Why I'm Not a Vegan

Sarah was one of my roommates in college and one of the four girls I traveled abroad with one semester. And to this day, I consider her one of my closest friends. She is sarcastic to a fault, jaded, wise, wry and very private.  We were opposites in so many ways. I was a straight A student, obsessed with reading and writing, attending lectures on campus and, in general, being the typical college idealist. I took over the Environmental Club, I was the secretary of the Young Democrats, I was a member of the Student Union Board, and I was an Orientation Leader for incoming freshman.

To someone like Sarah, I was insufferable.

Sarah smoked. Heavily. She could drink like a sailor, she had tattoos, and she cursed in the most eloquent of ways. She participated in no campus activities, she only tried hard in classes that interested her, she was into Kubrick films and indie music, and it wasn't uncommon for her to put wine in her coffee thermos before her morning classes.

She was the coolest person I'd ever met.

And my love for her was reciprocated. This I knew. But she gave affection so rarely, and compliments even less, that when it came out, I sat frozen in disbelief on our living room couch. It went something like this: "Meg, despite my natural inclination to despise people like you, I love you." And she expressed it in equally terse ways. Once, when I signed up all of us in the apartment for a 6 am walk for diabetes, she reluntantly got up, glared at me with her mop of tight curls in a frightening state and said, "I'll do this once. For you. But never wake me up again. Even if our place is on fire."

During our semester in London, my admiration of Sarah grew stronger. A truly defining moment in our friendship--and my life, honestly--was when the five of us were at the university pub with our calendars sprawled out planning which countries we would visit over the course of the semester. A backpacking-through-Europe algorithm.We all wrote down our top three places to visit and then devised a complicated process of matching top desires with flights in and out of England, school holidays and rates on hostels and museums. In the midst of this chatter, Sarah said, "Hey, don't overbook the semester. I mean, after all, we are in f**king London. Let's spend some time exploring it."

Despite proudly hosting her annual "Fat Girls Slumber Party", Sarah struggled internally with body image. She hit a dark period a year after graduation and decided to live life differently. She applied for a graduate program at a top school in Social Work. She went on a strict no-carb diet, she joined a gym and she quit smoking. Such life-changing efforts that, upon hearing about them over email, I had to laugh.

Was it that I didn't believe she could do it? Or was I scared to lose the Sarah I knew?

I suppose a little of both. As a goody-two-shoes farm girl, I led a constrained life in the way of sex and alcohol and drugs. Sarah was the epitome of indulgence. I had once begged her to join the Environmental Club, and she had once told me to loosen up more at parties. Now to hear she was proposing a life of restraint felt like my way of living was being infringed upon. That my life of moderation she had so often laughed at, was now something she was going to do. And maybe even do it better.

Was I threatened?

You betcha.

When I saw her the next year she was 50 pounds lighter, was enjoying the rigor of graduate school and was a minty-fresh nonsmoker. A year later she had shed 30 more pounds and had ditched her shapeless clothes for an amazingly chic wardrobe. A year after that, she showed up to meet my baby, was now a vegan, and was wearing an adorable pair of shorts and an embellished cardigan. Seriously, this was crazy. She had gifts and hugs and handmade cards. She was giggly, though her humor was still biting. She was softer, kinder and more loving. She was, above all, happy.

She brought me organic wine, wrapped the baby's present in hemp and talked endlessly about her neighborhood's amazing farmer's market. And when she went to throw away her Trader Joe's organic almond butter jar, she looked around our kitchen and said, "Where's your recycling?"

"Well, in the garage, but we don't do plastic. Just glass and magazines," I stammered.

"I'm really surprised you don't recycle more," she said.

Now, I must emphasize that she placed no emphasis on any words. It wasn't said in a judgmental way: "I'm really surprised you don't recycle more." It wasn't said in a superior way: "I'm really surprised you don't recycle more." And it wasn't said in a way that was pressuring me into action: "I'm really surprised you don't recycle more." It was said as Sarah says all things, without judgment or ulterior motives.

And to her, that was probably the extent of her thought. She remembered our days in college when I would leave 15 minutes early for class, take a used Target bag and pick up litter on my way. And now, she visits me in my home and is not surprised to see that we do, in fact, recycle, but that we don't recycle more. Because her logical side would tell her that a person's passion for a cause should grow over time. Not lessen.

And she was right. I was so passionate in college. For so many causes. And I had lost that, just a little, as I progressed in life stages like marriage and children. Her simple remark made me feel that I had fallen away from the things I used to love most about myself, those things that truly defined me.

After she left I explained my disappointment in myself to my husband. Told him how when I was in college I had purpose and drive, and I was making a difference. That Sarah--who once was annoyed by my enviro-charitable-active lifestyle--was now living what I had once preached, while I wasn't even recycling number 5 plastic. To be fair, I consume many more beverages that come in glass bottles than plastic jugs, but still.

He laughed at this, saying, "Meg, when you were in college, your biggest stress was finals. You lived in campus housing and your parents paid for your health insurance. Saving the environment is what you are supposed to do in college."

"But I still value all the same things I stood for back then. Am I still pushing myself? Look at Sarah. Look how she's evolving. Every time I see her I am in awe of her growth, her determination, her goodness."


"Yes, but just because she's evolving doesn't mean you are regressing. Look at our lives. We recycle, we donate part of each paycheck to charity, we had a 'green' wedding, we read, we buy local, we stay informed, we drive tiny, little, nothing cars that almost run on air, we pay our taxes, and you spend your professional life helping nonprofits. That's a lot."

"I dunno....shouldn't we do more? Like be vegans?"

"You'd give up pizza?"



But Sarah's comment had put me on the defense. Mostly because when you become a mother, you become very defensive. Because motherhood, apparently, is a sport. And that means there are winners and losers. And teams. And you gotta pick one. Practice, spread the word, only read material that supports your cause, and most importantly, look down on those on the other side.

Which means you can't just breastfeed and go on with life. You also have to wear your child, make your own baby food and diaper them in organic cotton. Then you must tell the world about it at every chance as though all babies need your saving. You can't just feed your baby formula, put her in a crib to cry it out and diaper her in cheap throw-aways. You have to be completely defensive about it all, roll your eyes and say the other side is crazy, and then feverishly search for articles that say formula babies aren't doomed for asthma and poor math skills. And you most certainly can't mix and match between the two because then who the hell would support you? It's a polarizing phase of life.

So, the day after my daughter's birthday I told my husband I was ready to step out of the chaos of motherhood, move on from mourning my college self, steer away from extremists and start living my life in a more natural way. Nope. I don't mean organic and hormone free. Just natural to me. To do the things in parenting and life that make sense to me. To push myself only in areas that truly matter. So for that, I had to sit down and determine what those were.

I was surprised to find that very few of my causes centered around parenting. Lowery's fine. Happy. Bright. I'm giving myself a goddamn break from all that worry. When she goes into her tantrum-throwing phase, I'll start reading myself into a confused stupor, but for now she can just play in the mud while I have a beer.

And I was pleased to discover that most of the things I still care about are the same as they were in college. I don't think I've waned in passion; I think I've gotten smarter in action.

I'm still 1) an environmentalist, 2) a feminist, 3) a liberal, and 4) a voracious reader.

But instead of starting a club to organize Ride-Your-Bike-To-Class-Day, or coordinating the first community-wide recycling service in my home town as I did during my college years, I now focus on the small things in my life like using reusable grocery bags, cloth diapering part time and, recycling lots and lots and lots of glass bottles.

My feminism has taken its own unique path. I still staunchly stand up for women and their rights, but my new form of feminism is focusing on raising a daughter with good self-esteem and a healthy body image.

My liberalism gets stronger by the day, but now that I'm in a position to teach young college students about politics, I've discovered the importance of remaining moderately centered to be able to teach them both sides of the issues. If they happen to leave the class a liberal, that's just cake.

And I still read. When I get down on myself that I don't read as much as I did as an English major in college, I remind myself that I'm probably reading the same amount of words, it's just many of those words are usually imbedded in obnoxious classics like Goodnight Moon and Hand, Hand, Fingers, Thumb. 

In college I think I might have truly believed that if you weren't supporting a cause, my cause, it was because you were ignorant on the issue. If you weren't saving the planet, then you must not understand how shitty we are being to it. If you weren't a liberal, you didn't care about people. If you weren't against war, you were an asshole. And I'm not saying I still don't feel some of those things sometimes, but I've learned to respect and assume the knowledge of others first.

So I look at Sarah with respect and adoration. She's not jumping on a bandwagon. She's into yoga, veganism and recycling because she naturally grew from a place of apathy into one of caring. And I applaud her ability to drastically change her life while still maintaining her sense of self and her same gloriously vulgar mouth. And the best part about all the transformations and causes she's taken on is that she doesn't give a shit if anyone else embraces them.

More than anything, I think what she said in that London pub truly conveyed the difference between Sarah and me, and the reason I want to be more like her. I was and am more focused on the world, the bigger picture, saving things like the Planet and The People and spreading that message on bumper stickers, facebook and to my friends. Meanwhile, Sarah is focused on improving the one thing she can truly change, herself. And she does it quietly. Trying to cover every mile of Europe proved impossible. But we enjoyed every square inch of London.

I am amazed that Sarah, who was once so out of control, can stick to a diet with no meat or cheese or milk or honey. And I've briefly considered the possibility of trying it out myself. I know how awful chicken farming is, the laxity surrounding genetic modification and the meat packing industry, and I understand the dangers of mercury poisoning.

Despite knowing all that, I won't be a vegan for one simple reason:

I f**king love meat.

And I want the world to know.

Mother Love

To my daughter on her first birthday,

As you know, I grew up around animals. My father's professional life as a veterinarian meant that most of my life lessons were learned through the menagerie that surrounded my childhood. Deep lessons on life and death, the environment, nutrition, sexuality, and motherhood were conveyed through the actions of animals. And while your Poppy was not intentional about this, animals are how I learned a lot about human behavior.

The biggest lesson your Poppy expressed through the cattle that speckled our property was that of mother love. He explained that there is no stronger urge in nature than this. Mother love, he explained, is instinctual, powerful, beautiful and--if you're between a Mama Cow and her calf--scary.

Your Poppy explained this, your Nana proved this. A Mama Cow will stampede any creature that comes between her and her offspring. So would Nana. You've met her. You get what I'm talking about.

I grew up thinking that Mother Love was a natural, instinctual, profoundly aggressive occurrence, and so I would never have to worry about it. It would come to me. When I was ready for a child, all I needed to do was procure one. Instincts would take care of the rest. I was promised this by my father, by my mother, and by nature.

But, my dear child, the story of your own mother's love is hauntingly different.

One year ago today, on your predicted due date, I awoke at 4 am with sharp pains. I sat on the couch, in the dark, counting the contractions. And I have never been so calm. Your father and I had wanted you so badly, worked so hard to create you and were beyond thrilled when we heard of your existence.

I proudly have very few regrets in my life. But the day of your birth is one of them. I labored for 18 hours, I pushed for two and when you came out I was elated, if not just relieved. You came out without crying, your eyes were open and you were focusing on the surroundings. The nurses, the doctor, Nana and your father all found this unusual, if not astounding. No crying from a newborn? Eyes open and focused?

You were magnificent.

And I felt the room's energy shift. I felt the nurses watching feel a strangeness about you, a difference from the hundreds of other births that had taken place in that very room. I didn't understand it then, but looking back, I knew what I was feeling was unprepared. And unworthy.

They placed you on my belly, and here's my regret: I didn't hold you to me. Not because I didn't want to, though maybe I didn't. But because you were laying there, shivering, looking so intensely at me while I stroked your back and touched your cheek. But why didn't I pull you toward me? Why didn't I hold on to you and never let go?

The next morning in the hospital, you were brought to me--this, I hope, redeems me--and I held you so close and your father sat on the bed and for the first time we were alone together, as one family. And your father cried, and I cried and you looked at us. With intensity. And I felt it, momentarily, like a flash, that feeling everyone talked about. That love. Mother love.

But it was only a flash.

And what follows, you must understand, is all on me. You were everything you should have been. Perfect, healthy, beautiful. But in my quest to do all things as I had planned, in my quest for perfection, or at least being impressive, I pushed you to breastfeed when there was, apparently, no milk in me to drink. You struggled. And I pulled away from you. I didn't think about us as a unit, mother and daughter.

You were the enemy.

And down I sank, into the darkest period of my life. Tired, remorseful, angry and afraid. For months I struggled to understand how you fit into my life, how you fit into our marriage, how I saw myself, how I was to cope with the stress, how I was to love you just right. Mostly, I struggled to see you as anything but an obstacle to surmount.

For the past year, it seems as though my life has fallen apart and come back together a thousand times a minute. Swinging from emotions of true elation to overwhelming anxiety. And when asked by others--or when trying to explain to myself--what exactly has been so difficult about it all, it is like trying to explain a dream; so vivid in experience but crumbles in expression.

For the past year, I've been consumed with how I look--stretch marks, flab, under eye circles, blotchy skin. I've worried about the lack of time I have for things like reading, recycling, working, sleeping, gardening and exercise. I've mourned the loss of freedom and immaturity. I've cringed at the judgement of others. I've stressed about my career. I've moaned about my anxiety and cried about my fatigue. I've grieved the silence. I've longed for reprieve.

But I've embraced your innocence. I've laughed at your splendor. I've rearranged my priorities. I've accepted our new life. And I've loved more in this one year than in all previous years combined.

I see myself so clearly now that I'm a mother. Your mother. Because while I thought motherhood is all about being selfless, it's actually quite a lot about finding one's self. Before you, I was confident, assured, optimistic and unafraid. I was unscathed by a jaded world, unfettered by body image, unstoppable by any obstacle. But the first year of motherhood forced me to question everything about myself: my character, my body, my competence, my ambitions and my ability, sadly, to love. I fought back against my own self-doubt, my once fierce drive, the judgement of others and the judgement of myself.

I spent this first year so desperate to hang on to my old self, digging in my heels, fighting back the change that I failed to realize you weren't asking me to. You are so innocent, loving, silly and kind. You laugh when I laugh. You smile when I smile. And, sometimes, you cry when I cry. You weren't sent her to destroy me, change me, control me or own me. You were sent here to have me teach you, guide you, encourage you, and, above all, love you. How can I teach you, raise you and influence you if I am not grounded in a sense of my own beliefs, attributes, ambitions and flaws? You've waited patiently in your first year. You've emerged as a person like a time lapse video of a flower blooming. And I felt myself bloom at the same speed. Alongside you. We are growing up together. And now I know how to be honest with my emotions. To love without worry. To protect without thought. To find the joy in you allows me to see the joy in everything else.

How can I ever repay you?

My father wasn't wrong; mother love is the strongest urge in nature. My mother wasn't wrong; mother love makes you do crazy, irrational actions for the sake of your offspring. But they are misguided in thinking that mother love is just about the love a mother has for her children. If I'm truly able to love myself, love my life, love my husband and love you, then what, my dear child, am I incapable of?

And I no longer think Mother Love is just a natural urge. If it were, how could it be impressive? Breath. Heartbeats. Blinks. These are natural, uncontrollable and ordinary. But Mother Love, while forceful and all-consuming, is something your mother had to earn. Work at. Practice. And accept. And it is the biggest accomplishment of my life.

It's no longer a flash, my dear. It's an apocalyptic fire.



Happy birthday to us, sweet daughter.

Happy birthday.

Kids Eat Free

There's been an ongoing and quite heated debate recently about certain restaurants in the area banning children under the age of six. While this is a trend nation-wide, only when it started invading my own area did I finally start to care.

The summer before my junior year of college, I waitressed at a super hip restaurant on the lake. While I had never waitressed before, I'd been around water and drunk people, so I thought I'd do okay. The first half of the summer was a learning curve and the second half was bank rolling. I made an obscene amount of money waitressing. I don't say that in the way dipshit overpaid actors talk about how they put in 16-hour days and spent a week with a cancer-stricken homeless man to prepare for a role. Waitressing is actually the hardest job I've had to date. Emotionally draining and physically exhausting. Double shifts on your feet, dealing with inebriated and sunburned people, getting yelled at by men who are really picky about how their steaks are prepared.

What made that job great, despite the lasting bonds among the wait staff, was the amount of tips we received. What made the job shitty, was when people brought in their children. Their snotty, drooling, Cheerio-eating, sugar packet throwing nimrods. They ordered such little and cheap menu items and made a mess of my section.

So had I heard this debate about banning children in restaurants back then, I would have said, "Shit yeah!" Parents without their children are clean and drink a lot.

But now that I have a child, I can look back and see things a little differently. While I didn't like waiting on snot-nosed kids, the parents were usually so self-conscious bringing a child to a restaurant that they overcompensated in the tip. And I had a bus boy. So what was my deal?

This is no different of a revelation than when I finally moved into Jim's house. The house is on an extremely busy street that is four lanes and flows people to and from the mall and three major highways. While the speed limit says 35, not a soul abides. Including myself, who, before moving here, sped by constantly on my way to get a mani/pedi or jump on the highway to get out of town. How many times had I sped by Jim's house not even knowing he existed? And how many times had he seen me speed by and then ran out to wave his fists and yell profanities at me? It's truly a Gift of the Magi kind of love.

But now that I live here, I revel in people getting tickets. I wave graciously at the cop when he sits in our driveway to catch speeders. I giggle a little as I watch him pull someone over. I pump my brakes as I'm coming home. I honk at people driving too fast. And just last week, when a lady didn't see me as I was pulling into our driveway and ran into the back of my car going 40 miles an hour, I felt a little vindicated when she got a doozy of a ticket.

And the change of attitude is not just because I live here now. I mean, most epiphanies do happen with extreme convenience in timing. But it's also because I've realized that when I was driving by before I lived here, I was always going someplace else. But living here now, means I'm here. I'm the permanent one. Not those headed to the mall. Or the highway. Or to their own homes.

So I think the permanent should get precedence over the transient.

Home owners trump car drivers. Sure, you think you need to get somewhere quickly. But remember as you speed down a busy street with houses, that people are trying to live a life there. And yes, being a patron at a restaurant next to a crying baby is super frustrating and annoying, but remember that you don't have to take that baby home with you. Be patient with the new parents trying to enjoy their lives and when you're done eating you can drive slowly past other houses to get to your own quiet home.

The only constant losers in this plan are those who have children, and get a night out without them, and spend it next to a crying one over candlelight and wine.