Quitting Is Delicious

Earlier this week, I wrote a heartfelt post on quitting, on how we should not rush to judgment of those people who quit ostensibly good things. Like, say, diets.

Well, we all knew it wouldn't last. At least I did. I guess it's possible that some of you out there had a pinch more faith in me.

That's right. After a short stint as an annoyingly abstemious post-"vacation" dieter, I'm eating bread again. With a vengeance.

It all went down the tubes yesterday beginning with one of my favorite Starbucks Spinach Feta wraps. I was hard at work, burning like a zillion calories on my Laptop and figured: it's a whole wheat wrap. That is very healthy. Probably has fifty-something grams of fiber. Shouldn't even count as bread... And then BAM. Diet is over.

Since that moment, I've consumed the following yummy carborific goodies:

1. Spring rolls
2. Vats of white rice
3. A Skinny Cow (ha!) mint ice cream sandwich
4. A grilled cheese sandwich
5. Toddler's leftover fries
6. A Levain chocolate chip cookie. (Heaven)

And now I am writing this post and thinking ahead to dinner. What will it be? Not sure yet. But I do know that it won't be home-cooked or bread-free. Quitting can be delicious, my friends! Don't judge me. Join me!

BUI (Breastfeeding Under the Influence)

Couldn't ignore this one. Police recently responded to a domestic disturbance call in North Dakota and encountered an intoxicated woman who was breastfeeding her newborn. They arrested her. And she subsequently pleaded guilty to child neglect and faces up to five years in jail. For more of the sordid details on this boozing and boobing saga, click here.

No, I do not know enough about this situation to cast informed and well-calibrated judgment on the actions of the police here -- and no one has compelling scientific evidence about the effects of alcohol in breastmilk on infants -- but as a lawyer and as a mother and as an American, the story troubles me.

As a lawyer of latter day, I'm worried about the very real problem of line-drawing. Are we going to start rounding up pregnant women who are sipping wine or nibbling feta or not eating anything while pregnant because data indicates that these things might not be good for the fetus? Are we going to arrest a woman who has ingested vast amounts of caffeine and is nursing? Where do we draw these legal lines?

As a mother, I am concerned about this story because, well, (gasp), I consumed moderate amounts of wine while nursing both of my daughters. Yes, I was responsible. No, I didn't nurse while intoxicated. But I would be lying if I said I abstained from Pinot during those postnatal months. I would also be lying if I said the Pinot wasn't often a sublime treat at the end of a long and tiring day. And I am no scientist, but both of my girls appear to be thriving. (Brag Moment: Toddler's teacher called her a superstar today!)

As an American, I worry about privacy. I am not sure anyone truly knows how to define privacy or that enigmatic right to privacy. But it's easier to intuit when privacy has been violated. It seems to me that this woman's right to privacy has been compromised in some way I cannot quite articulate. Admittedly, this is an argument I am less sure about. And this is when facts of the case matter. If this woman was conspicuously drunk, unable to care for her tiny baby, and someone in that home or nearby called the police because conditions were unsafe or out of hand, maybe her right to privacy has been surrendered? Who knows. My legal knowledge is rusty. This is where my lawyer friends can maybe help me out?

What are your thoughts on this arrest? Does it trouble you like it does me? Are you better able to articulate what is wrong with this picture? Or maybe there is nothing wrong with this picture and I am simply defending my own questionable behavior?

The Bread Boycott

You've been there before. I know it. You go on vacation. And you eat. Everything. Portion control? Out the window. Dressing on the side? Who's eating salad? Not much of a dessert person? That doesn't stop you. Calories become your friends. The more, the better. And each and every night when you go to sleep feeling happy and bloated, you feel so popular!

And then each morning, as you slip into those shorts or jeans, and the task seems a tiny bit more difficult, you tell yourself you are imagining things. And then you go find a few thousand breakfast calories to inhale. And then on the car-ride home, the long, screeching-filled trek, when you are scarfing Chicken McNuggets - a food you deemed disgusting mere days before - and washing it down with the dregs of your daughter's milkshake, you think nothing of it. It's so very hard to be healthy on travel days. Right, right?

Home again. You reunite with that subversive scale that waits patiently for you to step on and face reality. But you do everything in your power to avoid the step. You shower. You brush. You examine the tan that doesn't exist. And then you tell yourself that it can't be that bad. That having a grip on reality, however fat that reality has become, is better than delusion. And then closing your eyes, you step on. You lean forward a bit because that usually shaves a half pound or so. You open your eyes.

Two pounds. Not bad. Not good, either. But then you think of all the yummy wine and cookies and famous Buffalo hot dogs you consumed. You think of the fun you had welcoming those two pounds and you think: maybe, just maybe, it was worth it. And then in the mirror you smile at yourself. Proud of this patently good and healthy attitude about things. Proud that you have not morphed into that melancholy creature who doesn't appear much on vacation. Proud that you are cutting yourself some proverbial slack. Proud that you are seeing things for what they are. Two pounds. That's nothing!

And you dress and giggle at the fact that your clothing is actually or seemingly a bit snug. And you get on with your life.

And then you boycott bread. What?! What happened to that sensible creature in the bathroom who embraced the imperfections in diet and humanity? What happened to that healthy and realistic attitude that life should be enjoyed and not controlled at every moment? What happened to the ever-rational conclusion that two pounds is negligible?

I have no idea. But please let me know if you find her.

In the meantime, you are not eating bread. Or any sugars or grains for that matter. And it has been two days. And, yes, the numbers on the scale are behaving again. And you even feel a bit better. A bit healthier. And, yes, these results would probably have occurred if you simply stopped ingesting 3000+ daily calories or eating cookies after breakfast or snagging goodies from your child's Happy Meal. But you credit yourself. Your control-freak self. For taking life by the reigns. For blaming innocuous and nutritious bread. For taking life which was blissfully fun for two weeks and squeezing all the joy and extra calories from it. Good for you. You must be so proud of all that energy you invested in banishing two pounds that you could have put toward writing a chapter or making an art project with your girls or catching up with a friend. Good for you.

What Have I Done Wrong?

Ensconced in the privacy of my home, I am very good at convincing myself of certain things. One such thing? That Toddlers are an inscrutable species, that they will do as they please and then one day morph into polite and decorous little people. I tell myself that toddlers are inherently poor eaters, that it is very normal for them to run around, never sit for a meal, graze on Pirate's Booty and pretzels and that it isn't weird. And the experts (our pediatricians) enable me in my delusions, telling me that 'Toddlers don't starve." Rather, they eat when they are hungry, they get what they need, and that putting undue focus or pressure on food and mandates to consume it will only create an "issue," and we all know that "issues" are to be avoided like that proverbial plague. And I quite like this laissez-faire philosophy of child-rearing, so I listen to it. Cross those fingers. Hope for the best. Occasionally Routinely offer ice cream as a reward (for a few bites and many tears).

But after spending time with other little ones (my sisters' kids in Wisconsin and Husband's cousin's kids here at the Cape), I have that sinking feeling that despite my own well-tailored rationalizations, despite the honest advice from an esteemed practice of docs, I have done something wrong. Last night, Toddler pitched a screaming fit when we put a plate of food in front of her. Very articulately, she told us over and over that she did not want to eat it. Now, her three cousins (ages 3-6), sat there like little gentlemen, chewing their chicken and sipping their milk. Their mother told them they couldn't be excused from the table until they had finished their meals and they listened. They sat. And ate. And then, later that night, when our girls were asleep and I was sipping a post-tantrum cathartic glass of Pinot, these little boys sat through our adult dinner again. Nibbling from their parents' and grandparents' plates. And that's not it. When dinner was over, these three little men cleared the table.

I know. It's not a competition. But I felt sad. And then I played a dismal game of Wii Bowling and felt even worse. And I am convinced that Toddler -- who is usually sunny and has been stormy -- is getting her molars and it is potentially painful to eat. Or, more likely, this is another self-serving excuse that will cushion me from a painful realization: that I am not perfect, that maybe when it comes to this aspect of parenting - the food/nutrition/waiting on elders aspect of parenting -- I have done something utterly and irreversibly wrong. Who knows.

Please tell me that my Toddler, despite her vitriolic anti-nutrition displays, will be a healthy and happy child. And that if I practice a bit, I will become a better virtual bowler.

The 29-Hour Raw Food Diet

If I were visiting this blog and not its proud mama, I would read the title of this post and my heart rate would quicken and I would get a mini-surge of excitement. A 29-hour diet? I can do anything for 29-hours! I would begin to salivate for details and then I would begin reading... and then I would feel stupid and realize that this is the story of someone who could only last on a diet for a pathetic 29 hours. Bummer. 

Last week, I met a friend for lunch. As we perused the menu, she said in a whisper: Let me just tell you, I'm doing the raw food thing. Presumably, she told me this so that I wouldn't mock her for munching on plain lettuce leaves. But her pre-meal confession had another effect on me: it piqued my interest. What is a raw food diet?

So, over lunch, I enjoyed a savory seminar on the raw food diet. And as my friend explained how she makes smoothies and delectable "green juice," I noticed how fantastic and healthy she looks. Sure, she looked skinny and I love skinny, but she always looks skinny. But her skin was good and glowing. She was invigorated, smiling, seemingly high on life. (Or maybe on green juice?)

Hmmm. So what did I do after lunch? I went across the street to the grocery store and bought me a boatload of raw foods. Nuts. Avacados (or "Cados" as Toddler calls them). Veggies. And right then and there, I went on a raw diet. 

The next morning, I was down .5 pounds! A miracle. Now, we all know that it's more likely that I was down a half pound because of all the scrambling I did to learn about this raw food diet, but whatever. So, I decided to stick with the diet. But by evening, after a long day with my little cowgirls, I was starting to dream of cooked vegetables. Of course you are going to lose weight on a diet where it is a treat to have a steamed piece of broccoli! 

Anyway, the next morning, I stood there on line at Starbucks talking to myself. This diet is not for me. Diets aren't for me. Moderation is the key. Life is too short. She did look positively gazelle-like though. No, not for me. And when it was my turn to order, I asked for my beloved and opposite-of-raw Venti Pike Place coffee. And then I added an egg sandwich. And then I scarfed said steaming-hot sandwich in record time, gaining back that piddly half pound. Yum.

Why is it that I am such a sucker for diets? Of course, like 99% of you out there, I would love to drop those five pounds. Of course. But is our societal obsession with diets and weight-loss and before-and-after stories perhaps prime evidence of our shared insecurities? Of our preoccupation with perfection? Of our insatiable hunger for control? Is my brief fling with the raw food diet another sad manifestation of that collective fantasy and fallacy that if we just lose the weight, it will be happily-ever-after? 

I Drink, Therefore I Can?

Leave it to NYT's Idea of the Day blog to get those languid brain cells dancing.  Today, the Week in Review Staff asks whether there is A ‘Churchill Gene’ for Creative Drinking? and explores the notion that a lucky (or unlucky) few of us have a gene that helps us turn booze into creativity.

The blog links us to Prospect Magazine's fascinating article I drink, therefore I can.  In this piece, Philip Hunter maintains that many of history's most feted artists and writers and thinkers -- including Winston Churchill, Mark Twain, William Faulkner, Vincent Van Gogh, Jackson Pollock, Francis Bacon -- used alcohol as a "fuel for [their] muse," namely as a means to their creative ends.  

Hunter points to contemporary scientific evidence that suggests that as much as 15% of the Caucasian population has a gene -- call it the 'Churchill gene' or the 'creative cocktail gene' or 'the G-variant of the mu-opioid receptor' -- that in fact makes ethanol behave more like an opioid drug, such as morphine, with a more intense than normal effect on mood and behavior.  It has been argued and observed that the gene creates an initial euphoria, followed by prolonged periods of relaxation and enhanced creativity.  It is interesting to note that Hunter also writes that people with this euphoria/creativity producing gene variant also seem more prone to alcoholism. 

What do you think?  Do you think the idea of an alcohol/creativity gene is plausible?  Is this an attempt to defend the historical or contemporary abuse or misuse of alcohol in our culture?  Have you experienced bouts of creative euphoria after knocking back a few? Do tell!

Swining and Dining

Last night, Husband and I went for a yummy dinner at a fabulous little restaurant in the neighborhood: Salumeria Rosi Parmacotto.  [Please note that I am being commendably generous here by linking you to this small- plate-sanctuary.  It's not that too many of you are reading. It's not as if this is the Gastronomy Gospel.  It's just that this place is the size of your Pomeranian and I quite like the fact that Husband and I can pop in and get a table.]

Anyway.  Please see Exhibit A to the right.  This was our appetizer (and a fraction of Dear Husband's taut torso).  I contemplated (for a few seconds) stealing the menu because it was so serious and detailed - it taught me how to pronounce all the varieties of parmacatto I was about to nibble.  But I am too much of a good girl (and wuss) to do that, so sans details, I will keep things simple and fondly refer to it as the Pig Plate.

It occurred to me as I sampled said pig that though pathetically allergic to all things adventurous, I have a seemingly magnetic attraction to the danger-du-jour.  Remember a while back when everyone was freaking out about spinach?  All I wanted was spinach.  In my omelets, in my salads, as a side to my din.  Frozen.  Fresh.  Cut.  Creamed.  Organic.  Au Gratin.  You name it.  And I was pregnant.  

Now?  As the sinister Swine Flu swirls through the states, I seem to be doing everything in my power to contract H1N1.  A recap of the steps I took just yesterday: (1) I took Toddler to Fairway which fellow Manhattanites know is the go-to gourmet germ fest; (2) I went to the gym to swap sweat and sneezes with the general population (okay, yes, that was the day before but I'm making a point here); and (3) Husband and I patronized the aforementioned precious-parmacotto-purveyor for the second week in a row.  Sure, those who know better insist that swining and dining is not dangerous, but I figure if there is a slight chance, why not give it a shot?

Yet another instance of yours truly acting like a toddler and doing exactly what she has been told not to do (a la my jury duty antics a few weeks back).  Okay, off to take actual Toddler to her preschool-prep class (no joke) at the incomparable Children's Museum of Manhattan where we will be serenaded by the day's sweet chorus of coughing kids.  Cheerio!

The Affluenza Vaccine

"We have too much stuff,"  says environmental heavyweight James Gustave ("Gus") Speth.  Speth's simple words belie his sparkling CV (current Yale Forestry dean, co-founder of the NRDC and World Resources Institute, top Carter adviser, Dad's college buddy and colleague).  "We have to get over this epidemic of affluenza."

Speth uttered these insights as a panelist during yesterday's Spring Environmental Lecture and Luncheon at the American Museum of Natural History.   Apparently the term affluenza (per Professor Wiki, a portmanteau of affluence and influenza) has been kicked around by anti-consumerism advocates for quite some time.  But this is the first I heard of affluenza (and the groovy word portmanteau).

After consuming a lean and green meal of free-range chicken and acai sorbet under the big Blue Whale (where Husband and I celebrated our wedding 4+ years ago!), I went home and looked up affluenza and found the following definition:

Af-flu-en-za n. 1. The bloated, sluggish and unfulfilled feeling that results from efforts to keep up with the Joneses. 2. An epidemic of stress, overwork, waste and indebtedness caused by dogged pursuit of the American Dream. 3. An unsustainable addiction to economic growth. 4. A television program that could change your life.

Now I'm not quite sure about the life-changing television part, so feel free to ignore it.  But the rest sounds a tad familiar, doesn't it?  We are buying bigger and bigger houses and buying more and more stuff.  Stuff that Speth contends isn't making us any happier.  What makes us happier?  Other people.  Warm interpersonal contact.  Having someone to talk to.

I sit here typing away in my living room amid the day's Toddler Tornado, a scattered storm of stuff, wishing there were in fact an affluenza vaccine.  And if there was,  it wouldn't just be administered to the old and the young and the pregnant.  It would be offered to all of us.

For now, we should perhaps all check out Speth's latest book The Bridge at the Edge of the World: Capitalism, the Environment, and Crossing from Crisis to Sustainability (Yale University Press) wherein he urges us to conceive of a non-socialist alternative to our capitalist system.  No, it doesn't sound like a fluff-fest, or a candy beach read.  But if we don't listen to Speth and his conservationist cohorts, we might just end up with a lot of meaningless stuff and no beaches left to read on.  (Okay, on which to read.)  

The Dora Dilemma

National Turn-Off-Tune-In Week began Monday.  Apparently, I missed the memo.  But thanks to Lisa Belkin over at The NYT's Motherlode, I'm now aware that for the past three days, it was my mandate to forego the flatscreen.  Oops.

Truth is even if I had gotten this message (one endorsed by a bevy of authorities from the American Medical Association to the American Academy of Pediatrics to the National Education Association to the President’s Council on Physical Fitness and Sports), I probably wouldn't have listened.

Why?  Sure, the numbers are alarming.  Children are watching more television than ever and, alas, as Belkin notes, attention spans are shrinking as waistlines expand.  She offers a few lovely stats: (a la TurnOffYourTV.com):

• Number of 30-second commercials seen in a year by an average child: 20,000.
• Number of minutes per week that parents spend in meaningful conversation with their children: 38.5.
• Number of minutes per week that the average child watches television: 1,680.

No, none of this is good.  But I will continue to let Toddler and Baby watch as much Dora as they want.  And I will also continue to spend many more than 38.5 minutes per week conversing and cuddling with them. As Belkin so eloquently states, "I have come to question rah-rah, all-or-nothing statements for subtle situations."  We are always eager to point a finger, aren't we?  I'm no expert and I'm not quite sure what the problem is, but I don't think we can blame it all on that poor little bilingual girl with the bowlcut.

Toddler knows the alphabet, and how to count to a very high number, and what a chinchilla is.  Why? Because we are stellar parents? Maybe.  Because she is a language and learning sponge? Perhaps.  Because I let her tune in from time to time?  You betcha.  

Now, I'm not advocating that all kids should be able to watch TV all the time.  I know there are abuses here.  There are plenty of issues that need to be looked at.  But I do advocate, as Belkin does far more compellingly than yours truly, that we get past this black or white, turn-off or tune-in, all-or-nothing, one-size-fits-all way of seeing the world.  It's all about the greys, baby.

The Ticker Makes Us Sicker

Yesterday afternoon, I did something I vowed to stop doing.  Something I have gotten a lot better about not doing.  I checked the DOW.  Down a splendid 289.60.  Cheers.  Immediately, I was struck by a wave of nausea.  A very familiar wave of nausea.

The economy.  Yuck.  For months now, it’s as if all of us Americans, yes all of us (welcome to the club, guys) are pregnant with a baby we didn’t quite plan.  And, worse, we don’t know who the father is.  Was it Slick Willy?  George W?  Homeowners? The banks?  Now, it doesn’t quite matter; the cells are multiplying, limbs are flailing, we are repeatedly getting kicked in the gut, our ribs are sore; the thing’s got a life of its own.  We wake up, blissfully foggy, at times unaware of the purchase this creature has on our lives and then, we do stupid, predictable, everyday things: we turn on the TV, we surf the web, we grab a paper. And bam, we’re headed for that toilet. 

Fun way to start the day.

Thankfully, we all have a good and benevolent doctor, albeit a rookie, to tell us that the nausea is exceedingly normal, that it will pass, that if we snack on salty things and hunker down and keep our eye on the prize, we will be okay.  And, desperate and pale and fat under those standard issue hospital gowns, we (okay, only some of us) tell him: “Do what you have to do.  Tax us.  Spend.  Bail out the bozos.  Just make this go away.”

And our doctor nods bravely. Fear and wisdom glisten in tired eyes.  He flashes a smile, winning and genuine.  And though he probably doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing (who does?), we listen to his soothing tone.  And we don’t know why but we feel better.  And we think, at least we are getting good medical care.

I gave birth to Baby six months ago.  You wouldn’t know it by this schizophrenic weather but, alas, it’s Spring.  And I’m beginning to feel freedom again.  After the birth of Toddler two years ago, I spent my hours sans babe doing what other spoiled first-time mommies do: I shopped Columbus Avenue, washed improvident $20 chopped salads down with a glass of Sancerre (only one of course, I was breastfeeding!), I got manicures with friends.

But now?  Other than typing caffeine-fueled rants like this at my local Starbucks and chipping away at my next manuscript and taking care of the babies, I go to the gym.  Why?  One, it’s cheaper.  Two, it will help me get back in shape and if I can no longer buy designer skinny jeans willy-nilly, I will get myself some skinny legs.  But mostly, I go to the gym because at the gym I am surrounded by other people (admittedly privileged enough to be at the gym smack-dab in the middle of the workday).  People who are white and black, young and old, fat and thin, blonde and brunette, famous and jobless, and somewhere in between.  I go there to escape a few things for a few hours. The babies I love.  The worries I don’t.  This vomitous, illegitimate economy.

But on those flat screen TVs that once splayed silly soap operas and reality shows, newscasters wear severe pin stripes with their severe frowns.  And in the bottom half of every television that stock ticker mocks us, doing its subversive dance.  Up and down.  And down.  And down some more.  And even if we keep those TVs muted, an ominous voice carries:  Try to relax, foolish one.  Your portfolio was burned in half.  That home in which you raised your kids and your grandkids visit at Christmas time?  Might not be yours for long.  That splendid nanny who is at home with your two baby girls while you indulgently tone up your postpartum thighs?  Even you can’t quite afford that.

And I am not immune.  I listen to my iPod and read my book, my legs spinning fast, my body going nowhere.  But every few minutes I look up and squint.  And there it is: the ticker.  And part of me, the feral, uncivilized part of me that is bohemian and insane or maybe totally sane, wants to rip out the headphones and jump off the arc trainer and stand atop the water fountain for an impromptu town meeting and break the zen-like-gym-silence and tell all of these sad and nauseous people, pregnant with worry, to STOP.  Don’t kowtow to the DOW.  Turn off the ticker. 

The ticker only makes us sicker.

This is not about denial, friends.  Mine is not a sob story.  My sacrifice: foregoing the marble countertops in my new apartment.  But I feel sick just like you. 

We cannot ignore the economy; the creature’s within us, creating irreversible and sobering scars, giving us stretch marks and wrinkles.  We are not going to say screw you and hit the bottle or slurp sushi with abandon.  We are going to keep taking those prenatal vitamins.  We are going to be responsible critters.  And nurture the little sucker who makes us all miserable.  Because, right now, we have no choice.

But that doesn’t mean we have to lie on the couch, clutching our swelling belly, bemoaning the cruelty of it all.  That doesn’t mean we have to spend every moment whining or cursing life.  That doesn’t mean we need to hinge our daily happiness on those fluttering little green numbers that follow the little negative sign.

Because you know what?  At some point, this dreaded pregnancy will be over.  And it might be more than nine months.  And labor might suck.  Royally.  And, surprise! We might end up with octuplets.  But, at some point, it will be over.  Pound by pound, we will lose the pregnancy weight and feel the flutters of freedom once more.  And we will once again buy homes and sip Sancerre and splurge on totally unnecessary pairs of skinny jeans.

Right now, it’s hard to believe but some day, we will wake up and feel okay.  The morning sickness will be gone and maybe we won’t even remember how ill we once felt.  And, even stronger than before, we Americans will smile again. 

Not Another One

Last night, the four of us piled in the rental car and headed for Husband's parents' place in Wayne, Pennsylvania.  Our plan seemed sound: feed the kids and then hop in the car.  Then kids would sleep for the two hour ride and Husband and I would have a nice chunk of time to catch up about the week.

An hour later, we arrived at a lovely traffic jam at the Lincoln Tunnel and both kids were wide awake. Not crying.  But awake.  Toddler sang songs.  And Baby wiggled around in her seat.  The second we entered the tunnel: Bam.  Baby projectile vomited.  Four times.  Miraculously, she did not cry.  Husband and I had a wonderful conversation about whether to mop up the vomit with a diaper or my jacket.

No, I was not prepared for this.  And I should have been. Toddler has been a champion car-vomiter since she was Baby's age.  And as a frantically-nervous first-time mom, I harrassed Pediatrican about this and Pediatrician chuckled and said: "Ah, city kids. They're never in cars."  (Come on.  Don't taxis count?)

After a couple of dicey jaunts in the car today, I decided to Google motion sickness and found out that when it comes to the projectile propensity, my kids are in good company. None other than celebrity doctor Sanjay Gupta suffers from an acute version of this affliction.  He has a few highly encouraging things to say about all this: (1) Often individuals with inner ear problems or impaired vision or Diabetes have motion sickness; (2) There really is no viable therapy for this condition; and (3) There are some studies (albeit scientifically tenuous according to him) that suggest that motion sickness is genetic.

And suddenly, I had vivid memories of losing my cookies (Literally. My grandmother made them and they were peanut butter) in the backseat of a station wagon.  And I asked Husband whether he got carsick as a kid and, sure enough, he did.  

So, in the grand nature v. nurture debate, is motion sickness a matter of nature or nurture?  Are my poor kids getting sick because they have our genes or because we are rearing them in the big city?  I'm not so sure.  I just really hope: (1) that my kids do not have problems with their eyes or inner ears; and (2) that we make it back to the City tomorrow without an eruption of the adorable backseat vomit volcano.

Tuning In (and Out)

Well. This afternoon was a waiting game for this faux juror. The six Major League jurors began to deliberate.  But my fellow alternate and I were kicked off the island.  (Talk about mixed metaphors.  Yikes.) I was banished to Starbucks to wait.  Ordered to remain within striking distance of the courthouse.  In the likely event one the Superior Six suffered a sudden bout of Appendicitis.

Just yesterday I bemoaned the fact that I wouldn't be able to deliberate, but today I was singing a different tune.  Why?

After the prosecution and defense finished their summations, the Judge read us the very important jury instructions.  He was loud and clear. His voice carried far and wide in the little courtroom.  Like a good girl, I sat still in my burgundy pleather chair and made commendable eye contact, even nodding at what seemed to be appropriate moments.  But there were good chunks of time where I heard nothing. Nada. Crickets.

So, sequestered at Starbucks, I decided that I was in fact thankful that it would not be up to me to make such a weighty decision about the fate of a fellow human being.  Because I was not sure I heard everything I was supposed to hear. In fact, I was sure I didn't hear things I was supposed to hear.  Things it was my civic duty to hear and understand and digest and use as a solid foundation for The Decision.  

And then I had a caffeine-fueled mini-epiphany that this was perhaps why I was picked for the Minor Leagues.  Maybe that Judge and those lawyers took one look at me and something screamed short attention span.  Was it the (only-quasi-faux) blonde hair? The artfully-torn designer jeans?  The fact that my questionnaire had so many slashes (I indicated under Profession that I was a Writer/Mom/Lawyer)? (Note: I am a loyal fan of the slash and his cousin the parethesis and up until a few moments ago, I couldn't quite remember whether the period goes before or after the closing parenthesis.  And then I hit save and looked it up. And for you fellow members of the Punctuation Police who are still with me: the period goes before the final parenthesis only if the entire sentence is encapsulated in said parentheses.) 

Phew.  

But I digress.

Yes, I'm being long-winded and self-indulgent and dramatic and all those other adjectives they warn writers not to be. For the truth is that if I were allowed in that deliberation room, we would've been given a copy of the jury instructions I tuned out.  Truth is most matters in life (like, say, the proper use of parentheses) aren't quite as serious as those lived out in the criminal courtroom.  But why do we do this?  Why do we tune things out?  Like the convoluted list of specials at the Italian restaurant? Or the flight attendant's safety details? Or the conversation with Husband about what might be wrong with the dishwasher? 

Now men often get criticized for doing the selective hearing dance and, yes, they happen to be very good at not hearing the desperate cries of a hungry newborn at 3am, but we all do this.  Almost daily.  What gives?

Maybe our brains can only accommodate so many details at once and once they reach max capacity, the ears take a breather?  Maybe we tune out things we don't need to hear?  (Why do we need to hear that they have special soft shelled crabs if we know we want the halibut?)  Maybe we tune out things that we simply do not want to hear.  (Like the fact that our plane might crash and if it does it might be over the ocean and we might need to maneuver oxygen masks and use our filthy seat cushions as flotation devices.)  

Or maybe we each have a pinch of ADD leftover from childhood? (Witness Exhibit A: This Post.)