Thursday, July 10, 2014

How to Get Your Kids Eat Healthy (Just Kidding!)



We reached that stage when my newly one year old won't eat anything. Anything healthy, that is. I love all the advice out there about how to turn your children into little gourmets who devour arugula salad with figs, blue cheese and sherry vinaigrette, and politely chit chat about the nutritional value and the symphony of flavors, while sitting still, with endearing smiles on their innocent faces. I mostly see this advice shared by people who either don't have kids, or their kids are old enough to be AARP members, or they are the lucky parents of those three kids in this world who prefer kale to cheese sticks.

I used to think the same. I mean - it's logical, isn't it? You breastfeed them exclusively for the first 6 months, then you introduce rice cereal (to avoid allergy reactions), vegetables (to avoid spoiling their palate and setting them up for a lifetime of chocolate cravings) and fruits (to offer them the perfect snack, just like Mother Nature intended). Then my son came along. I did everything I was supposed to. Admittedly, I was so overwhelmed by the whole motherhood deal (say what?!) that I fed him jar food. From supermarkets. Sometimes not even organic. (I know. I am a terrible mother.) And he ate it. At first. Until he didn't. Today, if we let him, he would happily live on carb and cheese diet for the rest of his life.

When my daughter was born, I was not going to make the same mistake. I knew everything there was to know. I was on it! I could push the vacuum cleaner around with my right hand, while rocking her in my left. I could deal with a diaper blow out in the middle of the shopping mall and not bat an eyelid. Jar food? Not for this little one! And so I stocked up on fresh fruits and veggies, bought a new Ninja blender, made room in our freezer and got to it. She loved all the food! Sweet potatoes, broccoli, cauliflower, zucchini, squash - you name it! It took a little bit longer to get her to eat fruit, but I would make fruit and veggies medleys and she would pound it down like I pound down Ben and Jerry's Chocolate Therapy. It worked!

Until she turned one. What changed, you might ask? I'll tell you what changed. She did. She wants to do everything on her own. But she can't aim, so even if she managed to dip the spoon in her bowl (and who are we kidding, that bowl goes flying across the room before any dipping has a chance of happening), she would either poke her eye out, or stick it in her ear, or smear it all over her head, or find a million other uses for it, from which not one equals actually swallowing the food.

She can eat finger foods, and for about five minutes she ate her veggies and fruit cooked and cubed. Then she stopped. She would not eat it. She shudders, spits it out and starts to wave her hands in the air like she just don't care. And she doesn't care. I know, I know, I can hear you all the way here - "just let her go hungry until she eats what's in front of her". Seriously? Have you ever met a hungry baby? Do you know what happens? They completely lose their shit. There is screaming, crying, flailing, hitting, biting (of anything but food). There are tears. There is snot pouring out of their noses and into their mouth, which gives them just enough energy to keep going. Once you cross that line, you won't be able to calm them down even with a bag of cookies and a pound of premium Swiss chocolate. Game over, man. Game over.

This would maybe not be the end of the world, but here is the hitch - you have other things to do. In real world, chances are you can't stay in your cave until your baby figures it out. You probably have to get out every once in a while. Would you go out with a raving rabid crazy maniac? Of course you wouldn't. Especially since you know what is wrong with her - she is hungry!

So there. That's how it happens. That's how you slowly cave in and pull out bread and cheese, Goldfish crackers, graham crackers and waffles. At least those are whole wheat, right? It's not that you give up. Well, not completely. You keep trying. On good days, they might eat a piece of apple. On a bad day, that same apple will make them gag. Should you keep pushing them when they are gagging? I thought maybe that's a perfect payoff for those 9 months of nausea and vomiting they both put me through, until I remembered I am still the one who would have to clean up the mess. This is when you start googling "how do I sneak in vegetables into mac and cheese" and "will they notice it's not pizza, it's cauliflower?"

My son is four now and while he prefers fried cheese and fresh baked bread, he eats some vegetables and he eats them regularly, and he loves fruit. His diet is not perfect, but it is also not horrible. My daughter...well, we will get there. I hope.

Thursday, May 8, 2014

It's The Little Differences (or Not In Slovakia Anymore)

Stereotypical or not, this is how I know I am back in the United States (in no particular order):

1. I can chit chat with random people in the supermarket without them being surprised, shocked, embarrassed or horrified.

2. As a driver, I might occasionally get tailgated, but the chance that the driver behind me will honk, flash his lights, attempt to push me out of the lane and/or finally show me the middle finger when passing me (while I am driving 15 miles/hour over the speed limit) is close to zero.

3. As a pedestrian, I do not have to wait for 10 minutes before finally throwing myself under the wheels of a moving vehicle in order to cross the street.

4. While it is perfectly acceptable to gift a child with a kid-sized rifle, kinder eggs are banned by law, because they are deemed dangerous.

5. The copay for my kids' previously scheduled pediatrician visit costs about the same as the final bill for a middle-of-the-night emergency room visit with suspected (but not confirmed) appendicitis.

6. Coffee is served in a paper cup, intended "to go" wherever you go, instead of being served in a small porcelain cup, with an extra amount of boiling water, cream and a cookie, intended "to sit" wherever you take a break (Americans might need to google the term "break").

7. "How are you doing?" is answered by cheerful: "I am fine, thank you!", not despairing: "Oh, just horrible...where do I even start..." It is a polite exchange of formal greetings rather than an invitation to an hour long monologue about the catastrophe called life.

8. It's not that you can't find good bread or decent pastries in the US, it's just that any Slovak supermarket or general store sells better baked goods than a 5-star-rated bakery over here.

9. When contacting customer service, the representatives in the US are actually trying to help.

10. And last but not least - no matter which continent, Fiona is always referred to as a boy (even when fully dressed in pink).

Now where is that mayo for my french fries and fried cheese...


Tuesday, November 26, 2013

Politically (In)Correct


I opened the door to Kai's classroom and saw children running around with headbands made of paper and colored feathers. It was three days before Thanksgiving.
"Kai," his teacher said, "would you like to make a Native American headband?"
"You are going to play Indians today, Kai!" I exclaimed and instantly congratulated myself for speaking to him in Slovak, so that nobody else could understand me. You don't say "Indian" nowadays, do you? Isn't it politically incorrect? I wish I knew. I get terribly confused about these things. Thinking about political correctness, I panicked. "Should they be allowed to wear these at all?" I thought, recalling Victoria's Secret controversy in which a model wore a Native American headdress on the runway. The show sparked a public outrage. Both the retailer and the model had to apologize. Sure, my son is not a scantily clad model, but he still pees his pants occasionally. Could that be offensive enough? When we got home that evening, Kai ran to his Dad to show him the headband. "Kai," I said, "tell Daddy who wears these." "Naked Americans!" he yelled proudly. "Native, honey, not naked." I corrected him.

Just before Halloween, Julianne Hough drew criticism when she dressed as "Crazy Eyes" -- a character from the hit Netflix series "Orange Is the New Black". I saw the headlines and -- I admit -- I was puzzled. "Does this mean I can never be Michael Jackson for Halloween?" I asked my husband, and before he could answer, I added: "Actually, he would be the only black person I could be, since his skin color was the same as mine." Then I sat back and wondered how many offensive points I just ranked up.

"Do we order 'Merry Christmas' or 'Happy Holidays' cards?" I asked Peter yesterday, worried that my ignorance might get me in trouble.
"I don't know," he said, "it depends on who we send them to."
"I have some Jewish friends that will be receiving them," I said.
"Then 'Happy Holidays', I guess...even though we celebrate Christmas...I don't know," he admitted and I felt so much better.

As I was driving to Kai's daycare last Valentine's Day, I remembered I needed cards for his classmates. I ran into the supermarket and grabbed the first box. "No Valentine's Day would be complete without you to make it extra sweet", I read back in the car. Crap. Is this too suggestive? Will my son get suspended on the grounds of sexual harassment when one of the Dad's interprets the card as Kai's effort to get into his daughter's pull up? Nonsense, I thought, they are three years old. Then again, they are not allowed to pretend that they play with imaginary guns. Of course, they can get real ones for their first birthdays. Can you see how this gets confusing?

"Don't kill yourself over it." I commented on my friend's Facebook status update. Then I promptly deleted it. He wrote a bestseller about a girl who committed a suicide.

Then there is the whole gender equality issue. You are not supposed to tell girls they look pretty anymore, because if you do, you are stereotyping and thus ruining their future of an electrical engineer. She will never have the self esteem necessary to pass the physics class if you comment on her good looks rather than on her smartness. I believe this applies even if the girl is 16 months old and all you see her do is to throw cooked peas on the wall. Children's place was forced to pull girls' T-shirts that claimed math was not their favorite subject - shopping, music and dancing was. "It's neither funny nor cute to suggest girls can't -- or won't -- like math in school," Huffington post article claimed. I personally think this shirt would be perfect for me, but by now we all agree that I am a troll that probably likes to torture kittens in spare time.

When I took 2-month-old Fiona to a public gathering in a pink and black checkered shirt and black pants, she was mistaken for a boy. I don't care, truly. At that age all babies look the same. But the lady who referred to her as "him" was awfully apologetic. "You see," she explained, "I saw the checkers and assumed it was a boy." It seems that pink finally made it across the border and is now acceptable for both boys and girls. Poor checkers, on the other hand, still have ways to go.

And how about selfie - the word so brand spanking new that my spell check still doesn't know it exists? "Selfies aren't empowering; they're a high tech reflection of the fucked up way society teaches women that their most important quality is their physical attractiveness." says one article. "Selfies give us a chance to show the world how we see ourselves. And that is giving us back the control that is often stripped away from us." says another. Being a selfie enthusiast, it has never crossed my mind that I was crying for attention or taking back control. I thought I was taking a photo of myself that others might find silly, amusing, cute or interestingly composed. Now I can't decide if I take them because people were telling me I was pretty when I was a child, or because they failed at saying so. I just don't know.

Wednesday, November 20, 2013

Illegal Immigrants Are Human Beings Too


The Daily Beast published an article yesterday about immigrants who are held in border patrol cells in inhumane conditions.

"Las hieleras, or “the freezers,” is how immigrants and some Border Patrol agents refer to the chilly holding cells at many stations along the U.S.-Mexico border. The facilities are used to house recently captured border crossers until they can be transferred to a long-term Immigration and Customs Enforcement detention facility, returned to their native country or released until their immigration hearing. According to interviews and court documents, many immigrants have been held for days in rooms kept at temperatures so low that men, women and children have developed illnesses associated with the cold, lack of sleep, overcrowding, and inadequate food, water and toilet facilities."

Picture your childhood. Can you hear the laughter of family get-togethers? Do you remember the secret you shared with your best friend at a sleepover? Do you smile when you think about Grandparents taking you to an ice-cream shop? What was that book Dad always read to you at bedtime? Have you mastered Mom's chicken noodle soup recipe, or do you still crave it when you get sick? Do you have a favorite coffee cup? Are the walls in your house covered with family photos? What about your baby's first blanket, is it still in your drawer?

Now imagine leaving all of it behind – everything you ever knew, everything you ever owned, everything you loved and understood. Your family, your friends, your neighbors, your pets, your language, your memories, your home. What would it take for you to go? Close your eyes and put yourself in the room in that moment when you are grabbing a bag, throwing in a few necessities before rushing out, not knowing what lies ahead, suspecting you might not live another day – whether you stay or go. Do you see yourself? What do you feel - knowing that running away with nothing, to a place you don't know, is the best option you have? What are you telling your children as you put your life and theirs in hands of strangers? Now tell me – do you truly believe these people came to the US just to steal your jobs, steal your possessions and mess with your taxes? Do you truly believe that they were just too lazy or irresponsible to take care of themselves, so they crossed over to take advantage of your social welfare system? More importantly, is the label of "illegal immigrant" a reason enough to treat them like lesser human beings?

"I have the perfect solution...don't cross the border illegally.  If you act like a criminal you will be treated like one." This is one of the comments to the article. May I ask - this is a perfect solution for whom? How far removed is this commentator from realities of this world, not thinking about illegal immigrants as breathing human beings who suffer from pain, loss, fear, hunger, humiliation, despair and sorrow? May I ask another question - is this how we treat criminals? Or are criminals, let them be mass murderers or pedophiles, still treated humanely as long as they were born in the United States?

Where is the human(e) in us? We support animal charities, drop off food for families in need, volunteer in retirement homes. How come we donate to people whose houses were destroyed in hurricanes without thinking twice, yet spit on people who are forced into such terrible choice? These are not punks who were bored one afternoon and decided to go smash some windows. What happened to “you shall love your neighbor as yourself?” Does this not mean to love all persons, everywhere? Or does it really mean to love only our actual neighbor, whose house has about the same real estate value as ours and whose car fits the upper middle class standards?

The laws and rules that every country has are in place for a reason. That goes for immigration laws as well. But that does not give anybody a right to be unkind and hateful. You were born in the United States. They were not. How is this your accomplishment? How is this their fault? It's not. You could be them. They could be you. You are lucky and privileged to make judgment. You are lucky enough to be asking in the comment section: "How cold was it? That's an easy number to come with, a [verfiable] fact. What is the number, and why was it not included in your story?"

I am not a romantic fool suggesting we all just hold our hands and sing kumbaya. I do hope that one day all people will be equal. For now, George Orwell had it right - we are all equal, but some of us are more equal than others. Of course, he was talking about pigs, wasn't he? Detained illegal immigrants don't deserve to be treated like pigs. You don't need to welcome them in your house. You don't need to offer them your help. But you also don't have to throw them into freezing cells and question the definition of cold. You have a choice. A choice to be humane.

Thursday, October 31, 2013

"So You Got Married to Get a Green Card?"


I took Kai for a haircut last week. I hadn't met the hairdresser before. After a little bit of chit-chat, she asked me where I came from and how I ended up here. This is a question I get asked all the time. I have an accent that immediately gives me away. In the last decade, my story has changed. It is getting longer and more challenging to sum up in a few polite sentences.

Some people are satisfied with: "I came to stay for one year as an au-pair, and 11 years later I am still here." Others want to know more: "So what happened that made you stay?" This is usually followed by a keen interest in my immigration status. It used to surprise me that people cared about how - and if - I got my green card. By now I had this conversation so many times that I am not surprised anymore, I am just uncomfortable.

This is how the story goes.

I came to the US eleven years ago as an au-pair (live-in nanny). Back in Slovakia, I graduated from college with a degree in molecular biology. The degree I had, the passion for research I had not. I didn't necessarily want to take care of kids, but it felt like the easiest way out. I was 22 years old and in my imagination I was living in New York City, shopping for the latest fashion trends, strutting across Manhattan in high heels, meeting fascinating people, and making invaluable friends who would open the door to whatever it was I was going to discover was my calling in life.

Instead, I found myself in Long Island, unable to afford anything but Old Navy and driving everywhere, because nothing was in walking distance (not even if I wore running shoes instead of heels). I was tossed daily between the highs of adventure, independence and thrill, and the lows of cultural shock, homesickness and a sense of having lost and being lost. I stopped belonging - the new country was too foreign and the old country was left behind.

Then I met a guy. I fell for him hard. It is said that home is where the heart is and when I met him, I didn't have a home - not geographically, nor emotionally speaking - but my heart suddenly belonged. He was the only thing that made sense to me in all that mess. He was a mess himself, but at the time I didn't see it as a problem. I was going to save him from himself, so he could be eternally thankful to me and love me forever.

When people ask about what brought me where I am today, he is a part of the answer. I could tell: "I met a guy, got married and settled down." I am with a guy, I am married and I am settled down. But then people ask: "Where did you two meet?" Or: "How long have you two been together?" Or something similar that leaves me with no other option but to explain that I was married once before, because it is obvious that the timeline doesn't fit quite right.

I don't have a problem to admit I got divorced before (not anymore). However, once I reveal this information the next question hovering over my head is: "So did you marry the first guy just for the green card?" I say that it hovers over my head because so many people ask it. So many people immediately jump to that conclusion. I find it offensive, because I feel like they are doubting my integrity. I feel like they are questioning my honesty. I feel like they disregard or downplay years of my life when I was swimming against the current, trying hard not to drown and make it work. My first marriage was never a conspiracy. I fell in love and it didn't work out. We happened to be from different countries. I didn't build borders or come up with immigration laws. I just met a guy.

It is true that I would not marry him as fast as I did if we were given the chance to date for longer without an expiration date on my visa. (I was told once, before I married him, that I was a girlfriend with an expiration date.) Nevertheless, it was never my priority to stay in the United States. My priority was to stay with the man I loved. Ironically, he left me and I stayed in the US. That's life's sense of humor for you. 

If I go ahead and address it right off the bat, saying: "I married a guy and it didn't work out. I got a green card because I was married to the US citizen, but I didn't marry him just to get a green card," then I often hear: "Well, I am sure the green card was a nice bonus." By then I feel like I should call immigration services and ask to be deported, if for no other reason than just to get out of the conversation. It fascinates me how many people believe there is no better place to live than the US. There are many good things about living here. There are just as many bad things about living here. This goes for the most of developed countries.

One day I will get that story right. One day I will not have to think about what to say when the person I just met asks me if I faked my marriage for a green card. One day I will not have to feel defensive about my decision to live in the US, the decision I am not even sure was made by me, or made by circumstances. One day. Maybe.