tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-41885837242249847582024-03-13T15:46:29.200-04:00Love For Lemons Clean BlogLoveForLemonsCo.http://www.blogger.com/profile/09706819268910375035noreply@blogger.comBlogger19125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4188583724224984758.post-21495354208075906232013-09-29T14:27:00.001-04:002013-09-29T14:27:22.214-04:00Autumn and Letting Go<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fF-gvoqvcSg/Ukhw6VZsxoI/AAAAAAAAASU/wEwDkw2SexE/s1600/PurpleLeaf.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fF-gvoqvcSg/Ukhw6VZsxoI/AAAAAAAAASU/wEwDkw2SexE/s320/PurpleLeaf.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<o:p><span style="color: black;"><strong>Guest Post by Lynn Shattuck, a writer in Portland, Maine</strong></span><br /><span style="color: black;"><strong>Visit me at <a href="http://thelightwillfindyou.com/">http://thelightwillfindyou.com/</a></strong></span></o:p></div>
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<o:p><span style="color: black;"><strong><span style="color: #a4c03a;">Or on <a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Lynn-Shattuck-Writer/1377000959188944" target="_blank">Facebook </a></span></strong></span></o:p></div>
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<o:p><span style="color: black;"><strong><span style="color: #a4c03a;"></span></strong></span></o:p> </div>
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Fall is my favorite time of year. The humidity and sweat of
summer recede. I love the bite of the air in the morning, a trace of frost. <br />
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We take the kids to fairs. We watch pumpkins sprout up, brightening doorsteps.
We sip apple cider. I run in the nearby cemetery, which will soon grow a
crunchy carpet of leaves. </div>
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Fall is cinnamon and light wind on my cheeks. A knit scarf
tickling my neck.</div>
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Back in Alaska, where I grew up, the trees didn’t put on the
show they do back east. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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But the salmon did. </div>
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Every year, my parents took my brother and I to see the Sockeye
salmon that spawned in the rushing streams. They came from the wide seas, where
their bodies had been silver, and they made their way back to the same streams where
they had hatched. </div>
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Like the leaves, the bodies of the salmon brightened. They turned rouge and
green to attract mates. They laid their eggs, fertilized them, and died. Their
bodies became part of the soil and water near the nests of their offspring, who
they would never meet. </div>
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I love pumpkin patches and apple picking and fairs. I love
the whimsy of Halloween, where for a day, we get to don costumes and wigs and pretend we’re someone
else. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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But with all this blooming and dying, whether it be leaves
or salmon, autumn, for me, is also a reflective time. A time to shake off the
looseness of summer. A time to get cozy, and also a time to think.</div>
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The blazing leaves and my childhood memories of the salmon,
who give themselves away to the cycles of the earth, always remind me to let go. They remind me to shrive myself of what
no longer works, what no longer serves me. </div>
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And for me, there is always plenty to let go of. Plastic bins
overflowing with toys, too many appointments, outgrown clothes. The urge to
know what’s next for my career, my family, the weather. <o:p> </o:p></div>
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I’m trying to channel the courage of the salmon, the trust of the trees. To let go. </div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">What does fall mean to
you? What might you let go of?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
Lynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04669701574781849858noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4188583724224984758.post-5987646126002840312013-08-18T14:35:00.001-04:002013-08-18T14:35:01.814-04:00How I Stopped Using Paper Towels
<span style="color: black;"><strong>Guest Post by Lynn Shattuck, a writer in Portland, Maine</strong></span><br /><span style="color: black;"><strong>Visit me at <a href="http://writingthewavesagain.blogspot.com/"><span style="color: #a4c03a;">http://writingthewavesagain.blogspot.com/</span></a></strong></span><br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UmlYPZi95Dk/UhETPhH1FqI/AAAAAAAAAMg/VKscoe3lxDY/s1600/coffee+spill.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UmlYPZi95Dk/UhETPhH1FqI/AAAAAAAAAMg/VKscoe3lxDY/s320/coffee+spill.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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I’m pretty middle of the road when it comes to green-ness. I
am obsessive about recycling, but I used disposable diapers with both kids. I
don’t eat meat, but I almost always forget to lug my re-useable grocery bags to
Trader Joe’s. </div>
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When I first met <a href="http://loveforlemons.com/about.html" target="_blank">Kate</a> and learned how she came to create
Love for Lemons, she told me that giving up paper towels was one of the first
steps she took in her journey to being more environmentally friendly. I stowed that idea away, considering it from time to time as something I should
look into. But with a preschooler, a toddler, and my own tendency to slosh coffee
everywhere, spills happen. Daily. Coffee, body fluids and milk coat the
surfaces of many of our belongings. Grabbing a wad of paper towels was second
nature to me. I used them for spills, wiping faces after meals and cleaning.
Half the time, I grabbed them without even thinking. The idea of giving them up seemed daunting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
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But I decided to try giving up my paper towel habit anyway.
I figured I could try it for a few weeks, and could always revert to using them
if it proved too hard. Shoring up on motivation to help me white knuckle my way
through paper towel withdrawal, I learned that the environmental impact of
using paper towels is considerable. Besides the epic amount of trees and energy
required to produce them, they have a significant impact on landfills. An
estimated 3,000 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">tons</i> of paper towels
are thrown away daily. </div>
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So I washed up all our cloth napkins, and I braced myself. </div>
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And it was… <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">just fine.
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My daughter dribbled a slug-like trail of watermelon juice
from the kitchen to the living room. My son spilled milk on his shoes. I used
those cloth napkins to wipe the floor. I ran them across mouths and fingers.
Couches and counters. The thick, cushiony roll of paper towels stayed in the
kitchen, forlorn.</div>
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I had one brief relapse when I was getting ready to take the
kids to the beach. After scrambling around for 30 minutes juggling towels and Tupperware for snacks, we were finally ready to go. As I was changing my daughter into her
swimwear, she trickled a steady stream of pee all over the kitchen floor. With no cloth napkins in
sight, I guiltily reached for the paper towels. </div>
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But otherwise, it’s been smooth sailing. I don’t miss paper
towels. It was so easy for me to make the switch that I leave you with only two
tips should you decide to try it: </div>
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<li class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">Have
plenty of cloth napkins, towels and rags ready and reachable for spills,
wipes and cleaning.</li>
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</div>
<ol start="2" style="margin-top: 0in;" type="1">
<li class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">Toss
the napkins and towels in with the rest of your laundry so you can
replenish your supply often. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="http://loveforlemons.blogspot.com/2013/05/the-perfectionism-monster.html" target="_blank">(Please note that mingling your laundry can have unintended side effects.)</a></i></li>
</ol>
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That’s it! If I can stop using paper towels, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">anyone</i> can. Maybe, despite what Kermit the Frog says, it <em>is </em>easy being green. Or at least, greener. </div>
Lynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04669701574781849858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4188583724224984758.post-88753202000788174202013-07-14T11:09:00.001-04:002013-07-14T11:44:11.718-04:00Running, Late: How I learned to Run in Midlife<br />
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<span style="color: black;"><strong>Guest Post by Lynn Shattuck, a writer in Portland, Maine</strong></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><strong>Visit me at <a href="http://writingthewavesagain.blogspot.com/"><span style="color: #a4c03a;">http://writingthewavesagain.blogspot.com/</span></a></strong></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><em>image by Colin Brough</em></span></div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
Last fall, I was struck by unexpected the urge to run. I was
walking through the sprawling cemetery near my house like I’ve done for years,
when suddenly my body wanted to move fast.<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
I was always the kid picked last in gym class, staring down at my Adidas’ while
everyone else got snatched up for team sports. In middle school, I once tried
to break my leg to get out of playing volleyball. When I was only left with a
few lilac bruises on my ankles for my efforts, I convinced my pediatrician to
write a note explaining that my chronic sinus infections rendered me unable to
participate in gym class.<br />
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Though unlikely, especially at the age of 38, the strange
desire to run was persistent. It felt like I had little bolts of electricity in
my body, pushing me to be fast. I was also drawn to the efficiency of running; as
mom to two young children, I don’t have much spare time, and I knew I could
accomplish more physically on a short run than on a long walk. </div>
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And, approaching 40 and mired in the beautiful and boring
tasks of child-rearing, I needed to prove that I could still surprise myself. Maybe
even surprise those grocery clerks who kept calling me, ‘Ma’am.’</div>
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A good friend of mine told me that she had just started
training to run using an app on her phone called Couch to 5K. The eight week
program alternates bursts of jogging with sweet respites of walking. It
gradually increases the amount of time you jog until you are ready for a 5K. I
decided to sign up for the Mother’s Day 5K in May; I would have eight months to
make it through the eight week training program. </div>
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After loading the app onto my phone, I again headed to the
cemetery. My phone instructed me to jog for 90 second intervals between longer
stretches of walking. </div>
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But I didn’t know how to run. </div>
<o:p> </o:p><br />
As I tried to pick up my pace, my body felt disconnected and
jerky. The asthma that had lain dormant for years suddenly reappeared. I felt
like a middle schooler on the dance floor—what was I supposed to do with my
arms? Why wouldn’t they coordinate with my legs? I also feared I would make the
dreaded porn face that so many runners make; the scrunched up, concentrated
face that looked a lot like intense pain. <br />
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Some days, just to keep going, I pretended I was running
away from my children. </div>
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Every once in awhile, when I stopped thinking about it so
much, my arms and legs synched up. My brain got quiet. Endorphins sparked and
rushed through my blood. The music from my phone slipped into my muscles like
cold milk sliding into a glass. </div>
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As fall progressed, the bite of cold in the air pushed me
further. With the crunch of melon-hued leaves beneath my feet, I jogged past
headstones with names like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sterling </i>and
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ruth </i>and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Eliza. </i>It was impossible to not think of aging and death. My body
would not always be so healthy and capable. Sometimes, with the sound of my own
heavy breath, I heard myself whisper to my body, to the universe: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">thank you. </i></div>
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Other days, I had to drag myself out the door. I would jog
and walk, jog and walk, wondering why the heck I was doing this to my poor old
body. Loud thoughts would scamper through my head: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Do they make Spanx for running? Would it be embarrassing to have a
heart attack during a light jog? </i>Then, from my phone app, I would hear a
pleasant, female voice announce, “You are halfway.” <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Shit,</i> I thought. I am only halfway there?</div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NUrZ1TWQDK4/UeK-q6CK3OI/AAAAAAAAAIs/6GGkt_hmJJ0/s1600/jogger.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NUrZ1TWQDK4/UeK-q6CK3OI/AAAAAAAAAIs/6GGkt_hmJJ0/s1600/jogger.jpg" /></a></div>
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<em>image by Ariel da Silva Parreira</em></div>
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When hills of snow obscured the ground, I joined a gym. My
feet pounded the rubbery black treadmill. Slowly, I was improving. But every
few weeks, I’d twist my knee or my back would seize up, and I’d take a week or
two off from running to recover. When I started up again, I would dial myself
back a week on the Couch to 5K program. </div>
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Suddenly, it was April. Despite my consistently inconsistent
training program, I had still not managed to make it past week five of the
Couch to 5K program. The Mother’s Day run loomed near. Ancient, negative tapes
in my mind hissed at me: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You’re a loser. You
never finish anything. You’re no athlete.</i> </div>
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Being in the middle of the human life cycle seems like a
good time to challenge those old, unhelpful thoughts and patterns. To ease
deeper into myself and let go of perfectionism and competition. </div>
<o:p> </o:p><br />
So I reframed my expectations. I wasn’t a loser because I
was walking in between running. I was freakin’ amazing because I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ran</i> in between walking! <br />
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And then my husband started asking, “Are you excited about
the race?” </div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Race?!?</i></div>
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I really hadn’t thought about the run being <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">a race</i> before. The word reactivated
those nasty voices in my head: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You’re
going to lose the race! You will come in last place!<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Fortunately, I’d promised to do the race with a good friend.
While I was ambivalent about the idea of letting myself down, I’d be damned if
I would break a promise to a friend. I decided I would walk as much as I needed
to. My only goal was to finish, and to run at least a little bit.</div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
On the day of the race, it drizzled. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Maybe they’ll cancel it, </i>I thought. They didn’t.<br />
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My friend and I situated ourselves towards the back of the
crowd of people at the starting line, alongside elderly joggers and moms pushing
strollers. While we stretched a bit, I worried: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">What if we run at different paces? What if I come in last place? What
if I have to pee?</i></div>
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We started. </div>
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We jogged by my husband and kids, who stood on the sidewalk
beaming at me. I reached my hand out to give them a high five. The feel of their
little hands on mine propelled me forward. I was following through, doing
something good for my body. I was teaching my kids by example, even if I did
come in last.</div>
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A few minutes into the race, we reached the top of a small
hill. I looked forward. The road ahead was a river of moving people, a rainbow
of bright T-shirts. </div>
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We jogged, and pretty soon we were passing people. My friend
and I braided in and out, in and out, our paces perfectly synchronized. I didn’t
make the porn face <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">because I was too busy
smiling</i>. I brushed my bangs, wet from the rain, out of my eyes. </div>
<br />
We didn’t talk much, except to occasionally check in with each other. <br />
“You okay?”<br />
“Yep, you?” <br />
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I caught slivers of conversation from the people we passed and the people who
passed us. “The antidepressants help me think better…” </div>
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“Jimmy is almost done with school…” </div>
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“It’s all downhill from here!” </div>
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While we ran, I thought about the lives of these people
running with us. I thought about them the way I sometimes do when I’m at a
stoplight and I watch other cars streaming past: I watch the drivers’ faces:
solemn or angry, heads bobbing to music or chatting away on their cell phones.
When I’m quiet and present, I love these little snapshots. I love watching
these people I might not ever meet, who just happen to be here at the same time
as me, alive at the same time. So beautiful, so temporary. </div>
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We ran and ran and we didn’t stop. I took in all the
different body types of the runners and walkers: stocky, muscular, lithe, round
and everything in between. All the same and all different. All here now, moving.
Because we could, and because we won’t always be able to. I heard once that the
electrical energy field of the human heart extends out several feet beyond our
skin. I thought about all those hearts working so hard. Maybe it was the heat
of all those humming and pumping hearts that kept me running.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You are halfway,</i> I
thought. Right in the middle. Of my messy, lovely life. Of all these people. </div>
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The race ended in a baseball stadium. As we rounded the
finish line, I was still smiling. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">We did
it, </i>I said to my friend, my body finally slowing down to a walk. I searched
the crowd of spectators for my family. </div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
After the race, I got an email with the results. I came in
somewhere towards the back end of the middle. <br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
If I’m lucky, I am only halfway through this achy, gorgeous
life. I might not ever run a seven minute mile. But for that uncoordinated
little girl who loathed gym class, that little girl who is still so completely
me and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> me at the same time, a 5K
is a miracle. Learning to run, to sink into my muscles in a deeper and
different way, is a miracle. It’s a metaphor for being more comfortable and
stronger in my own skin. <br />
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On Facebook, I’ve noticed several friends have also recently
started running. My husband is training for a five mile run. I love that in
this middle place of life, we can still surprise ourselves. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">We are halfway.</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xhqNgukhne8/UeK_D1uf1CI/AAAAAAAAAI4/mJPNRGNUdxg/s1600/Lynn5K.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xhqNgukhne8/UeK_D1uf1CI/AAAAAAAAAI4/mJPNRGNUdxg/s320/Lynn5K.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Did you take up running, or something
else surprising in the middle of your life? </i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"></i> </div>
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Lynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04669701574781849858noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4188583724224984758.post-66909044204333735122013-06-28T11:24:00.000-04:002013-06-28T11:24:31.808-04:00Some Practical Green Cleaning Tips From Love For Lemons Co. Owner- Kate<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> I was at the <a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Yarmouth-Farmers-Market/153805881355347?fref=ts" target="_blank">Yarmouth farmers Market</a> Yesterday and was talking with some customers and I realized that I should do a Blog post about some of the interesting (well, interesting to a geek like me) alternative uses of our products.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> So here are a few tips and alternative uses for some of the products that I make.</span></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-bw0lFLDZ2lw/Uc2oNC3F2II/AAAAAAAAAEc/BBsMUJOqbN8/s506/Green-Cleaning-Products.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-bw0lFLDZ2lw/Uc2oNC3F2II/AAAAAAAAAEc/BBsMUJOqbN8/s320/Green-Cleaning-Products.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">1.) Our <a href="http://loveforlemons.goodsie.com/embed/carpet-deodorizer-1" target="_blank">Eucalyptus Carpet</a> Deodorizer is a versatile 3-in-1 product. Its<b> main</b> use is to deodorize your carpets. The eucalyptus is effective at removing mold and mildew odors and the Sodium minerals are perfect for the toxic free deodorizing of carpets and upholstery. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> The<b> Second</b> awesome use for this product is to put it to use as a bathroom or stove scrubber. Mix the powder with a little vinegar or water for a great tub, sink ,toilet, or stove scrub that has some real teeth! </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b> Lastly</b>, When I find my drains running slow- I mix a half cup of the powder with a half cup vinegar and immediately pour into drain. I let it sit for 15 minutes and rinse with very hot water. Beat that caustic Drano!!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">2.) This next one is a bit weird, but I will explain. Our Antiseptic<a href="http://loveforlemons.goodsie.com/embed/carpet-deodorizer-1" target="_blank"> Boo-Boo Spray</a> is always perfect for cleansing scrapes and cuts. It is super antibacterial and uses the power of tea tree oil, lemon oil, and a few other expertly blended essential oils to fight germs. This blend of botanical oils are just as powerful as rubbing alcohol (MRSA bacteria is rapidly becoming resistant to alcohol as a disinfectant) or other petroleum based antibiotic ointments (VOC's yuck). </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> The<b> Alternative use </b>for this product is to combat body odors with this antimicrobial spray. Think feet and armpits mostly. The odor causing bacteria is no match for this product and it is much more body and earth friendly than deodorants. It has been said that some breast cancer tumors contain the staple chemicals used in Antiperspirants and are located near the armpits. Here is a little research on this from <a href="http://juliegabriel.com/">JulieGabriel.Com</a></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #30440e; font-size: 14px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #30440e;"><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;"> British molecular biologist Philippa Darbre reported that found in breast cancer tumors came from something applied to the skin, such as an antiperspirant, cream or body spray. This could explain why up to 60% of all breast tumors are found in just one-fifth of the breast – the upper-outer quadrant, nearest the underarm.</span></i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>“The presence of intact paraben esters in human body tissues has now been confirmed by independent measurements in human urine, ” writes Dr. Darbre, “The ability of parabens to penetrate human skin intact without breakdown by esterases and to be absorbed systemically has been demonstrated through studies not only in vitro but also in vivo using healthy human subjects.” In addition, the parabens have now also been shown to possess androgen antagonist activity, to act as inhibitors of sulfotransferase enzymes and to possess genotoxic activity. You can find the entire post here- </i><a href="http://juliegabriel.com/parabens-and-breast-cancer-parabens-tumor/" style="background-color: transparent;">http://juliegabriel.com/parabens-and-breast-cancer-parabens-tumor/</a>. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">3.) On a lighter note, One of my favorite customers from the Local Farmers Markets told me that she has used my <a href="http://loveforlemons.goodsie.com/embed/laundry-soda" target="_blank">Maine Rosemary Laundry Soda</a> in her<b> dishwasher</b> and it worked. It's low sudsing formula won't remind you of that time that you put your dish soap in your dishwasher (we have ALL done it, right??) and the salt based minerals are a powerhouse on dirt and grease. Also, anytime that you are using a more natural dishwasher soap, make sure to use white vinegar and a bit of rubbing alcohol as your rinse aid. In fact, since Phosphates were banned from all dishwasher products a few years back- it is smart to use vinegar/rubbing alcohol for a rinse aid 100% of the time. It makes a huge difference in streaking and white spots. </span></div>
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LoveForLemonsCo.http://www.blogger.com/profile/09706819268910375035noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4188583724224984758.post-8397643200670583812013-06-24T12:39:00.005-04:002013-06-24T14:55:04.416-04:00Thoughts On Being Your Own Version Of An Astronaut...<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Hello Internet Readers, Fans and Customers- Kate here. Our frequent guest writer, Lynn, does such a nice job on here but I thought that I would take a minute to chime in on this Steamy Maine Day. (We get about ten total all summer, so I am enjoying it)</span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Lately, I have been switching up just about everything in my little corner of the world. We will be welcoming a new addition to our Family this October (yes, that makes three and we will be outnumbered). My hard working husband has graduated and is now working 80 hours between his two jobs, apparently thats what you do in corporate America.(I wouldn't know, not my thing). I have also sold my large cleaning business recently. This was a huge change for me. I was getting used to being an on the go, wheeling and dealing, successful business woman. It was a hard business, late nights, early mornings, and a few ulcerative fits thrown in due to stress. Obviously, it was time to slow things down, but these newly found slow paced and hazy summer days have left me contemplating "success". I know it seems rather narcissistic to think about your personal success, but I have a feeling that we all gauge our effectiveness and accomplishments in this world from time to time. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> Driving around this little slice of Mid Coast Maine I often cruise past, or behind, my high school chemistry teacher. At seventeen-I was no student, but he was kind and patient with me...when I decided to show up. On the last paper that I turned in, late no doubt, he wrote: "I see great things in your future". I have kept this piece of paper and I think of it often. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> I had always thought that this statement was something that I have fallen short of. I had habitually imagined these "great things" as being more akin to the career paths of astronauts, corporate execs, teachers, writers, etc.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I was no astronaut.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> It took me ten years to get my Bachelors, something that seemed to be much easier to accomplish as my toddler and infant watched with their little eyes. In the meantime during my twenties, I was busy soaking up life: traveling, working as a nanny to an amazing family, and dabbling in this and that. Diving head first into little because there was always something intangible to swim for instead. If I did take a dive, I quickly found my way back to the shallow end. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> Something about my opinion of my own 'success' or accomplishments has shifted this past year. Perhaps these 'great things' that my teacher had foreshadowed are things that I have already accomplished and what I am in the middle of "doing". Yes, I do believe that raising happy and well adjusted children is a feat no less noble than shooting oneself into outer space (cross your fingers for me-both require the same amount of skill and luck). Making sure that we didn't lose our home when my husband left his longtime, well paying job, could very well be said to require the craft of a corporate exec. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> My Product Company may not be on the shelves of Target. However, many people thank me for my products and their presence in their favorite local shops. I am always so happy to see my regular customers greet me at various Farmers markets. All of my career paths have allowed me to bring my daughter to each weeks ballet lesson, be present to kiss Greysons MANY boo-boo's, and get their lunch on the table each day. Of course, these simple things may not be everyones life ambitions, but if I really think about it, they are definitely mine.</span><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Maybe its not about world domination, but more so about dominating the realm within which you choose to walk. </span></b></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>As a Side Note: There is a new item for sale on the Web Store. A Starter Pack of our essential chemical free products.</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Free Shipping and great savings on this bundle.</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Use Coupon Code SAVE5 to take $5 off your purchase of 20.00 or more. </b></span></div>
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<a href="http://loveforlemons.goodsie.com/chemical-free-home-care-starter-kit">http://loveforlemons.goodsie.com/chemical-free-home-care-starter-kit</a></h3>
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<br />LoveForLemonsCo.http://www.blogger.com/profile/09706819268910375035noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4188583724224984758.post-47900946452691929522013-05-31T14:23:00.001-04:002013-05-31T14:23:14.449-04:00Cast from Eden
<span style="color: black;"><strong>Guest Post by Lynn Shattuck, a writer in Portland, Maine</strong></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><strong>Visit me at <a href="http://writingthewavesagain.blogspot.com/">http://writingthewavesagain.blogspot.com/</a></strong></span><br />
<br />
We are Skyping with my parents when I realize it is time for
the talk. <br />
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My mom and dad’s disembodied heads grin as my four-year-old
disrobes. “Oh, Max, can you please keep your clothes on?” I beg. It is just
after 1:00 PM and we have already had four costume changes. Lately Max demands
to dress monochromatically. His favorite such outfit is his gray sweatpants and
grey shirt, which my husband says makes him look like a 1950’s gym teacher. He
just needs a whistle. “I want my grays!” are among the first words out of his
mouth in the morning. But now, his grays lie on the floor near his bare ankles.
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Max opens his mouth, cackles a bit and does a little jig in
his Cars underwear. Except that he is removing that now, too. “Maxie! That’s
private,” I say. As I say it, I realize I have never said that to him before. I
have begged for privacy myself: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Can I
please just go to the bathroom without an audience, just this once? </i>I have
stopped him from barging in on unsuspecting friends as they use the potty: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Maxie, Addie probably wants a little
privacy. </i>On the computer screen, my parents shake their heads, still
smiling. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<o:p> </o:p><br />
We have taken a very relaxed approach to nudity thus far. I
am amazed and awed by the way that my children are strangers to shame. Having
had a long history with negative body image and shame, I ache to preserve this
feeling for them for as long as possible. Soon enough, societal pressures and
rules will have their way with my babies and they will be exposed to our
culture’s strange and conflicting ideas about bodies and sex. <br />
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My husband and I have tried hard to create a little slice of
Eden in our home; we use the correct parlance for body parts. We don’t make a
big deal if of our children see our naked bodies while we are bathing or
getting dressed. Max recently asked me, “Mama? Why are your <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">nimples </i>so big? Are you gonna have
another baby?” </div>
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But lately, Max has been removing his fig leaf a bit too
often. His penis has joined us during playdates with friends, at an indoor play
space, and recently, <a href="http://writingthewavesagain.blogspot.com/2013/05/potty-humor.html" target="_blank">on our windowsill</a>. He is four now. He can count and write
his name. Soon he will be in grade school, and it seems unlikely that his
kindergarten teacher will encourage the unleashing of genitals during show and
tell. </div>
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“Bye Baba! Bye Papa!” Max bellows at the computer, his
fingers rushing to push buttons to disconnect from Skype. “Bye Ma--!” they say,
the screen going black. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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I take a deep breath and begin. “Maxie, I need to talk to
you about something.” <br />
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“What?” He looks at me. I can tell by the light in his eyes that he thinks I am
going to tell him something exciting. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Yes,
you can have that Easter candy for breakfast after all! We are going to watch
Cars movies all day long, only taking short breaks to eat pepperoni and Easter
candy!</i> </div>
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“Sweetie, there’s nothing wrong with your penis,” I begin. Already
I am saying it all wrong. The expectant light will now drain from his eyes
forever, and all he will hear is “Wrong with your penis!” This will be the
moment he will someday pinpoint in therapy, the beginning of his downward shame
spiral.</div>
<o:p> </o:p><br />
“But it’s a private part of your body,” I stumble. “We just
don’t show our privates to everybody, okay?” <br />
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<o:p> </o:p>“Okay,” he says, prancing off to pound on his drum set. </div>
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<o:p> </o:p>I head into the kitchen to scavenge for lunch for him and
Violet. I am slicing a pear, gauging at the stiff core and seeds, when I spy
something pink out of the bottom right corner of my eye. </div>
<br />
“Maxie!” His underwear is pulled down just far enough that his penis rests atop
Lighting McQueen’s bulging eyes. “Remember what we just talked about?” I ask. <br />
<o:p> </o:p><br />
“Pitano is a monster who puts his penis out!” he blurts. <br />
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">What? </i>I think. </div>
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“What?” I say. </div>
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“Pitano is a monster who puts his penis out!” he restates. </div>
<o:p> </o:p><br />
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“Where did that come from?” I ask. </div>
<o:p> </o:p><br />
“I made it up!” I laugh, unable to stop myself. Who is
Pitano? Does Max now think he’s a monster because he’s exposing himself? I
imagine a future Max in a shadowy room, flogging himself like the tormented Silas
from <u>The Da Vinci Code</u>. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bad Pitano!
Bad Pitano!</i> He will chant. <br />
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Max is trying so hard to understand the world. He asks
things like, “Why does mans not care if they get their shoes wet?” and “Why
isn’t Aunt Sue’s dad alive?” and “But where were Violet and I before we were in
your belly?” <br />
<br />
They are questions I mostly don’t know the answers to. And truthfully, I don’t
really know why it’s not acceptable to display one’s genitals publicly. Perhaps
our bodies and sex would seem like less of a big deal if we all were privy to
one another’s privates. If, like Muppets with their uniquely colored heads and hair,
our bodies, with all their quirks and variations, were exposed. We could go
about our business, Muppet genitals flopping in the breeze. </div>
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The kids and I eat lunch, then head to the playground. Pitano
doesn’t make any more appearances. After the kids are both in bed, I try to
read, but something nags at me. Though it seems to not have sunk in, I hate
that I severed a little slice of my son’s innocence today. I cast him from Eden,
never to return. It aches, the same way it aches when I catch a glimpse of him
at his daycare before he sees me. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">There
is Max, out in the world.</i> </div>
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Which is, of course, exactly why we have to teach him about
privacy. A big part of our job as parents is to help our kids learn to be okay
out in the world. Wearing clothes. Even if they’re monochromatic. </div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">How do you teach your
children about nudity and privacy? Or other societal rules that you don’t 100%
buy in to or understand? <o:p></o:p></i></div>
Lynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04669701574781849858noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4188583724224984758.post-32773909840903829742013-05-03T07:57:00.002-04:002013-05-03T08:55:09.678-04:00The Perfectionism Monster<tt><span style="color: black;"><tt><span style="color: black; font-family: Times New Roman;"></span></tt></span></tt><br />
<pre style="background: white;"><tt><span style="color: black;"><strong>Guest Post by Lynn Shattuck, a writer in Portland, Maine</strong></span></tt></pre>
<tt></tt><br />
<tt></tt><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">It is spring and my perfectionism is in full bloom. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">It happens at the playground: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Why is my child licking the statue like it's a giant metal
ice cream cone? </i>It rears up regarding career and ambition: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">How come she is younger than me, but has already
published a book and has a story in the New Yorker?</i> And at the gym: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Did you see her butt? It doesn’t move when
she runs! </i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><em>My butt is so big, it has its own pair of running shoes!</em></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">Needless to say, this voice sucks. It is not helpful. It
doesn’t inspire me. But it is loud, bossy and persistent.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">Sometimes, when I’m smack in the midst of struggling with a
life lesson, the universe gives me a little extra material:</span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">“Mommy, you left your underwear at my school,” my son says.
Four year olds say many weird things, flailing from the existential: “But where
were me and Violet before we were in your belly?” To the bizarre: “Pitano is a
monster who puts his penis out!” To the embarrassing: “Why are your nimples so
big? Are you going to have another baby?” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">I have become used to fielding bizarre questions and
statements. So the underwear comment semi-permeates my consciousness, but
quickly glurps beneath the surface of my quicksand mama brain.</span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">But the next day, he says it again. “Max, what are you
talking about?” I ask. </span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">“Deb was holding it up,” he says, his arm outstretched to
demonstrate. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oh dear God</i>. I can
instantly feel the static that his school nap blanket and sheet create when
they come out of the dryer, clinging to each other like new lovers. I remember <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not </i>taking the three seconds to shake
them out and fold them before I dropped Max off at preschool on Wednesday
morning. This must be why most people wash their sheets or towels separately
from the rest of their clothing instead of tossing it all together, a bright
stew of darks and lights, nap sheets and panties. </span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I bet the other
mommies all shake and fold. They probably even do it the night before school,
right after they finish cleaning up from the five-course organic meal they made
for dinner</i>, I think. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">When I drop Max off at school the following day, my fears
are confirmed. In his cubby slumps a crumpled plastic Hannaford bag, the kind
that his clothes come home in when he gets pee or vomit on them. I peek in and
spy a flash of bright pink. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">“Hiiiii Deb!” Max bellows to his teacher as he struts into
his classroom. Violet makes her bowlegged way after him, heading straight for a
tray of small, shiny beads that are exactly the same size as her esophagus. </span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">“Hey, Deb,” I say. We make brief small talk about the upcoming
auction for the school while my underwear blazes in my son’s cubby. I take a
breath and decide to confront the situation head on. “So… Max tells me a pair
of my underwear made it to school the other day?”<br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">“He told you?” she says, surprised. </span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span> </div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
"Y</span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">ep.” </span><o:p><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">“You’re not the first,” she says. A breeze of relief flushes
over me.</span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">“Really?” I ask.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">“I’ve seen thongs…all kinds of things…” She trails off, a
war veteran trying not to summon up the horrors her eyes have beheld. </span><br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">“At least it was clean,” I quip. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">And not the enormous, leftover maternity panties that I drag out once a
month,</i> I think. </span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">A</span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">fter I hug and kiss Max goodbye, I grab Violet and my
underwear. </span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Maybe that wasn’t so
bad,</i> I think. I’m so tired of trying to gauge how I measure up, always
coming up short. It takes so much energy. I make mostly good choices. My kids
are healthy and loved, and they seem to be kind human beings. It is unlikely </span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">that the underwear incident will be mentioned at my funeral. It is doubtful
that my inability to get a meal on the table that doesn’t contain peanut butter
or pepperoni will come up. We are human. We have body parts and children that don't always behave as we'd like them to. We are wildly imperfect, shimmeringly
flawed creatures. </span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">That being said, I will probably shake and fold my son’s nap
g</span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">ear next week. </span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">How do you battle the
perfectionism monster?<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span></div>
</tt><br />
<div style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
Lynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04669701574781849858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4188583724224984758.post-70388707967423770492013-03-22T08:50:00.001-04:002013-03-22T09:08:11.271-04:00Equinox<tt><span style="color: black;"><tt><span style="color: black;"></span></tt></span></tt><br />
<pre style="background: white;"><tt><span style="color: black;"><strong>Guest Post by Lynn Shattuck, a writer in Portland, Maine </strong></span></tt></pre>
<pre style="background: white;"><tt><span style="color: black;">It was the first day of spring, despite the foot of snow most of us Mainers just got. A day of hope, when the amount of daylight is finally equal to the amount of darkness.<o:p></o:p></span></tt></pre>
<pre style="background: white;"></pre>
<pre style="background: white;"><tt><span style="color: black;">It was also the anniversary of my brother's death; fourteen years ago, my only sibling died of an accidental drug and alcohol overdose. Because it had been over a decade, I wasn't prepared for it to be an e</span></tt><tt><span style="color: black;">xceptionally hard day. <o:p></o:p></span></tt></pre>
<pre style="background: white;"></pre>
<pre style="background: white;"><tt><span style="color: black;">But after I dropped both kids off at daycare and sat down at my home office to work, I felt a pit of something dense and hard in my chest. <o:p></o:p></span></tt></pre>
<pre style="background: white;"></pre>
<pre style="background: white;"><tt><span style="color: black;">After I worked for awhile, I grumbled around the house by myself, managing to inject my cloudy mood into the most mundane household tasks: I shut the door to the laundry machine just a smidge too hard. I pouted as I wiped down the kitchen counters. <o:p></o:p></span></tt></pre>
<pre style="background: white;"></pre>
<pre style="background: white;"><tt><span style="color: black;">Finally, I did what I knew would at least dislodge my emotions. I sat down and wrote my brother a letter.<o:p></o:p></span></tt></pre>
<pre style="background: white;"></pre>
<pre style="background: white;"><tt><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black;">Dear Will.</span></i></tt><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> I am still mad that you died. Mad that you left me here, a suddenly only child. Mad that you won’t be here for my beautiful babies—for Max who reminds me so much of you, who loves music like you did, who has your same big blue eyes.<tt><span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></tt></i></pre>
<pre style="background: white;"></pre>
<pre style="background: white;"><tt><span style="color: black;">I was mad that the only other human in the world who understood what it was like to be raised in our particular home, with our particular parents, was gone due to his own poor choices. So I told him that. And of course, underneath the bruised thick skin of anger was a soft, fleshy sadness.<o:p></o:p></span></tt></pre>
<pre style="background: white;"></pre>
<pre style="background: white;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">It still breaks me to think of how you left.<tt><span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></tt></i></pre>
<pre style="background: white;"></pre>
<pre style="background: white;"><tt><span style="color: black;">As I strung the words together, I had a good, body-wracking sob. Every cell of my body was droopy with grief. <o:p></o:p></span></tt></pre>
<pre style="background: white;"></pre>
<pre style="background: white;"><tt><span style="color: black;">Usually after that type of cry, I feel some relief and my mood will shift. But for the rest of the morning and early afternoon, I still felt very, very off. <o:p></o:p></span></tt></pre>
<pre style="background: white;"></pre>
<pre style="background: white;"><tt><span style="color: black;">And then my kids came home. And they were both on the grumpy side at first, too. But Max asked for a dance party to Put me in Coach, and we twirled around the living room together for a few minutes, letting the music sink into our bodies and lift us up a bit. Afterwards, Max pointed out four smudgy squares of sunlight on the kitchen wall, stenciled by the late afternoon sun streaming through the window. “I want to play hopscotch on the wall,” he announced. I stared at the squares for a long time, the literal imprint of lightness. “I wish we could,” I told Max.<o:p></o:p></span></tt></pre>
<pre style="background: white;"></pre>
<pre style="background: white;"><tt><span style="color: black;">My husband, knowing I’d had a hard day, fetched takeout for us, and while we finished eating, we watched the kids huddle together watching a movie. They took turns putting their arms around one another. “Bru-bru, Bru-bru,” Violet kept saying, her word for “brother.” “Can Violet have some M&M’s?” Max pleaded. “No, sweetie. She’s too little.” (Watch for future posts on how to wean your kids from candy and television.)<o:p></o:p></span></tt></pre>
<pre style="background: white;"></pre>
<pre style="background: white;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I watch the way that Max loves Violet, watches for her every move, shares most anything he has to give with her. And of course I loved you like that, of course I mothered you like that.<tt><span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></tt></i></pre>
<pre style="background: white;"></pre>
<pre style="background: white;"><tt><span style="color: black;">And it was bittersweet. To watch my current family of four on the anniversary of the day when my first family of four lost a member. To witness the love that blooms between siblings from simply sharing the same space in time, from sharing the same parents. <o:p></o:p></span></tt></pre>
<pre style="background: white;"></pre>
<pre style="background: white;"><tt><span style="color: black;">And then the day was over. I put Violet to bed as the daylight waned. I asked the universe to give my kids long and lovely lives, as I do every night. <o:p></o:p></span></tt></pre>
<pre style="background: white;"></pre>
<pre style="background: white;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I pray that you are somewhere warm and safe. I pray that you are somewhere.<tt><span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></tt></i></pre>
<pre style="background: white;"></pre>
<pre style="background: white;"><tt><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">Knowing that the next day, there would be a bit more day than night.</span> </span></span></tt></pre>
<pre style="background: white;"></pre>
Lynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04669701574781849858noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4188583724224984758.post-23005125919377016462013-02-22T11:45:00.001-05:002013-02-22T11:45:25.385-05:00Coping with the Winter Why's
<strong>A Guest Post by Lynn Shattuck, writer and mother of two</strong><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Mom, why are you stopping?” Max asks from the backseat.</div>
“Because it’s a red light.” <br />
“But why?” <br />
“Because…because we have to take turns with the other cars,” I sigh.<br />
“But why? Why, Mom?”<br />
“So we don’t get in an accident, Maxie.” <br />
“Oh,” he says, and for a sliver of a second he is quiet. Blissfully
quiet.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Sitting at the red light, I practice the breath we do
sometimes in yoga, where we breathe in for three counts and out for five. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Three,</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">fo-<o:p></o:p></i></div>
“Mom? Why is the gym there?” <br />
“I don’t know. It just is.”<br />
“Why is Violet asleep?” <br />
“Because babies need lots of sleep,” I sigh. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Because she was tired of listening to your
questions and fell into the sweet release of sleep, </i>I think, envious.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I pull up to the gas station. “I’m going to put some gas in
the car, Maxie. I’ll be right back.”<br />
“But w--“</div>
I close the door a bit more forcefully than necessary.
Breathing in the rich smell of spilled gasoline, I glance at Max through the
window. He is smiling at me. His lips are still moving. <br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
Maybe it is the winter with the light deprivation and snow-covered playgrounds. Maybe it is because my four-year-old’s constant questions remind of how
little I actually know. Or maybe it is because my sweet, easygoing Buddha baby
girl has suddenly morphed into a separation anxiety-riddled Drama Mama who clings
to me like a fifth limb. Whatever the cause, lately, my patience has been nil. <br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p>I’ve put together a list of tools that have helped me to
stave off the winter grumpies:</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dance Party</i></b>. When I am at my wits end, the last thing I usually
feel like is busting a move. But I will say that it’s very hard for one
to take oneself seriously when attempting the Gangnam Style pony dance. The
kids like it, too. Frugal hint: My kids aren’t old enough to notice that I just
use the preview button on iTunes to play songs that I don’t want to buy (or
watch on YouTube with potentially inappropriate content).</div>
<o:p> </o:p><br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Write a Song</i></b>. Getting my son to wash his hands after using the
bathroom can sometimes be a battle. Similarly to the dance party, it’s hard to
be too grouchy if instead, I focus my energy on creating a song about the
battle. Not sure that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sani-tize your
hands come on! Let’s have a sanitation!</i> will ever catch on, but it shifted
my energy.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Picture them grown up.</i> </b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>I have been pregnant or nursing for nearly
five years now. So sometimes—many times, I just want everyone to leave the Host
Body alone. When my four-year-old wants one more snuggle and I am just dying to
tuck into some trashy TV series on Netflix, I think about what it will be like
when he is grown. I wonder how much I would give for one of these little tender
moments, his nose pressed to mine. Then again, perhaps I will be so busy going
to movies and taking naps and doing yoga and sleeping in that I won’t
notice what I’m missing. But I just might. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sniff something/Drink something. </i></b>No, not<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> those</i> somethings. When I was quite pregnant with my daughter and
my son refused to get into his car seat on a daily basis, I got some
aromatherapy oil that was supposed to be relaxing. I huffed that thing so hard
and so often that I had little crusty burns on my nostrils. Did it help? Not
sure. But just the act of doing something for me made me feel a bit less
powerless and gave me something to focus on instead of
screeching/swearing/curling up in the fetal position. Making and sipping a cup
o’ chamomile tea would work similarly.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Adjust your behavior</i>. </b>One of the things that drives me the most
nuts is when I’m trying to talk on the phone or check my emails. The kids
immediately seem to smell my need for autonomy and instantly start bellowing
demands. I am finding it is unrealistic to think I can read anything longer
than a comic strip (do they still make Garfield?) at these times. Trying to do
so just sets me up for extra frustration. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Take a break</i></b>. Perhaps this is the most important tip of all.
Trade child care with a friend. Go to the gym. Take turns with your partner.
(During recent Winter Storm Nemo, my husband and I took turns escaping to the
bedroom to sleep/read/stare at the wall). Go to the gas station and take in the
ethereal fountainy sounds of gasoline entering your car. </div>
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"></i></b><br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Have compassion</i></b>. A dear friend says she often reminds herself
that her kids are a bit like little insane people. They don’t have the impulse
control yet that we expect adults to. They don’t have logic. It must be hard to
have such little control on one’s environment. But remember to have compassion
for yourself, too. It’s hard to corral little insane people all day long.
Forgive yourself if you yell. Let it go; chances are, if you lose your
patience/scream/swear/cry, you will remember it much longer than your little
ones. <o:p> </o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What techniques do
you use when you’re about to lose it with your little ones?</div>
Lynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04669701574781849858noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4188583724224984758.post-84048682906604621182013-01-18T09:12:00.002-05:002013-01-18T09:12:50.211-05:00Small Change<a href="http://www.sxc.hu/photo/1328012" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="1328012" height="147" src="http://www.sxc.hu/pic/s/r/rd/rdragan79/1328012_agenda_4.jpg" style="padding-top: 23px;" width="200" /></a><strong>A Guest Post by Lynn Shattuck, writer and mother of two</strong><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
January. The jewel-toned lights of the holidays disappear.
It is cold and dark, and perhaps a twinge of post-holiday letdown lingers in
your body. It makes sense that the shiny promise of a brand new year full of
hope and possibility would be a welcome beacon. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I am always tempted to make grand resolutions: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">no TV ever for the kids! Workout so much
that I retrieve the body I had when I was 14! Keep the house spotless! <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I’ve found that making such big promises sets me up for
failure. However, I love the idea of looking back and reflecting on the year
that just passed. What worked? What didn’t? What do I want to do differently? </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
My reflections this year led me to realize a few important
things. First, I struggle mightily with consistency. I can keep the house in
order for a few days, but before long, toys seep into every corner of the
house. Stray laundry lurks in each room. Or, I wean my son off of TV during
mealtimes (eek!) for a week, and then he throws an Exorcist-style tantrum and I
give in and he is watching Angelina Ballerina on the couch with a cereal bar in
his hand. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I know my kids need consistency. I also know that if I take
on too many changes at once, I will burn out and stop doing everything. So I’m
focusing instead on small daily tasks to create a more peaceful existence: deal
with the incoming mail every day. Take the trash out as soon as it is full. Do
the dishes at the end of the day. Put the laundry away when it’s done. In
short, the mundane tasks of life which have to be done <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">every day</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">for the rest of our
lives</i>. I fight it, and I resent it. And yet, when I take these small,
consistent actions….it feels good. </div>
<br />
The other piece I’ve realized is just as challenging, but a
bit more fun. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">When I had kids, I stopped
doing the things that I enjoyed.</i> Not because I wanted to be a martyr, or
because I thought it was good for my kids to see a zombie mom with all the joy
sucked out of her heart. It’s because of time. There are always a zillion
things that I could be doing when I have a free moment; many are those same
things that I struggle to be consistent about. Sort the mail. Attempt to match
up the 85 tiny pairs of socks that seem to slither about the house like baby
rattlesnakes. When I have a free moment, I have become loathe to do something
fun for myself. <br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Sometimes I can barely even remember what I enjoy doing. The
quickest way to rediscover it is to think about what I enjoyed doing as a
child. Reading, writing, listening to music. Being outside under the trees.
Watching movies. These are still my favorite things. In 2013, I’m going to do
more of them. It might mean leaving the kids with babysitters or grandparents
more often. It might even mean a little less precious sleep. But fun is worth
it. </div>
<br />
How do you want to fill all those empty, white calendar
squares of 2013? What do you want to do differently this year, big or small?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04669701574781849858noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4188583724224984758.post-89717256227007647522012-12-12T18:50:00.001-05:002012-12-12T18:54:40.465-05:00Miscellaneous Thoughts and Musings...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tYJJaPaR25k/UMkYGXkv-XI/AAAAAAAAADs/gzcL8eFby00/s1600/kd101.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tYJJaPaR25k/UMkYGXkv-XI/AAAAAAAAADs/gzcL8eFby00/s320/kd101.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> I am glad to know that there are people reading this...It keeps me inspired and thinking about reflections to record for all of you folks! Also, As a side note regarding my last post...that Holiday Card wishing my family and friends Peace and Joy in the new year??? Well, I mailed some of them off in the form of an empty envelope with no card inside. It would appear as if I could use some peace...and quiet in this new year that is almost upon us.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> This is always a time of year that I find myself yearning for Simplicity in my daily routine. I find this urge is taken care of with a few weeks of doing things a bit differently than I normally do to calm the stress and sensation of constantly being overwhelmed. As much as I would like, I cannot disappear into the woods and never come back, so these are a few of my fall-backs when things get intense. I thought I would share them with you. Thanks to Lynn's previous <a href="http://loveforlemons.blogspot.com/2012/12/i-want-to-run-away.html" target="_blank">Post</a> to making me sit down and think about my coping strategies for stressful and complicated times...</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> 1. Get back in the kitchen and COOK.... I spend hours on end in my car driving from job site to market, to school pick-ups, to my parents, and back. Nutrition is lacking for a person on the go. Just when I think I couldn't feel worse and more fatigued, I get back in the kitchen. I immediately feel better as I slice into a lemon to squeeze over the Mustard greens that I just sauteed with farm fresh onion and foraged Mushrooms. As Alton Brown once said, <span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><i>“</i></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; line-height: 18px;"><i>We are fat and sick and dying because we have handed a basic, fundamental and intimate function of life over to corporations. We choose to value our nourishment so little that we entrust it to strangers. This is insanity. Feed yourselves. Feed your loved ones. And for God's sake feed your children."</i> Remembering this ethos and cooking to it never fails to ground me. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"> </span>2. I Read....something, anything, that reminds me of my path and the general ideologies that I adhere to... We all have those moments when we know that we could be doing better and we know how to do better, but it's just that initial step back onto our path that is sometimes the hardest. For example-Whenever I feel that I could do better as parent, I also turn to Kim John Paine's <a href="http://astore.amazon.com/simpliparent-20/detail/0345507983" target="_blank">Simplicity Parenting</a>. My mother gave me this book when I had just opened up my second business and I was on the edge of the parenting cliff with an infant and a wild toddler, somehow she knew, just as she always does. This book has changed my entire view and "method" of being a mother. I reread it anytime I need a reminder of how important it is to reduce the unnecessary in our families life and our surroundings....It is also a handy motivator to throw out all of the clutter and junky toys around your house (always a plus). </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> 3. Work HARD, harder than ever, and more than usual. This may not work for you, some people can't, or simply don't have the drive to sustain days and weeks of giving a job or task their absolute all. I myself, find it soothing. Taking a day off, or half=a$$ing my work is always a sure fire way to start the guilt wagon. I need to be completely and totally confident and satisfied when I go to relax that I have done everything in the best possible way that I could that day. Whether its scrubbing baseboards for the <a href="http://www.greenerclean.me/" target="_blank">cleaning company</a>, mixing up my <a href="http://loveforlemons.com/store.html" target="_blank">products</a>, or raising an 80 lb Tent in the hot sun for a five hour market, I need a hard days worth of work to set my mind at ease. There is nothing shameful with having to work manually or laboriously, no matter what our current social culture will say. I do what I need to do and I am proud of it all...too many people are dying slowly inside their cubicles. My physical abilities and work ethic give me a sense of pride...an important aspect of our social emotional health. Like I said, it may not be your cup of tea, but there is nothing like going to bed after you have worked as hard as you possibly could all day...bliss! </span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So there is what I do to get grounded and to stay there. Recently, I have turned back to these three tasks and will probably continue with them until the New Year arrives. Is there anything more Amazing and Inspiring than ending a year and beginning a new one knowing that you have all the tools to implement change in your daily life? -KATE</span></span>LoveForLemonsCo.http://www.blogger.com/profile/09706819268910375035noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4188583724224984758.post-83233928907308715032012-12-09T13:36:00.001-05:002012-12-09T13:36:43.644-05:00Tis The Season... So Far this December has been a memorable and enjoyably hazy blur of work and valuable time with Dahlia and Greyson. I view the beginning of December as reminder to slow down, take stock, and enjoy the closing of another year.<br />
I always rolled my eyes when my mother went into "Holiday Patrol Mode"...and now I find myself slipping into her soft and nostalgic ways with a certain ease, as if I hadn't just ended my 'angsty' twenty something years.<br />
Dahlia and Grey have enjoyed lighting our Advent Candles, reading the Holiday books, and playing with the ultra breakable ornaments on the tree...here is the current score for broken holiday ornaments: Grey-2 Tree-0.<br />
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I hope everyone is having an enjoyable season filled with traditions (whatever they may be), family, and lots of food. Here is the Perrin family Christmas card, some of which I sent out in the form of an empty envelope...whoops!LoveForLemonsCo.http://www.blogger.com/profile/09706819268910375035noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4188583724224984758.post-83836272265459524802012-12-06T09:12:00.000-05:002012-12-06T09:12:10.194-05:00I Want to Run Away
<strong>Guest Post By Lynn Shattuck, a writer and mother of two. </strong><br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rUdBSUUm9GY/UMCnRkcSVvI/AAAAAAAAAAc/Odr_tt5IQoM/s1600/Cabin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rUdBSUUm9GY/UMCnRkcSVvI/AAAAAAAAAAc/Odr_tt5IQoM/s1600/Cabin.jpg" /></a></div>
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I used to fantasize about living in a wood cabin. It would
have a cozy, romantic sleeping loft, a simple kitchen and a place to write. I
would gaze out the window at pine trees and take long walks. I would have
luscious pillows of time to write, play, rest, read and exercise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
Instead, I live in a lovely old house that has become a
jungle of plastic toys. My past week included three birthday celebrations and
the inspection of a bigger house that we had under contract. This was on top of
taking care of the kids and working after they go to bed at night. On top of attempting
to get ready for the impending holidays. <br />
<br />
I find myself running from birthday party to playdate, overwhelmed and
exhausted. My body pulses with cortisol. I am impatient with my kids. Daylight
wanes, evaporating my energy. <br />
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Somehow, I have chosen this. <br />
<br />
Perhaps the very act of having two children has complicated life immensely. Or
maybe it’s because the partner I chose doesn’t yearn for simplicity in the same
way I do, and the compromise is a busier life. Maybe in a parallel life, I live
off the grid in a little straw house with a husband named Maple, and we pass
the days puttering in our organic vegetable garden and washing laundry by hand.
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Maybe life isn’t quite so black and white.</div>
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Whatever the cause, I find myself in the midst of a life
that is busier and more complicated than feels comfortable. </div>
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Strangely, the best solution I’ve found has been to add a
little more to the swirling chaos.</div>
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Usually when I get too busy and overwhelmed, the first things
to get squeezed out are acts of self-care. Exercise, healthy foods and water
get replaced with extra coffee and comfort foods.</div>
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So I’m trying something different, something
counterintuitive. I’m adding stuff. </div>
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My husband I have been doing the Couch to 5K, using the app
on our iPhones (which my parallel life me would surely scoff at). I have never
enjoyed running, but lately I have been craving it. I want to be fast,
efficient. I want to keep up with myself. So we take turns heading out into the
winter air while the other referees the kids. We jog and walk through the
nearby cemetery. There is something about moving my body faster that lifts the
extra fog from my brain, leaving me sweaty, focused and present. The bare trees
(and the gravestones) remind me that nature is slowing down. Everything morphs,
every phase passes; the busy ones, the hard ones, the sweet ones. </div>
<br />
And while physically moving faster, my brain slows down. The
chattering shards of thoughts disperse. My mood lifts. I focus only on getting
through the next 20 seconds of running.This reminds my body that I can only do
one thing at a time: focus on the next task at hand. Breathe. Hear the crunch
of the leaves. Move your body. <br />
<br />
Right now, there is no cabin, no simple life. But something
about running leaves me able to deal a little better. To meet the chaos with
gratitude for this full life, these busy days. <br />
<br />
What do you do when things get busier and more complicated
than you’d like? <br />
Lynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04669701574781849858noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4188583724224984758.post-8176325509127514582012-12-04T20:07:00.003-05:002012-12-04T20:07:38.998-05:00It's a Work in Progress... I hate the term "Going Green". When people use those words, I always want to respond, "you mean doing the right thing?" I don't mean to sound pejorative, however, as they say- the truth hurts. Our culture (most cultures now, thanks to rapid globalization) is drenched in the idea of ease and disposability and I am nowhere near immune. Raising two young children, keeping a home, and owning two companies is exhausting. Sometimes the thought of not doing an extra load of dish towels every two days seems alluring when I think of how quick and dirty paper towels are. Then I think about my paper towel trash sitting in a land fill because I was too lazy to do an extra load of laundry. I was mortified when I bought paper plates for my two year olds birthday party. (insert excuse here).<br />
I always like to remind myself that ease of use doesn't equal beneficial, and that living "green" is not some trendy item purchased at Target. Its a progression, that I am moving towards.<br />
I do have one item in my home that has resisted my setbacks in terms of being eco-friendly, and it's my 7 year old MacBook. It works. Yes, its old and a bit slow. Sure, I would love a new shiny MacBook Pro and I have had a few versions in cyber carts just waiting for me to push the "Purchase" button. This has gone on for a year now. I just can't bring myself to acquire a new computer, when this one still works. Its my hold out. It anchors me to the direction that I want my consumer habits to go amidst the craze of hyper-consumption.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-KrONSLZ1cns/UL6eAuq06fI/AAAAAAAAADM/5tBwqk9u-Gs/s1600/LL37+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-KrONSLZ1cns/UL6eAuq06fI/AAAAAAAAADM/5tBwqk9u-Gs/s320/LL37+copy.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo: Anna Low. 2012. </span></div>
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My mother purchased this computer for me when I was on the cusp of starting one of my "business ideas" many years ago...(She has always had an over abundance of faith in my entrepreneurial spirit). I have used this machine when I was so broke that I had to get a horrific second job serving rich ladies over priced tea, and it serves me just the same now that I am navigating two successful business endeavors of my own. This old and dirty computer will last me as long as I invest in it...kind of like a large planet that I know of. You have probably heard of it, it's the only one capable of sustaining human life.<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><b>“Perhaps the time has come to cease calling it the 'environmentalist' view, as though it were a lobbying effort outside the mainstream of human activity, and to start calling it the real-world view.” E.O. Wilson.</b></span><br />
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LoveForLemonsCo.http://www.blogger.com/profile/09706819268910375035noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4188583724224984758.post-47805402830854771192012-11-02T08:59:00.002-04:002012-11-02T09:09:19.144-04:00On Passion<strong>Guest Post By Lynn Shattuck, a writer and mother of two. </strong><br />
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<br />
“A one, two, a one two free foe!” My three and a half year
old son bellows, then begins banging on the elaborate “drum set” he has
arranged in our dining room. The drum set is actually a convoy of red Radio
Flyer bikes, a yellow rideable dumptruck, and a little plastic basketball hoop
that he has declared to be a cymbal. Ironically, he sits on his lone drum while
he pounds on the trucks. <br />
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<o:p> </o:p>“Mama! Play music with me!” He hands me his oversized yellow
plastic shovel; clearly, he wants me to strum the “guitar” while he drums.</div>
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<o:p> </o:p>Max is passionate about music. He always has been. When he
was a colicky, red-faced infant, we would put on a Gary Jules song and dance
with him. Every time it came on, he would get a faraway look in his eyes. And
he would stop crying. If you remember the Seinfeld episode with Desperado,
you’ll know exactly what I mean.</div>
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<o:p> </o:p>And now, as a preschooler, music still consumes him. The
other day, my mom had to wrestle an egg slicer out of his hand. To Max, it was
a tiny guitar. </div>
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<o:p> </o:p>So I’ve been thinking a lot about passion lately. Not <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="http://loveforlemons.blogspot.com/2012/09/fifty-shades-of-clean.html" target="_blank">that</a></i> type
of passion. The following your dream type. The spark that makes someone dream
up <a href="http://www.loveforlemons.com/index.html" target="_blank">citrusy potions</a> in her kitchen. A good
friend of mine recently became a finalist in a national competition for the
<a href="http://www.etsy.com/shop/JaredDeSimioMaker?ref=top_trail" target="_blank">handmade bags and accessories</a> he fashions out of reclaimed materials. He works
a day job and has a young daughter. He scours the Salvation Army for fabric and
morphs his finds into beautiful bags in his basement during his “spare time.” He makes
them because he has to. </div>
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<o:p> </o:p>Sometimes I envy this passion. I try not to project into the
future and worry about what Max’s future will be if music continues to be his
thing (Drugs and Groupies and Piercings, oh my!). He is young, and who knows
where life will lead him. But that passion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>When I had children, I put a lot of my desires on hold. It felt like
there simply wasn’t as much time for them. How could I sit down and write when
there laundry and dishes and bills to do? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How could I make time for the words that pulsed
through my head, aching to get out?</div>
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How could I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not </i>make
time? </div>
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If I imagine Max in thirty years, pushing his
passion—whatever it ends up being—way into the perimeter of his life, it makes
me so sad. Because even though his drumming is loud and grating and wakes the
baby up, it is beautiful, too. Because he loves it. Because he was born loving
it, like he was born having blue eyes. </div>
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<o:p> </o:p>If something is truly a passion, don’t we make time for it?
Don’t we sew in the basement when the kids are in bed? Don’t we jot down a few
lines at a stop light before the words fall away? I am finding that the more
time I make for writing, the more I want to do it. After a few meetings of a
Portland Adult Ed writing class, the ideas are flowing faster than I can jot
them down. And I am happier. I feel like there is something waiting for me;
something that doesn’t require a fresh diaper or a snack. Something more like a
lover I can’t wait to steal a few minutes with.</div>
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What aren’t you doing that you burn to do? Is there a way to
fit a little bit into your day, to keep the coals warm? </div>
Lynnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04669701574781849858noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4188583724224984758.post-47073796182310111852012-09-15T09:50:00.000-04:002012-09-15T09:50:14.717-04:00Fifty Shades of Clean<br />
<b>Guest Post By Lynn Shattuck, a writer and mother of two. </b><br />
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I am a dirty, dirty girl.<br />
<br />
No, really. Even as a child, I left cyclones of dolls and blankets in my wake. My cluttery<br />
ways still seem to be inherent, part of my energy field. Electrical cords tangle in my very<br />
presence. My clothes bustle together in little hills throughout our home. Small scraps of<br />
paper scurry around, burrowing themselves into my pockets and the nooks and crannies<br />
of my car. My messiness seems to be as much a part of me as my freakishly long and<br />
flexible toes; not pretty, a little embarrassing, but perhaps an homage to the beautifully<br />
imperfect nature of being alive and human.<br />
<br />
But.<br />
<br />
I have two little people who rely on me. My children trust me to ensure that they are<br />
fed and clothed. That they have safe places to play. That their clothes and bodies are<br />
reasonably clean. And yet by the very nature of them being here, they add even more<br />
chaos to my already slovenly ways. Particularly my three-and-a-half year old, who has<br />
yet to meet a surface that he can’t turn into a drum set, and who leaves trails of cereal<br />
bars behind him, as if to help himself find his way between the kitchen and the couch.<br />
<br />
And so, I find myself squarely middle-aged, and craving order. In the past, I might’ve<br />
fantasized upon catching a flash of well-defined shoulders. Or hearing a song with just<br />
the right thump of bass, or when my husband took a few days off from shaving. Now,<br />
I just want our damned wooden floors in the living room to be devoid of crumbs, small<br />
pieces of fruit, and those brooding grey-faced trains that seem hell-bent on tripping me.<br />
I want to peel my clothes off, very slowly, and… put them in the closet. And color code<br />
them. I want to catch my husband’s eye on the rare moment when the kids are both<br />
napping, put my hand into his warm palm… and slip him the broom.<br />
LoveForLemonsCo.http://www.blogger.com/profile/09706819268910375035noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4188583724224984758.post-69893778817629267072012-09-07T20:55:00.002-04:002012-09-07T21:02:08.781-04:00Sometimes It Feels Like An UpHill Battle......it does. I'm not just talking about life, raising two stable children, while simultaneously managing two start up companies with a full time student husband and a house renovation. I am speaking to the role of chemicals in all of our daily lives. There is something about living "naturally" that puts us on the fringe.<br />
This week I was asked to provide my daughters pre-school with a doctors note addressing why I am insisting that I provide my own sunscreen for when Dahlia goes outdoors with her class. Not only do they make it unreasonably mandatory for each child to have sunscreen applied daily, even in the dead of winter to exposed skin, but they wanted to use a generic brand sun screen. This basic and inexpensive brand of sun screen has over two known carcinogens in the ingredients list, not to mention petroleum and nano products. Yuck. I know that I am lucky that I am aware, educated, and economically able to be in tune with such issues vs. the question of where our next meal will come from. However, the issue of pervasive chemicals in our environments and my children's exposure is one that I won't ignore. It will not be brushed under the rug for the ease of sunscreen application in a pre-school class room.<br />
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I find that my need to be constantly vigilant against the "normal" products, foods, and other cosmetics, such as the antibacterial soaps used in schools and all public bathrooms is exhausting. I can't even buy a reasonably safe detangler for my toddlers curls in the grocery store. It requires an extra trip into Portland at a ridiculously high priced food market. Of which, just the parking lot gets my stomach in knots.<br />
To make matters even worse, I have to deal with all the people that roll their eyes and say things like, "well, everything causes cancer and is going to kill us, so why bother??". Or my other favorite is when people remark that I will get my arm entirely tattooed, but won't use bleach. I politely reply (standing next to my companies sign) that there is 100% more regulation regarding the ingredients in tattoo ink, then their favorite brand of Tide and Mrs. Meyers Cleaning products.<br />
Lets wrap up this post on a slightly less agitated and more positive note...Advocacy is all we have to keep our homes, children, and pets safe from the completely unregulated chemical industry. Lets vote with our purchases. Lets research and be aware. Lets not be complacent. Lets use amazing resources such as<a href="http://www.ewg.org/skindeep/" target="_blank"> www.ewg.org/skindeep</a> to check into the safety of our household and cosmetic products. And finally, lets not be intimidated by large corporations or "know-it-all" personalities who want to keep us on the fringe. I became a mother knowing that my only job is to keep my children safe...so I wont be backing down anytime soon...<br />
<br />LoveForLemonsCo.http://www.blogger.com/profile/09706819268910375035noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4188583724224984758.post-60576858791399076662012-08-20T19:23:00.002-04:002012-08-20T19:32:29.499-04:00The Dog Days Are (almost) Over...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I have traveled far and wide. Scandinavia. London. Paris. Turks and Caico's. However, there is nowhere I would rather be in the summer more than Maine. And as we reach the end of this glorious season marked with a few extra layers needed on the bed by morning and the sudden need to order a hot coffee to warm me up during the early hours of the farmers markets, I become nostalgic. This nostalgia is strong, knowing that I won't get to savor another Maine summer until the long battle with another rugged Maine Winter is over and done with. While the dog days of summer may be drawing to a close, the Perrin Co. had a blast.<br />
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We ate zero grocery store veggie's, all fresh from the many outdoor markets we frequented. We made sand castles. We got sunscreen in our eyes. We went to kitschy Old Orchard Beaches' Palace Playland. There were Boo Boo's and bruises galore. Dahlia climbed the rocks with Daddy at Reid State park for the first time. We sweated at the hot farmer markets as we sold Love For Lemons Co. Products galore. Dahlia and I enjoyed late nights of labeling products and mixing laundry Soda. Sweet Baby Greyson found his true love of trucks and pretty girls in Bikini's. Dahlia explored her love of nature as she told me where all of the fairies lived in our back yard. </div>
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Many say life in Maine is hard with the long cold winters, but I believe that us Mainers are paid in full many times over with the blessings bestowed on us from Maine summers like this one. I couldn't think of any other place that I would rather pledge my allegiance to. You will find the Perrins and <a href="http://www.loveforlemons.com/">Love For Lemons Co.</a> in Maine for many years to come. </div>
LoveForLemonsCo.http://www.blogger.com/profile/09706819268910375035noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4188583724224984758.post-12925386987463873532012-07-26T12:50:00.000-04:002012-07-26T12:50:01.761-04:00To Hang Out or Not<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ba5ymSYI9ac/UBFlvFUmTJI/AAAAAAAAABE/mf2KWo_yPK8/s1600/baekland.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ba5ymSYI9ac/UBFlvFUmTJI/AAAAAAAAABE/mf2KWo_yPK8/s400/baekland.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">25 + sets of bedding hanging out to dry at Baekeland Camp. <br />[copyright Anna Low, 2011]</td></tr>
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First, let me start with a disclaimer and apology. I am unceremonious usurping the first Love For Lemons blog post. I've been helping Kate with some design and photography work, so let this read as a test of the new blog. I might as well be on topic though, so here we go. </div>
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At the beginning of the summer I installed a clothes line in my back yard. I have always wanted one. I have romantic ideas about clothes lines, and fond memories - running through drying sheets as my grandma hung out her moo-moos and grandpa's Dickies work pants; a new line and rigging purchased as a thank-you gift for grandparents-in-law for hosting our wedding in their field. Last summer I spent an amazing week at an old fashion Adirondack 'camp' where 25 sets of bedding could be hung out to dry at one time. Clothes lines come with history, tradition and time-tested technology.</div>
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I'm also a green clean gal. Before discovering Love For Lemons products, I cleaned my home with vinegar, baking soda, Dr. Bronner's, water and little else. A clothes line was conspicuously missing from my green domestic routine, so it felt great to string one up. Since its installation, I have been both shocked and tickled with the responses it draws. </div>
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The first response that shocked me was mine own. This is such a simple technology, yet I felt compelled to do some research before hanging my wash out. I feel silly about it now, but I had a million questions - What happens if I leave the wash out overnight? Are wooden pins better than plastic? Will they leave marks on the clothes? What if the resident skunk passes by? What if it rains? Through trail and error (and laziness), I've answered all these with a resounding 'it doesn't matter'. </div>
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The second, very pleasant, response came from my husband. I had no idea that he has always loved line dried clothes. I do too. There is a crisp, rough nature to everything hung out. It feels clean. For those of you who go to extraordinary lengths for soft towels, line drying is not for you. If you love towels that exfoliate while drying, you're going to love this.</div>
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The most common response I hear is that people feel like they don't have time to hang wash out. While it's true that it takes longer than shoving clothes into the dryer, I am betting overall it takes me only a few minutes more in total to have dry clothes. I have a great, new drier, but clothes I hang out dry in about half the time, so the laundry is finished sooner. And hanging them out doesn't take as long as you'd think, plus it's a brilliant, satisfying, peaceful activity to be out in the sun, with fresh smelling clothes, getting in some bending and stretching exercise. </div>
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I haven't mentioned the obvious benefits. I am saving electricity (and money). I have no desire to calculate how much, but I know it's something. Sunlight is one of the best disinfectants. And if you use a nice detergent, like Love For Lemons Laundry Soda, so not only does the wash smell great, but a beautiful rosemary breeze blows in the house while the clothes dry. </div>
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I have a few more months of line drying before winter strikes. I'm curious to see how I feel about the clothes line then. But until the snow gets deep, peace and hang out.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14788072729843727910noreply@blogger.com0