An Ultimatum

4.30.2015

I am sitting on a bed that’s made in a room that’s a disaster. And it’s kind of a metaphor for my life. If one thing is tidy and complete, everything else is messy and unfinished, or truthfully, unstarted.

I’ve been having a little slow onset breakdown lately. It’s been a gradual decent, less of an explosion and more of a slow flame, but my house is still burning down. It’s a combination of things, it always is—overreaching, misfiring, falling short. I feel like I put all my time into life’s logistics—feeding people, cleaning rooms, packing bags. And I don’t do any of it well. I feel like my marriage is egalitarian and all, but still. There aren’t enough hands. Already. There aren’t enough hands. I feel like I just don’t have anything interesting to say anymore. I don’t follow current events. I don’t read for pleasure. I haven’t in months. And aside from the nichey trade topics I write about for work, topics most people in my normal circles wouldn’t know or care a thing about, all I have to talk about are my goals. I can’t talk about what I’m doing or thinking, only what I hope to be doing and thinking. And hopes are fine, but they make for short conversations.

And if this whole thing were an ultimatum, it would be this: either live in filth and anarchy or spend your days as an uninteresting person. You can’t have both. You have to choose.

I know it’s not an ultimatum, that life doesn’t really give you many of those, but I also know that my hypothetical choice is revealing. I’ve been choosing cleanliness and order, hoping for creativity and learning, and failing at all of it. So many people are searching for wholeness and when they talk about it, they talking about looking for someones or somethings that will fill up their empty spaces. But I have no empty spaces. I’m full to the brim, too full. I’m heavy, lonely, and bursting, like I’m holding my breath. I’ve made myself an island of this perfectly tidy bed and I’m sinking in a sea of chaos and expectations and I just need to jump off and swim away and start over.

I want wholeness just as much as the next Joe, but I don’t want to fill myself up just to fill myself up. I need to clean house before I can deal with the emptiness. And no, for once, I don’t mean that literally. Tomorrow, I’ll wake up to a dresser covered with unfiled papers and camping gear. There will be ants all over my sticky kitchen floor. Scout will wear a mildewy swim suit to swim class. But maybe I’ll have a clearer head and a lighter gut when I wake up tomorrow. Maybe I’ll have a better idea of who I really want to be.

Notes from a Wedding Day

4.26.2015

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Before Trent and I got married, somebody told us to take time on our wedding night to write in our journals about the day, so we could remember the little details we might forget if we waited. We did, but just scattered notes. We jotted down key words to jog our memories. We’d write it all out later, we thought, but we never got around to it.

I found those scribbles a couple of months ago, bullets on a notepad with the Hotel Monaco letterhead at the top. We were nervous, awkward, overwhelmed kids when we wrote those words and with five years between us and them, so much of their meaning has wandered away. But I could make sense of some of it.

I wanted to remember my sister driving me down Provo Canyon in the morning, practicing the song she sang at the reception that night. She belted “At Last” in the driver’s seat and somewhere along the way, I had a moment when it all felt real. I cried. I wanted to remember the moment and the crying.

I wanted to remember getting my hair done at the mall and doing my makeup alone in the food court bathroom. I wanted to remember “Dad’s peeing loud story” which he must have told me when my parents picked me up and drove me to the temple, but honestly, I don’t remember it at all.

I wanted to remember feeling relief in the celestial room before our sealing—relief from what, I’m not quite sure. I wanted to remember looking around the sealing room to see who was there—so many people, it seemed—and I wanted so badly to memorize the way I felt when all of those people lined up to hug and congratulate us when the ceremony was over. I felt loved like I’d never felt before. I felt like we had an army of people rooting for us. I felt like we could make it. I remember that well.

I wanted to remember the wind, the cold, and the dark, ominous sky. It was so different from the wedding weather I’d pictured. It was strange for late April, strange and beautiful.

The rest was a blur, even in my notes. I wrote that my Dad was like a game show host at the wedding dinner, walking around in a tux with a microphone. I wrote words like “madness” and “Fire in the Disco”—the song I danced to with my dearest, craziest, maddest friends. I wrote “Wild Thing”—the song I sang to Trent before we were rushed out the door through a line of smoky sparklers waving in the rain. We got into a filthy old Camry and drove away. And though it wasn’t in my notes, I remember looking back at the glow in the windows of the reception hall, the silhouettes of the people who loved us and rooted for us, and wishing I could go back.

But as we all know, we can never go back. No, not really.

So onward, Trent Murphey, onward we drive into surprising beauty of the big dark sky.

Listening to: Sam Palladio & Clare Bowen, “When You Open Your Eyes”

Building Goodness

4.20.2015

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I’ve been organizing events these past few months as the Darden Partners Association’s Community Service Chair. It’s very official and all. It reminds me of my glory days back in the Center for Service and Learning at BYU, and by “glory days” I mean days spent trying to convince busy people to make their lives busier. Thankfully, the Charlottesville community service scene is hoppin’ and the Darden Partners are pretty cheerful worker bees—BUSY, cheerful worker bees. Is this metaphor annoying yet?

In addition to the monthly Ronald McDonald House dinners we’ve provided, we pitched in to clean up a local animal shelter‘s dog-walking trails and participated in the Darden-wide Building Goodness in April event, which takes on home repair projects for local residents in need. (See cute photos above.) We also did a prom attire drive for students at a nearby high school, and let me tell you, the MBA community is the demographic to tap for formal wear donations. Next up, we’ll be doing some gardening with the folks from Building Bridges, a nonprofit that serves adults who have suffered traumatic brain injuries. When I surveyed the Darden partners at the beginning of the year, they made it clear they wanted to get their hands dirty with volunteer opportunities. I took it literally.

Cheers!

Happy Birthday, Scout

4.08.2015

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Dear Scout Murphey,

Today is your second birthday. Your first birthday, your actual birth day, was a whole year ago today. I know I’m stating the obvious, but the obvious is blowing my mind. This year, I have learned that the collective wisdom of parents past is true, at least when it yaks on about how the days are long but the years are short, and when it won’t shut up about how transformative parenthood will be, and when it becomes a broken record saying things like, “You’ll love like you never knew you could.”

I never knew I could love like I love you, Scout Murphey. Not even when they said it a million billion kajillion times.

I wish I could give you something meaningful for your big day, something more than board books and a plastic airplane to knock of the shelf, as you do with all things. For weeks I’ve been thinking about what I could say to you on this day of all days. What do I want you to know, Funny Buns? What do I want you to remember? And in trying not to yak on like all those worn out parents past, I’ll just give you one thing.

I will try not to need you too much, Little Duck.

That is my gift. There you are. Happy birthday. I will try not to need you too much.

I’ve noticed it growing inside me this year, this dependency on you to make me feel important. You look to me for life, sustenance, comfort, and learning and you look at me like I’m the coolest, funniest, most interesting being that ever walked on the face on Earth. I’ve been collecting those looks, gobbling them up, filling my tank with those hits of validation.

Validation—it’s a word us grown-ups throw around a lot, but almost never do we talk about it coming from our children. Maybe that’s because children stop validating their parents at some point. That sounds right, now that I think of it. I’m sure this is just a phase. I’m sure you will learn that there are cooler people out there, and better jokes, and more interesting things. But I will try to be ready for you to learn that. I will try not to mourn the change so very much when it comes. I will try not to be so addicted to your love and your looks that I need you more than I help you. I will try to find my own internal sources of validation so you can learn how to do that too. I will try to show you that my love for you can fill a planet, but it cannot fill your soul. Your soul is not mine to fill, Busy Bee. I will try not to pretend that it is.

So go enjoy your birthday, Baby Girl. Paint the town red. Eat cake. Open presents. Walk.

Or don’t walk just yet.

Run.

Or crawl a little longer.

Slow down. Stay little.

Grow big. Learn more.

Listen.

Ignore me.

I’m torn.

I’m zen.

I’m your mother. For better or for worse, I’m your mother.

There you are. Happy birthday.

Love,

Mom

Listening to: The Weepies, “Nobody Knows Me At All”

Going Back

4.01.2015

Before my roommate reunion a few weeks ago, I pulled up a bunch of old files on an external hard drive, copies of letters I’d written to a missionary back in my college days. We roommates planned to share funny excerpts from journal entries we’d written while we lived together. Those letters were the only journal I had.

It’s weird to go back.

I was writing to a missionary, I remind myself, which had to have colored my thoughts. I wrote a lot about wanting to go on a mission myself. That was before the mission age change. I wasn’t yet 21. I hadn’t remembered feeling such longing to go and serve God like that, to share the gospel like that. But I wrote a lot about that longing.

I was writing to a boy whose approval I desperately wanted, I remind myself, which had to have altered my tone. My tone was insecure. I couldn’t stop reassuring him that I wasn’t the “closed-minded liberal” he thought I was. I did it jokingly most of the time, but the frequency made it real.

I want to be kind to myself, I think as I read, but my instincts go elsewhere. I reach into the letter and out again and shake my 20-year-old shoulders a good one. “YOU DON’T HAVE TO PROVE ANYTHING TO HIM. And what’s so wrong with being a little liberal? And who are you trying to convince here? Yourself?” But 20-year-old Sam shrugs me off and diverts her eyes. “Why would I listen to you?” she says. “You never went on that mission like you said you would.” And I shrink, because she’s right. And I shrink smaller, because I feel relieved by it.

Be kind to yourself, I think again.

My authenticity waned and waxed throughout. There were passages that felt honest, even reading them years later. I wrote about the rush I got making an eloquent argument in my current events class and a spiritual insight I discovered in my world lit class. I planned, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, a study abroad to London and an internship at the Cincinnati Enquirer, neither of which came to pass. I gushed over the luggage I got for my birthday and fretted over getting my wisdom teeth out.

Of course I also wrote a lot about my roommates, those quirky, wonderful, kindred crazies. And although some of my stories didn’t check out when compared to my roommates’ versions at the reunion (I’m known to embellish here and there), the feelings were true. Mischievousness, cautiousness, loneliness, belonging, vulnerability, invincibility—that was us in those days, a beautiful mess of growing-ups all sharing a single bathroom.

Listening to: Kings of Convenience, “I’d Rather Dance With You”

#letsrunaway

3.26.2015

Screen shot 2015-03-25 at 9.49.20 PMThis is our summer travel route.

It’s an experiment in many things, things like spontaneity. We booked flights to Vienna on a whim two days ago, home through Copenhagen with Budapest, Prague, Krakow, and Warsaw in between. The tickets were crazy cheap, so we pounced and expedited a passport for Scout. We have the time now. We won’t always.

We watched “Dead Poets Society” last week—”Carpe Diem. Seize the day.” And we got an offer, which we left on the table, to trade our many-miled Corolla for a few-miled minivan. And a sister from our church congregation passed away of colon cancer far to young. And these factors all combined in a rush of panicked energy to live, live, live as much as we possibly can.

There was a phase of my life when I felt, quite acutely, that I needed to say no to most everything. I needed to conserve my strength and my space, to ration my emotions, to go in, to look in, to live in, to hunker down, to pause. To pause.

But my life is in play again. And it’s yes, yes, yes in every direction—North, South, East, West. Look up. Live out.

Listening to: The Civil Wars, “Billie Jean”

High on Dallas

3.14.2015

We’re moving to Dallas for the summer and, quite possibly, much longer thereafter.

It was hard for both of us to say no to Denver. And I’m pretty confident that I’m not a fan of Dallas, to be honest. But we feel so good about Bain and it’s community and Trent’s place in it all that we feel peace about the rest. Abiding peace. If there be things worth liking about Dallas, I will find them. And if there be things worth hating about Dallas, I will bitch about them. But I will bitch about them in abiding peace.

Speaking of which, can we talk briefly about how I honestly believe I get endorphins from hating things? It’s fun for me. Truly. Is it science? Is it magic? I know not. But I do know that while other people go running, I sit at home and hate on running and yet, we all get a natural high. Bitching can be euphoric.

OK. Now back to Dallas.

On second thought, that’s all I have to say about Dallas at the moment. Instead, I’ll get back to watching the season finale of “Downton Abbey” and cleaning up my disastrous bedroom and letting the dust of the past three weeks settle all around me—travel, host visitors, work, play, wake, sleep. And bitch. This is the circle of life.

Listening to: Gwen Stefani, “Hollaback Girl”

Come, Fly With Me (And My Baby)

2.25.2015

Trent, Scout and I just finished a blur of sell weekends strung together. I still don’t know if the term is “cel weekend” as in, “Let’s celebrate your internship offer!” or “sell weekend” as in, “We’re going to sell you on our firm.” Either way, the just is the same. The consulting firms that offered Trent internships flew us out to check out the cities, meet people from the offices, and get spoiled rotten. At first I was kind of put off by the whole concept of being wined and dined. “I can’t be bought,” I puffed to Trent on the first flight to Dallas. But on the massage table at the Ritz Carlton, I was singing a different tune.

Trent has been trying to get me to write a post with tips for making the most of a cel/sell weekend, but I’m not sure I have anything insightful to say on the subject. (Talk to folks before you go. Don’t lose sight of the factors you care about most. Let the dust settle back home before you make any big decisions. And so on.) But all of this recent flying has made me want to share some of the lessons I’ve learned about flying with a baby. So here we are.

Scout Murphey has been on almost 30 flights in her short 10 months of life, and while I’m sure there are babes out there who travel more frequently and parents out there who travel more gracefully, I do have a few ideas worth mentioning. They’ve mostly been learned by trial, error, and utter disaster. Take note.

  • Remember the birth certificate. For whatever reason, it’s actually impossible to remember to bring the birth certificate of your “infant-in-arms” to the airport. And that’s a fact. So do yourself a favor and leave a spare copy permanently in your suitcase. I keep one in the car seat bag as well. And if you don’t have a car seat bag, it’s worth the investment. It keeps everything clean and prevents straps from getting torn in transit.
  • Buy an umbrella stroller. I own a really nice jogging stroller that I’ve jogged with exactly once. I only ran about 30 seconds. I was trying to catch a bus. So you’ll understand if I have trouble relating to parents who can’t travel without their jogger. The truth is, it’s much easier not to. Some airlines won’t allow you to gate check bulky strollers, which means you can’t access them during layovers or to and from your gates. Plus even the airlines that do gate check big strollers don’t cover damages they make to them. Solution: Get yourself a cheap umbrella stroller. They’re small. They’re compact enough to go on the conveyers through security. And if they get damaged, just toss them. One of ours came off the plane with a bent wheel. I’ve done plenty of homework on umbrella strollers and my favorite is the Kolcraft stroller Walmart sells. It’s pretty durable for the price. And don’t forget to get a gate check tag from the gate agent before you board your flight.
  • Get through security. It’s a hassle without a baby, so it’s definitely going to be a hassle with a baby. My advice is meditate in line. Breathe. Get zen. Be zen. Also, every airport has different regulations, but a few things are pretty consistent. They’re going to swipe your hands to test them for something right after you walk through the metal detector. Don’t be alarmed. It’s normal. They’re also going to go through your diaper bag if you have just about anything in there—baby food, milk, frozen milk, etc. They’ll let you take it through if it’s for the babe, but they’re going to sniff it out first. Just plan on it.
  • Carabiner your everything. Toys, pacifiers, snack bags, etc. If you can lose it, you can carabiner it to your bag or your belt loops. That’s actually a sub-tip—wear pants with belt loops. You’ll thank me when you see someone else’s baby crap tumbling down the aisle. If you don’t have carabiners, these are a good, cheap substitute.
  • Stock your seat. Board the flight as early as possible and give yourself plenty of time to stock your seat. Take everything you could conceivably need to entertain and care for your baby on the flight and shove it in the seat pocket in front of you. If that means removing the magazines and safety information cards to make room, so be it. Sneak them into someone else’s pocket. This is war, OK? Also, double and triple check that you have a hearty handful of clean tissues in that seat back pocket. You don’t want to slime anyone while you’re scrambling to wipe your baby’s nose. It’s kind of the cardinal sin of flying with a baby. I, a lowly sinner, know all about it.
  • Think like Jason Bourne. Jason Bourne is always scanning the area and planning for every possible scenario. Once your seat is stocked, look around. Can you tell which bathroom has the changing table in it? The one at the front or the one at the back? It’s almost never in both. If you can’t figure it out based on signage, do yourself a favor and ask a flight attendant at the first opportunity. Don’t wait for a blow-out. I repeat. DON’T WAIT FOR A BLOW-OUT. If you do, you’ll be wandering up and down the plane covered in poop with a half-naked baby, maximizing the number of strangers who judge you.
  • Suck the landing. Landings (and take-offs) are hard on babies ears. That darn changing air pressure! My advice is just let them suck on a pacifier, on a bottle, on you, whatever. Just baby that baby and let her do whatever she wants to get through it. Nursing a baby in close quarters with strangers made me extremely self-conscious at first, but I’ve overcome the insecurity. I’ve stopped using a nursing apron cover thingy—I feel like they draw more attention than anything. And now that Scout is old enough to care, I’ve stopped covering all together. I’ve learned how to be discrete enough to make me feel comfortable, but more importantly, I’ve realized that American attitudes about public breastfeeding are extremely immature. But that’s a rant for another day. For nursing moms on planes, I’d recommend wearing a very comfortable nursing bra that makes you very accessible. Catch my drift? This one is my favorite.

Did I miss anything major? What tips do YOU have? Happy flying, parents!

C-ville Cabin Fever Busters

2.18.2015

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Trent had a snow day today. It was glorious.

The world got fluffier in every way. Trent woke up with Scout while I slept in and then worked on some freelance assignments uninterrupted. He made breakfast (and lunch!) and we all ventured out to chat with some Darden friends down the road whose classes were also cancelled. We napped and read and never got dressed and had a little family dance party to “Baby Beluga”—Raffi fan girls in the house! Most of the day Scout was either kissing her stuffed prairie dog (with alarming passion, I might add) or scooting around the apartment with a pink pinwheel in one hand, waving it around like a magic wand, casting a happy little spell on all of us. This fluff is the stuff of greatness. You can quote me on that.

I figured that since we had such a nice day staying in, now would be the perfect time to do a little post about how to stay sane during a Charlottesville winter. It’s a cute town—the cutest, I’d say—but in the winter it starts to feel small. (To be fair, everything does.) Here’s my own little cocktail for curing cabin fever.

  • C-ville Coffee—It’s a kid-friendly coffee house and it’s genius. I’m new to the world of parenting. Maybe this is old hat to most people, but to me, it’s a revelation. It has all the coziness of a normal coffee shop plus a big play area with toys, books, puzzles and high chairs. They also sell delicious, hearty, oaty, honey-soaked muffins. You can tell a lot about a coffee shop by the oatiness of its muffins.
  • Play Area at the Mall—It’s a mall. It’s named “Fashion Square,” which kind of makes me chuckle, because I’m a jerk. (Really? Fashion Square? That’s the best you could come up with?) But that is neither here nor there where the indoor play area is concerned. It’s safe. It’s warm. It’ll do just fine.
  • Bend Yoga—It’s a family yoga studio on the downtown mall. They have classes for parents where babies are welcome to tag along and participate. We’ve gone to a few of their drop-in events and I’ve been impressed. It allows me to get some cabin-fever-combating endorphins from my preferred form of exercise—stretching. For me, exercise can’t really be low-impact enough.
  • McGuffey Art Center—It’s a collection of studios of local artists, all housed in a beautiful old school building downtown. You can stroll through during the day and drop in on whoever is working to observe or chat. (Scout isn’t much for art yet, but she’s crazy for the ceiling fans.) They also offer classes and workshops all through the winter. I’m hoping to do a print-making workshop in March.
  • Window Shopping—A few times this winter, Scout and I have bundled up and gone out window shopping just to get some air. There are lots of unique local shops to explore. Rock Paper Scissors and Shenanigans Toys are two of my favorites.

Refinement is My Middle Name

2.17.2015

My mom, sister and I have decided to memorize a scripture and poem in every month of 2015. Nobody has overtly attributed this goal to the influence of “Anne of Green Gables,” but Anne (with an e!) is most certainly at the root of our desire to be able to recite poetry fluidly in casual conversation. There’s really no other explanation.

In January I memorized “Life is Fine” by Langston Hughes and 1 Corinthians 13:12 . In February it was “Invictus” by William Ernest Henley and John 9: 2-3.

What are your favorite poems and forgotten scriptures? What should I add to my list?

My mom’s February poem was “On Children” by Kahlil Gibran. And it’s beautiful. Too beautiful not to share.

On Children
 by Kahlil Gibran

Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.

The one where we fight on Valentine’s Day

2.16.2015

I often think about a line from an episode of “The Office.” It’s not Shakespeare or anything, but it hit home nonetheless. It’s one of the final episodes of the series when Jim and Pam are on the rocks. They’ve spent the entire season closing themselves off to each other, not speaking their minds, growing apart, and you’re watching this TV love story crumble with real pain in your chest. They start to argue about something and then Jim says he’s going to leave, because otherwise they’ll just go home and fight. And just when you think that apathy is going to consume them, Pam says, “No, I think we should go home and fight.” And they smile at each other and leave together, knowing that they’ll spend the evening arguing. But they’re relieved in knowing that. And so are you. Better that they fight and care than that they walk away.

Trent made dinner reservations for Valentine’s Day weeks in advance, exceeding my wildest expectations. We got a babysitter and he took me to Red Pump, a gorgeous little restaurant on the downtown mall in Charlottesville. We sat in a corner booth in the warm glow of candlelight and ate sea bass and duck confit as the brittle wind whipped snow flurries up and down the storefront window. I wore heels and red lipstick. Is the scene sufficiently set?

We argued all night. Truly. All night long we argued. And while there was a time of my life when something like that would have tainted the whole evening, now is not that time. I’ve learned that arguing, when done the right way, is an important part of healthy relationships and that romance doesn’t always play footsie under the table. I have learned that my wildest dreams are often boring in the flesh.

We argued on the drive home and kept on going as we crawled into bed. And we laughed because it’s just so “us” to spend Valentine’s Day challenging each others’ ideas about the world. We both kind of love “us”—at least we’ve grown to—and that feels like something to celebrate.

Listening to: Ray LaMontagne, “Be Here Now”

Come to Jesus in the Kitchen

2.13.2015

Today, I ate an entire bag of orange Milanos for lunch.

Yesterday, I ate a 1 lb. block of mozzarella. Like an apple. Because it honestly felt like too much work to slice it.

The day before that, I polished off the box of Valentine chocolates my mom sent me. But then the ball was rolling, so I turned to the remaining fun-size Halloween candy bars on top of the fridge. And so I could feel good about myself, I ate three bowls of Cinnamon Life cereal. At the time, it felt healthy.

At one point this week, Trent made me a grilled cheese sandwich while I interviewed a source for a story over the phone. To return the favor, I threw a cereal bar at him tonight as we walked out the door. “Dinner,” I said with both shame and sarcasm.

But for real. That was dinner.

I went to the grocery store last Monday. I promise, I did. I got all of the ingredients to make lettuce wraps. Fancy lettuce wraps. But the lettuce, I hate to tell you, is wilting as we speak.

Why is feeding myself such a struggle? It’s a constant source of annoyance and guilt. I’m nursing still. If for no other reason, I should be eating healthier for my kid. There are plenty of reasons though, aren’t there? Let’s talk about hurdles. Time. Skills. Inflated expectations. Let’s blame Pinterest. And Food Network. And the robust local restaurant scene. It’s turned into this thing, hasn’t it? I have such aspirations for beautiful, plentiful, healthful, whole meals. But it’s the first thing to crumble when a work deadline is looming and Scout isn’t sleeping and before you know it, she’s eating wood chips out of the house plants and I’m gnawing at a block of processed cheese like a rat. Let’s talk about that. On second thought, let’s not talk about that.

Let’s talk about solutions. Do I just need to develop some cooking skills? Is that what’s holding me back? I bought this book a while ago to rectify that problem, but I’ve only cracked it open once. I burned three omelets in one week and haven’t touched it since. Or maybe I need to educate myself about nutrition. Maybe if I had a clearer understanding of what healthy food actually accomplishes for my body, it would be easier to commit to it. Coursera offers a free course on Child Nutrition from Stanford University. Possibly a start? Maybe I need to get inspired. Maybe I need to lower the bar. Maybe I need some sort of come-to-Jesus moment in the kitchen. Maybe you can help.

Advice? Resources? Speak to me. And speak up, will you? My stomach is growling.

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