Malls Suck

I dislike malls. All similarly unpleasant, they smell of bad expensive cosmetics and bad cheap food.
Many things annoy me there. Unattended, bored children running about, loitering adolescents, store attendants sizing up customers with "shoes'n'watch" approach. (They must not think much of my vegan footwear and I have not worn a watch in many years.) Old ladies marching around for exercise are, perhaps, the only ones really getting something worthwhile.
I don't mind shopping for baby clothes on sale. It is bearable. There are definitely good deals. But why should my experience be just bearable? Why buy clothing from someone who does not know where it is made, how it is made, or what it is made from? For that matter, I am yet to find an attendant that even cares if I buy anything at all. If they don't, who does? The corporation?
I'd much rather shop at a hardware store. It smells like metal and oil, it is generally very clean and organized, and I've never been glared at while picking through brackets or paints. Unfortunately they do not sell bras or dresses.
I'd much rather shop at the local summer market, where it smells like watermelon and incense, where I get dirt on my fingers while picking through tender juicy produce. I haggle ruthlessly, while trying to avoid offending the hard-working vendors with unreasonable offers. But summer markets are only there... well, in the summer.
I'd rather shop at a thrift store, where I find the most bizarre pieces of clothing ever made, where designer originals cost as much as Big-Mart cast-offs, and price tags are safely stapled onto the items. But some things ought not be acquired in used condition.
Perhaps, one day I'll find a store that carries beautiful clothing made by men and women I can meet myself and thank for that fabulous A-line. The store would have lots of carts with child seats and a juice bar. There would be a nursing room, a dressing room, a changing room and a very very nice bathroom with clean toilets and castile soap in dispensers. The store would have clothes for men and women from birth to 103, including maternity, nursing, juniors, petites, formal and swimwear, and still be a small neighbourhood place. Because for goodness' sake, as it is, if I need a bra, a onesie and a tie, I have to drive from one end of Chicagoland to another! One day. One glorious day!

THE WOMAN I WAS MEANT TO BE.

It is my firm belief that when things do no work properly, there is something wrong with the system. Something is not the way it is meant to be.
God created us fearfully and wonderfully. Not to be confused with perfect. Even our imperfections are a part of the plan. Any deviation form the original plan causes problems and malfunctions. For example: we are not made to sit for hours on end staring at something shiny. Persons of African descent are not meant to live in Ireland (I am referring to vit. D synthesis of course). Children, women, and men are not meant to spend days (months, years?) without meaningful and nurturing human touch. Young mothers are not meant to be left alone with their babies to figure things out. Hydrogenated crap and red dye #40 have no way to properly interact with out body, because, well, they were not meant to be eaten. You get the picture.
And so on the way to decipher the meaning of womanhood in the context of Western life, I ask myself: "What kind of woman am I meant to be?"
I know somewhere along the way I became convinced that mood fluctuations are a sign of weakness and hysteria. I have grown to believe that vicious hypervigilance of a new mother is nothing but paranoia and unreasonable over-protectiveness. Perhaps, Nestle even convinced me that they can make formula just as well as I can produce milk. Gerber told me that somehow their little jars of technicolour goop are the only appropriate nutrition for our bundles of joy. Parenting magazines can be summed up as: "You will need the brightest, loudest, twinkliest, most expensive gear, gadgets and toys to ensure proper development and happiness of your child." And the Church stumped me completely by teaching that the woman has a purpose and is in no way inferior to a man, and is very very special and wonderful, and in Heaven there will be no male or female, however it is best if she sticks to manning the nursery and, perhaps, teaching an occasional lady's class, preferably after reaching a respectable age.
Well, I am only a few steps onto the yellow brick road, but is apparent that this ain't Kansas no more!!!
I do not suffer from PMS. I enter into an altered state of consciousness which allows me to see things clearer, to be more articulate and perceptive, and to focus on spiritual issues. I deal with physical symptoms by distancing myself from the everyday routine as much as is reasonable.
I fought a mighty battle to continue breastfeeding and won. It made me a more compassionate mother and less likely to let other mothers off the hook because it just isn't easy.
Screw Gerber and Nestle and parenting magazines! My baby loves chickpeas masala, and kalamata olives, and scrambled tofu. We use lots of hand-me-downs, shop at Salvation Army, and labour over DIY's, yielding a beautiful and comfortable life at only a fraction of the price.
I refuse to be dumbed-down for others' comfort! Women were not put to the side, shut-up or condescended to by Jesus, and neither will I be in my house of worship.
I will not allow bearing and raising children to become anything short of a holy mission. I will not look to my family or friends to give me credit for it, I will take the reward meant for the mother by our Maker.
Won't we stop shoving square pegs into round holes? A woman is a holy vessel meant to be filled with none other than the essence of a woman.

Hasidic Jews are on to something!

I heard of them in Belarus. Don't know if ever saw one though. In Chicago, I live just a few blocks South of Devon Street. Devon is perhaps the most dense multicultural chaos of a community in the United States. As I passed Jewish schools and synagogues, I developed a vague understanding of the kind of life that takes place amidst and apart from the rest of us. And then, I watched the documentary "A Life Apart" and it hit me: Hasidic Jews are on to something. Maybe, it's worth never watching television, never reading magazines or newspapers. Maybe not. But this I know: I am willing to part with many things for the sake of what they've got. I am willing to shelter and protect and censor, if it must be so, for the sake of what they've got. Of course, I am glamourizing. My casual observations and one documentary aside, I know nothing of Hassidism. But let's just say that it is so. A society void of immodesty, role confusion, isolation. A society where you do not have to set out on a likely fruitless and disheartening search for a role model. A place where your identity is clearly defined by your respected ancestors. Where children are worn as jewels in the crown and where every Saturday is a celebration of life. Yeah, I'd give a lot for that. There is a scene of a young mother waking her two sons. Before they get out of bed, they are to ceremonially wash their hands. She tenderly wakes them and stays to assist with the ritual. Not an empty ritual. No. She enthusiastically teaches them every moment all she can about their God. All they do as they go through the day says: "You are a precious part of this community. You are set apart. You are not like others because of the blood that runs through your veins, the food that you eat, the home you live in, the clothing that you wear." Sounds familiar, anybody? "But you are a chosen generation, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, His own special people, that you may proclaim the praises of Him, who called you out of darkness into His marvellous light."

Do you feel like that, Christians? Of course there is this pesky issue of carrying the light into the world. But just for a second, let's leave that alone. How many Christian mothers are truly love and appreciated just for being the holy vessels and for the mundane, day-to-day chores of child-rearing? (For those of you who delight in every little special joy of a dirty dish: kudos, but I am so not on that bus!) How many men have a close relationship with at least two generations of men older, and a strong male role model to help with everything from impotence to mutual funds? How many of us can say, to paraphrase a Rabbi, that we did not cut down the Bible to fit the cover, but instead, got a new cover to fit the Bible? How many average American Christian women can raise at least ten biological children (yes, it matters, no offence to the adoptive parents, there is something to pushing out all ten yourself) and not go nuts? Honestly people, the Hasids are on to something!

Can we have that? I don't know. Maybe. Screw TV. But we'd have to sensor the books, even the classics. No public schools. Certainly no fraternizing with the gentiles. We couldn't spread the "light" very well, but perhaps, we could have it. The Light, that is. And that gleam in our eyes that would say: "I know something really really important and my world ROCKS!!! If you promise you'll listen close, I'll tell you about it."

DIY: crabby baby shirts

I first saw potato stamps on baby clothes on Martha Stewart (no, I do not habitually watch the show. In fact, the woman makes my skin crawl sometimes). I checked out the site sweetpotatoprints.com and was very impressed with what the ladies are doing. I played with some paints and potatoes, and volia!
Step 1. Pre-washed cotton white long-sleeved onesies with Charlie's soap.
Step 2. Assembled paint, bamboo skewer, paint brush, paper towels, small knife, one medium white potato.
Step 3. Cut potato in half length-wise (crab body). Used other half to make legs (two hooks curved in opposite directions), one rectangle for "arms", two claws: one small, one large. For the eyes I used back of the paint brush, for eye stalks, the tip of the skewer. All but eyes stamped in red. Eyes are black with a bit of blue. And yes, I know, crabs are not red until after the hot tub, and they also have eight legs. Bugger off :-).
Step 4. Completed the project while holding Saleem in one arm, trying to keep him from grabbing the knife, or eating the paint. Washed off a few smudges, ironed, wrapped, tagged and ready to tote to Church to present two birthday boys with their band-new crabby shirts.