April 20, 2012

Dear Babies,

Earth Day is Sunday and everyone is on it. Town has organized a Clean Main Street. The local temples have collaborated for Mitzvah Day. Days of service are scheduled. Recycling. Donations from canned food to bone marrow. Even the NBC peacock has turned green, literally.

Not me, though.

Taking care of children is about the least green thing on the planet. The amount of diapers we throw out on a daily basis is enough to make Al Gore implode.

Since you guys split everything twins alleviate the food waste somewhat (bra-vo!), but still, sometimes, we can’t help it. Stinkerbell comes out. Peas get chucked to the floor.

To my horror, yesterday I discovered that the cleaning ladies have been throwing out our paper recycling in with the regular garbage, not the big recycling bin we take out on Sundays.

Now, you know how crazy I am about recycling. (YOU: Oh we know!) Our house is like Whole Foods, where we go on a weekly basis to deposit our “number fives.” We have a bin for those “5” plastics, another for 1’s and 2’s and glass. Bags for plastic bags. One for wire hangers to be returned to the dry cleaners. Another for batteries and aerosol cans–my dream being go to the plant on Shore Road one day and return them along with our old cameras and phones and other electronic waste, ooooh! Maybe for Mother’s Day?

And then I came home, opened up our garbage can in the garage to throw out my gum as I came in the door and happened to notice all of my beautiful paper sorting, there. Peas, diapers, paper, together in harmony.


Now, here’s where you can say “throw out your own damn garbage, fatty.”

And I do.

But once every two weeks I pay someone to come clean our toilets (in a day of trying to do it all, something had to give, and for me it was cleaning, happily). On those days they take down any garbage in the house and oh, oh, oh…

How long has this been going on?

Now how bad is my carbon footprint?

Do I say something? I asked your father last night, being the absolute worst at any sort of professional relationship. (Your Aunt Krissy invited Joy, her manicurist, to her wedding. It’s in our genes.)

“Of course! You have to!”

(Blech. Worst.)

…I went to gym this morning to watch TV and to read. My phone doesn’t work there, it’s great. The fact that I technically have to be moving some part of body to use the equipment is only a minor setback. But you had to see this ninety-year-old man on the bike next to me at 11:45 this morning. He, too, was reading, and he was barely moving his legs.

I teared up when the news came on. They think they found the body of a missing boy in Soho from 1979. He was six. The screen flashed pictures of his beautiful angel face. Then of the monster they think who did it. I leapt for the TV. I couldn’t watch it. I couldn’t look. I flipped to Paula Deen making stuffed tomatoes.

…A few weeks ago I tried taking you guys to a story time at the local bookstore by myself. It was a debacle. Think the Tasmanian Devil in Meg Ryan’s The Shoppe Around the Corner. As I hooked you with one arm, Baby Boy, dragging you away from a bookmark display you’d been emptying by the window while using the other arm to keep your sister from rolling down a step as she thrashed around on the floor in protest of getting back in the stroller, the wonderful woman leading the class sang this:

I plant a seed in the Earth for peace
I plant a seed in the Earth for peace
I plant a seed in my heart for peace
For peace begins with me

I’ll cling to this with hope for Earth Day. It’s all I can do.



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