Prologue: Dirty Dishes

The moment a child is born, the mother is also born.  She never existed before.  The woman existed, but the mother, never.  A mother is something absolutely new.  ~Rajneesh

A bit of exposition:

I went to a fancy-pants private liberal arts college, majored in something useless, and graduated with middling honors. Then I got married and spent my twenties traveling all over the world and having adventures. I lived in Sicily. I trudged through muddy fields in Cornwall. I had my hand hennaed in Egypt. I ate ox brain in Romania. I smoked shisha in Turkey. I peed behind a bush in Malta. I was much too busy to blog then.

I drank Becherovka in Prague. That stuff is beyond delicious. For reals.

Now, I’m a stay-at-home mom with an 8 month old son, living in Baltimore. And this is a whole new kind of adventure.

When I became pregnant, I determined that I would raise my child free of all toxic chemicals, eating wholesome, delicious, fresh foods that I had cooked myself, wearing organic cottons dyed with vegetable dyes, never touching any plastic that I wasn’t 100% certain was BPA/phthalate/PVC free. We would go to farmer’s markets and buy the freshest produce, mother and child, the baby in a sling and smiling sunnily at all his admirers! It would be easy, and after eating our wholesome, homemade lunches, we would laugh and skip through fields of wildflowers, never once catching poison ivy! Tra la!

That's right, we were going to live in a Renoir.

Reality sets in.

Organic clothes are WICKED expensive. Sure, we’re not poor, we do okay. But $25 for a single bodysuit, which he is guaranteed to vomit on within thirty seconds of having it pulled over his little head? I don’t think so.

Plastics are EVERYWHERE. Of course, you make sure that the spoons and bowls and teethers are all as non-toxic as possible, but you know what else goes into his mouth? EVERYTHING.

Farmer’s markets happen early. Like, in the morning. This is not my best time of day, no matter how sunny the weather and the baby’s smile.

Also? I don’t cook.

I have some issues with the kitchen. One is that I hate it. My least favorite household chore is anything that takes me into that room. Dirty dishes are disgusting and I don’t want to touch them. Cooking food is pointless, because it takes you more time to cook than it does to eat, and what do you have at the end? DIRTY DISHES.



This blog is all about how I deal with my issues. Many of these concern the cooking problem, and my first posts (you know, the ones I have planned right now–I don’t like to get too far ahead of myself) will include recipes and my personal reviews of the gadgets that I’ve been using to make baby food. Other issues may come out as well, and we’ll deal with these as they happen.

Like in therapy. Yay.

Now, I need to go do some dishes.

4 responses to “Prologue: Dirty Dishes

  1. LOVE IT! Congratulations on becoming a blogger! By the way, don’t you have a dishwasher? This is America, after all.

    • Most of the baby’s dishes are so light that they fly around the dishwasher and get stuck at the bottom, which is doubly disgusting. So I wash all his things by hand. Seriously, though, I don’t even like to have anything to do with loading the dishwasher. Blech. I don’t mind emptying it, though.

  2. This is terribly exciting.

  3. I love it! Especially the line of “That’s right, we were going to live in a Renoir.” Funny enough, I also pictured I’d go to Farmer’s markets, use only organic food & clothing, and no plastics. However, at daycare, they don’t allow glass. So….we ended up using the plastic anyways (BPA free, at least). Also, for the dishwasher, do you use those little baskets? We have them and they prevent about 80% of the baby dishes from flying around. Silverware is immune though!

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