Shari Becker's Home Page

"Is steak a chopped up cow?" Emelia asked me the other day. "Yes, it is," I answered her, understanding full well the implications of my answer.

Emelia has never loved meat. From her first bite at seven months, she shook her head, "No." Give her broccoli, green beans, carrots, just about any fruit, and she'll eat you under the table. But meat, forget it.

Over the past year, we'd made some progress. We learned that she loved steak, found a spaghetti sauce and even a hamburger recipe she likes. Over the past few months, her awareness of the world around her has grown though. She is beginning to put things together.

"Is this fish the same fish that swims in the lake where I swim?"

I nodded. "It's not the same exact fish," I said. "But, yes, fish swim in the water."

She pushed her plate away. "I'm not eating any more fish," she said. A few days later I served her fish sticks. She was not fooled.

"You're trying to trick me!" she exclaimed. "This is the same fish, just in a rectangle."

Last weekend I made a chicken dinner.

"Remember that day at the farm?" she asked. "You know there were chickens walking around?"

I nodded.

"Well, this is chicken. Those were chickens. These are the same chickens we saw. We're eating them?"

"Not those same chickens," I assured her. "Those chickens are happy and safe on the farm."

"And eggs?" she asked. "What's in an egg?"

"Egg," I replied.

"But what are they?" she asked again.

"Eggs are eggs," was my reply.

"But baby chickens come from eggs," she said.

I shook my head.

"Don't worry," I told her. "We don't eat the eggs that become baby chickens. Those eggs become chickens. These eggs are for eating, and there are no babies in the eggs you are eating. Just egg."

I paused.

"You know how there were dinosaurs that were carnivores and dinosaurs that were herbivores? People are carnivores. We need to eat certain foods to stay healthy and strong. It's part of the cycle of eating."

"Is everyone a carnivore?" she asked.

"Not everyone," I continued. "The people who don't eat meat have to eat lots of other foods to stay healthy and strong, like beans and lentils and tofu. Lots of cheese and milk, and you're kind of allergic to milk. Also, some vegetarians, which is what we call people who don't eat meat, end up not being healthy if they don't get all the vitamins they need from their food."

"I'm not going to eat meat anymore," she said.

It was one of those mommy moments that require long, hard thought, when you can't think long and hard because you need just the right answer immediately. The truth is, I don't love the idea that we kill animals for food. And I've toyed with the idea of weaning us off or limiting our meat intake given all my concerns about hormones and antibiotics in most meat. Two bouts of anemia, and serious beef cravings keep me a carnivore.

There is more to this conversation with my daughter.

At what point do we listen to our kids' preferences and at what point do we put our foot down? Which are the battles worth fighting? I know she's only five, but maybe this is just the first of many defining moral moments in her life. Now to be fair, Emelia seriously dislikes most live animals, so I can't be sure if she's turned off by the idea of eating another living creature or if she's repulsed by the idea of eating creatures she so despises. But I guess that is irrelevant, really.

"Emelia," I began. "You can stop eating meat only if you promise to eat other proteins that keep you healthy and strong. I will sit with you and look through cookbooks, and we can try to find non meat foods that you like, ok?"

"Ok!" she exclaimed. "Thanks, Mama!"

I felt great. I'd handled a tough mommy moment. I empowered my daughter and demonstrated that I respected her moral compass.

So when we decided to order in dinner tonight, I pulled out the menu from our favorite Thai restaurant. I offered her edamame and tofu dishes. She just shook her head.

"I want those yummy chicken nuggets they make," she said. "You know, the ones with the little shredded carrots at the bottom."

"That's chicken. You told me yesterday you weren't going to eat meat anymore."

She shrugged her shoulder. "Not your chicken, but these chicken nuggets are my favorite! I love them...."

"So, are you eating meat or not?"

She smiled. "I am definitely not eating meat. Except for these chicken nuggets ... and maybe spaghetti sauce ... oh, and absolutely steak. But that's it."

Even if it is a chopped up cow.

I spend my summers with family. In July, I am predominantly with my clan in the Adirondack Mountains of New York. In August, I am with my in-laws at their cottage on Lake Huron in Michigan.

Family vacations are complicated. On one hand, it's fabulous to be with the people we love; people who normally live far away. On the other, family vacations bring with them all the family shtick, annoyances, irritations and regressions to our previous selves. As my sister says, "When we all get together, I feel like we take on our childhood roles."

But in between the annoyances --

"She forgot her keys again? So typical ..."

"He's so grouchy again!"

"Does she ever stop talking and listen?"

"Why does she take everything so seriously?"

-- there are lovely moments that remind us of why family is so important. This past Saturday my husband's family held a memorial for his grandmother, who died last January.

I didn't really know my husband's grandmother very well. By the time I joined the family, her health was already beginning to fail. Her eyes and ears were going, and she was losing her mobility. In full disclosure, while she seemed to appreciate my presence, she also seemed baffled by some of my Jewish ways.

I'll admit, I was a bit worried about the whole ordeal. I didn't quite understand what a memorial meant. I didn't want my kids to cry, and I didn't want them to be overwhelmed with grief. My mother in law assured me that this was not the case, and it wasn't. "About 40 people will attend," she said, and she promised an event "filled with stories and laughter."

I pitched in wherever I could. In the Jewish religion when someone dies, the person mourning sits for seven days while friends and family members comfort and feed them. It surprised me to see my mother-in-law running around, organizing. I worried she hadn't ordered enough food. I worried her tent was too small. She typically errs on the side of too little, while I err on the side of too much.

The weather called for thunderstorms, but the sun shone brightly as people began to pull in. My mother-in-law's prediction of 40 was way off. Over 70 people arrived at the cottage that day. Babies, children, parents, grandparents, great grandparents, neighbors, cousins and friends. People came from California, Florida and all over the mid-west. Clothes ranged from jeans and T-shirts to skirts and dresses, and there was every possible shape and sized body decorated with simple jewelry to crosses, tattoos and body piercings.

They sang the praises of a woman I never knew. A woman who "was special because she made others feel special," said her nephew. "A woman who opened her home to everyone," said another.

We had not prepared enough food. But that didn't matter.

Each guest arrived with food: Hot plates, crock pots, potato salads, pasta salads, cookies, cakes, pies, and even a family favorite, peas and peanuts in a creamy white sauce. The amount of food was ridiculous, and the dishes shocked my northeastern sensibility. I had never seen so much mayonnaise. Almost every single dish had bacon. And the number of foods containing nuts -- almost scandalous. Everyone knows mayo and bacon are bad for you, and what if a person is deathly allergic to nuts?

Guests wondered about the lack of food on our plate, but we politely dismissed our issue as allergies. I worried about explaining our kosher restrictions. I worried about drawing attention to our differences. But as the day progressed, I let my guard down more and more.

"I almost called you this year, " said one cousin I'd met only twice before. "Something happened, and I thought of you and your darling family. I just wanted to say 'Hi'."

"Will your kids have bat mitzvahs?" Asked another family member donning a cross. "I always wondered about that ... What about Christmas, do you celebrate that?"

"I think it is marvelous that your kids go to Sunday school," said my husband's uncle, a minister. "I think religion is just so important in a child's life."

What struck me most as this day passed was despite the huge cultural chasms between my northeastern Jewish upbringing and my husband's Christian mid-western family was how his relatives embraced me. In fact, there was little judgment about anyone at the event.

Northeastern love is sometimes full of judgment. We expect folks to behave a certain way, dress appropriately, eat healthfully, and only small amounts. We aspire to raise professionals with secondary degrees, and we are embarrassed to admit when we have relatives who fall into other categories.

But here, parents were just as proud of their esthetician daughters as they were of their army sons and doctor daughter in laws. No one cared that some folks wore jeans while others wore dresses. And no one cared if you stuffed your face with brownies and cake.

I know that each family has its drama, and I am quite sure that my sentiments today are glossing over more complex relationships. But from where I stand, it seems to me that midwestern love leaves more room for the differences that make each of us unique. It is filled with open arms, lots of love, peanuts, mayo and, of course, bacon.

A few weeks ago, we took our family to Storyland in New Hampshire. We met dear friends and were excited about the prospect of our kids exploring the park and spending time getting to know one another better.

Emelia was thrilled immediately. She practically pulled off my arm dragging me here and there trying to experience every ride possible. Helaina, generally my braver child, was more tentative. She walked slowly between her sister and me, holding our hands. When we took her on her first ride, she sat still as could be, gripping us in fear.

And then we went to Cinderella's castle ....

It was a long climb on a hot day to the top of a hill where the castle lay. Standing at the front door was Cinderella. The young woman in front of us had very blond hair up in a bun, she wore a simple, slightly worn blue and yellow gown. Jewels dangled from her ears and blue eyeliner rimmed her eyes. She smiled to display crooked teeth. This was no Disney princess.

Emelia was was mildly impressed. "She doesn't look like the Cinderella in my books," she said. She walked around the castle. She thought about sitting on the throne, got a closer look and decided there were better things to see and do.

Helaina was memorized. She pointed to the woman.

"That Cinderella?" she said.

"Yes," I said, "That's Cinderella."

"I see Cinderella," she said smiling. She stood there, just watching her for what seemed like a long time.

Emelia was ready to go first, but Hallie didn't want to leave. She cried as we pulled her away.

"No, she wailed, "I stay, I see Cinderella."

As the day progressed, she begged to go back. When we didn't respond to her pleas, she took matters into her own hands and headed out on her own, in search of her beloved princess. Her dad acquiesced first, he took her back while I took Emelia on more rides. No sooner did he arrive back, that she began begging to return to the castle again. My turn, so we climbed back up the hill in 90-degree weather to the princess with the crooked smile.

She ran ahead of me. "I go see Cinderella, Mama!" she cheered.

But when we got to the castle, Cinderella wasn't there. Hallie was stumped. She walked around pacing, looking everywhere. I learned that the young woman was on her lunch break, but would return shortly.

"Cinderella is eating lunch," I told Hallie.

"Lunch?" she asked confused. She seemed baffled that even princesses need to eat. The next 10 minutes or so were probably the longest minutes of Hallie's life. She paced around the castle anxiously. She walked to the front door, poked her head back in and shook it. "Cinderella not here." She paced and poked and poked and paced looking for her beloved princess. "She done lunch?" she kept asking as she teetered in and out of the doorway.

All of the sudden Hallie cried out, "SHE HERE!" She took off, running as fast as she could, her little legs and arms pumping back and forth charging down the long, asphalt road to meet Cinderella walking back to the castle. "Wait! Stop!" I called after her. "You'll fall, wait for Mama." But it was no use.

She ran right into Cinderella's skirt, threw her arms around the poor woman's knees and cried. "Cinderella, you here! I wait for you long, long time."

Cinderella was gracious. She held her hand out to Helaina who took it in hers. Hand in hand they walked back up that hill. When they got to the castle, Hallie did not let go. Cinderella led her and all the other waiting girls around her castle. She showed them her glass slipper and her fairy godmother's magic wand, and she showed them her thrown.

"Good bye ladies," said Cinderella sitting in her throne. "It was nice to see you, would you like a hug goodbye?

Hallie nodded and jumped right in. She threw her arms around Cinderella just as 10 bigger girls threw their arms around her too. Hallie was gone, swallowed by a sea of pink and lavender shorts and dresses. I gasped, trying to make sure she was okay. The woman seemed concerned, too, and drew back. All the girls let go, and there was Hallie still clinging to the skirt. She let go and looked at me smiling, "I hug Cinderella."

"Are you okay?" I asked her. She nodded. "I OK."

As we left the castle, she looked at me and said, "Cinderella is my fend."

She cried as we left the park. We sent Cinderella letters when we got home letting her know how much we missed her. We still talk about meeting her almost a month later.

What really struck me that day was how real it all was to my two and a half year old. In her mind this woman was Cinderella, and we visited the very castle where the princess lost her slipper. It was a magical experience for Helaina. We get so jaded and cynical in our adult lives, and it is easy to forget how special these simple, yet fantastical life experiences can be: treasure hunts in the woods, forts made from pillows, magic carpets made from blankets, and all that a little mind can imagine.

Maybe in some ways, that's part of what having children does for us as adults. It takes the edge of our cynicism. It softens us and gives us an opportunity to get back in touch with our own childhood dreams. While know in our head there are no such thing as fairy dust, wizards or warlocks, in out hearts we reconnect with those little nuggets of magic. Magic we can only see when we wear our kid-colored glasses.

As you know from my previous entry, it has been a long few months for us. The balance between writing and being a mom has been harder than ever. And there has been yet another curve ball.

Hallie's ear infections have returned in full-force. We've had three since March, and cold season is supposed to be finished!

We have tried it all -- a homeopathic physician, pediatric chiropractor, elimination diet, and massage treatment. Nothing has helped her little ears. A benign cold for everyone else turns into a major issue for her. She is stuck in a cycle: Each time it is the same. Her eardrums become concave as they fill with puss. My doctor calls her condition "sub-acute," my husband and I call it heartbreaking.

Hallie has been a clown since the day she could move. At six months she discovered that if she put underwear on her head, she would make us laugh. She began putting underwear on her head daily -- sometimes twice or three times after that. At 2-1/2 this little toddler knows what is funny. She hides groceries as I unpack my bags and stares at me straight-faced as I seek them out. A few weeks ago, I discovered a loaf of bread hidden in a spaghetti pot deep in a cupboard. She looks at us, tests us, and decides how to proceed. She's constantly asking herself, "Is this funny?"

So while she's wandering around our home singing at the top of her lungs ("I pay pano and sing loud when I go up," she recently told me), her nose is oozing and her ears are swishing. She pokes and pulls a little but no longer seems to feel the pain.

"How do your ears feel?" I ask her.

"Okay, Mama," she says as she plays.

"Do they hurt?" I prod.

"They okay," she says, smiling. Impossible. The doctor just told us your eardrums have no movement!

So, after falls, probably due to her impaired balance, three recent infections, and too many sleepless nights, I'm giving up. I'm going to see the surgeon. I suspect she needs tubes and possibly her adenoids removed. To be honest, it freaks me out. The thought of putting her under general anesthetic makes me cringe and shudder. I have horrible imaginings of a procedure going wrong.

She deserves better than a life of muffled sounds and chronic ear congestion and pain. In this season of epiphanies, I have learned yet another lesson: Sometimes the right decision is the scariest.