but aside from that (to quote Mary Jr), I'm done.

We were driving in New York, on our way to visit one family nodule before stopping to see another, when a relative called to inquire about the menu for a birthday party I was catering. Will there be chocolate cake, he asked, because she loves chocolate cake - she should really have chocolate cake, he pursued the matter, vehemently. I fumed for days, furious that he'd missed the point, that the goal was to compromise what was desired with what was safe, how dare he dictate at that late hour...and, anyway, yes I was bringing chocolate cake.

Not the point.

Somehow, I missed the concept again this past week, when I schlepped the kids to the library. There was David Haines, a British songwriter/composer, doing a little concert. We poked our heads in and decided to risk it. The music was great (the Eldest was disappointed by a lack of songs about blood, the composer promised to rectify the situation) and the Toddles came home itchy after an encounter with a kid and his bag of Pirate's Booty - and couldn't sleep for three nights afterwards from the flaring eczema and itchiness.

I walked around the house, muttering and furious, for the next few days until Thursday, when I got up, yanked on some clothes and clomped off to the local branch of the library, Toddles in tow. I had a firm, clear conversation with the children's librarian (who herself has allergies), and we figured out a safe-ish way for the Toddles to go to his first sing-along. He loved it and he slept fine that night, which I loved.

Okay, so yes, a triumph. But missing the point.

I want to be the mother who never yells, who gives her children love and nurturing and the environment they need. I wanted to be the mother who always responds to the teachers' emails, the room mother, the one who can shoulder anything gracefully and is always, always responsible. I have a friend like that, and frankly I'm in awe. Good for her, but too bad for me - it's just not working.

Right now, I'm a pot of angry, always at a simmer. I hate that I bitch about money to anyone who will listen, that I whine about allergies, that I seem to be unable to discuss topics unrelated to my kids, and I'm bored bored bored with talking about that. When did supermom fall apart so completely in my head? I swear she was there for a while, wearing her spandex and uber-supportive bra, and I'm pretty sure she was having creative sex, too. Lots. On her spick span shiny kitchen countertops, next to her perfectly folded laundry.

I've figured it out, though: I went off the tracks this time when I stopped focussing on my family. When I was working on trying to make our normal a happy one, a functional one (loosely defining the word 'functional,' of course), things worked. Better. But when I started trying to do everything that everyone else can do (going to parties, kid-oriented events, community activities), eating what others eat (can you tell it's gluten/nut-free? vegan? No, really! it is!), then my stress levels shot sky high.

Soooo, I quit. Won't do it, can do it, just won't. I grieve for you, and the restrictions in your life, my mother told me. Thanks, Mum. But I think this is one time when fighting those restrictions will actually cost me more than I'd gain.

But we're going to that singalong next week... and I wonder how long it will be until I write another version of this post? Doing it all is seductive, a power trip that proves that you can rise above it all. For a little while, anyway.

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deep inside the toddler brain, wheels are turning. In five dimensional space.

Mama: where did the day go?
Toddles, looking thoughtful, points up the stairs: go! there! day! (pause) daddy!
(pause)
Toddles, looks at highchair tray: rice! bowl! muck! more muck!
translation: The day went up there. With Daddy. I have puffed rice cereal in my bowl, but I need milk. More milk.
He's a little unclear on the concept, but very definite on the idea of exclamation points.

springing up

In case you were worried, it's okay - I found another jar of Vegemite at the back of the pantry. It is, however, my last. This is a serious matter, as Kraft stopped making kosher certified Vegemite some time ago, which means that any Vegemite I purchase will not be kosher, even though it is absolutely identical to the kosher stuff.

No rabbi in the factory, no kosher thingie on the label. What oh what will I do without my Veggie on toast to shock my mouth into wakefulness? Vegemite on toast, plus coffee in mug = reluctantly wakeful moi. Works every time. Wakes me up enough for me to be allowed to play with teensy needles, which tells you something about a. how sharp and alert I can be, given incentive or b. how desperate the bleeding disorder community/my family is to have my kid clot.

mumble, grumble, grumble.

Or, to quote joy's inner toddler, stomps. Do you realize how hard I had to work for toast? The salespeople in Sears were edging away when the crazy woman was cackling about buying a toaster, but damnit, you have to have bread to be able to toast it. And apparently, a rabbi if one's breakfasty fantasies are to be put into play. Ahh, the joys of tarry, yeasty blackness on not quite burnt toast.

It is at moments like these that I have to snort at my own religion. And wish that snopes was wrong, and that the FDA and customs had really, truly decided to do something so silly as ban Vegemite from the country - at least then I wouldn't have to look at all the nearly-kosher stuff on the shelves.

Hmm. Maybe I'll try Marmite. (ducks)