In which a Country Mama moves to the big city with her new baby, freaks out, and figures out how to deal, moving past the freak-out and into the inspired creation of a future that works.

I try not to be one of those totally freaked out over-reactive moms that everyone is worried I’ll be. At the same time, I’m 38 years old, which means I’ve had plenty of time to cultivate my intelligence about the world and where I stand on the many issues facing humans at this juncture.

Maybe my world-sense age has less to do with age (I’ve met tons of young moms who are pushing the edge with cloth diapering, elimination communication, co-sleeping, nursing, vaccinations, etc.) and more to do with attitude—namely a freely-expressed difference of opinions and impatience with grandparents and their two cents. Nonetheless, I try not be too controlling and reactive with my crunchy green dispositions.

Late last summer, when the Munchkini was about 8 months old, I heard about the fiasco with the recall of those collectible train-sets for toddlers. Lead in the paint, made in China. I guess those Chinese manufacturers didn’t get the memo about the lead-thing and babies. Oh, the irony, I say to myself. But I didn’t have those trains, and although the Munchkini puts everything in her mouth, I let it go.

Then I heard about off-gassing plastic baby bottles and the little rubber bath duckies made out of vinyl, a serious neuro-toxin, which the Munchkini has been fond of gumming. Holy Crap! I say. Enough is Enough. Time to stop worrying about being uptight and to get rigorously compulsive!!!

First step: get rid of all the crap. All that plastic junk that people have gifted from Target, Babies ‘R Us, the Dollar Store? The neon psychedelic bunny, all the plastic, anything from China with paint? Into the garbage. What remained were the lovely natural items that I’d been collecting here and there. The whole playroom suddenly shifted in appearance. With all the glaring colors and weird stuff gone, the room came together in a simple natural vibe.

Next: Her First Birthday. This scrumptious baby was born a week before Christmas—yep, she’s a Christmas Elf. Her dad’s family is urban to the core—born and raised in Brooklyn, NY. Being Italian, they are big on gifts.

Scenario #1: I don’t say anything and they all bring lots of plastic, bleepy, battery-operated toys that have limited functions that the girl will play with for a week before moving on and that I will gnash my teeth over, wondering what’s in them and what it could be doing to my girl.

Scenario #2: I research the Internet using Mothering Magazine as a resource and find several wonderful imagination-play Waldorf-inspired all-natural, small family American-made toy sites.

I decided that the Munchkin’s health was more important than ruffling a few family feathers, chose my favorite—A Toy Garden—and created a gift registry under the girl’s name. I emailed the invitation to the girl’s party with the registry information and waited for the response, namely from Grandma, who was very upset because she didn’t understand it. “It’s just pieces of wood, what will people think, they won’t know what to get!” She subtly refused to use the registry, and so I gave her a couple other options (she opted for a trike).

The party itself proved educational for all of us. Not only was the Munchkini delighted with her toys—Grandma and the rest of the skeptical family were delighted watching her delight! So, for the price of weathering a couple of hippie jokes, we got wonderful gorgeous safe toys for the little one, no returning-stuff hassle, and slightly more open minds in the extended family. No one wasted their money on stuff that I would donate or return, and our little play area is now glowing with special items that are open-ended (imagination-based), so they will grow with our play for years to come. And she can chew chew chew to her hearts content without me having constant maternal nightmares. Not a bad tradeoff in my opinion.

There is enough toxicity all around us, especially here in the density of our current urban living situation. The more vigilant I can be about cutting out and managing the toxicity levels in our home, the more I believe I support her little body in handling the stuff I can’t do anything about (like jet-fuel soot).

And, in my opinion, when addressing toxicity on a physical level in the mini-world of my home, there is a holistic macrocosm of many dimensions at work. Something that is toxic for the girl’s body is often made in a way that is toxic for the planet—both in materials used and in the human and commercial systems that create the item. So when I step away from participating in that level of commercialism I end up bringing my family into an emerging world of local, low-impact, small family businesses, organic, sustainable, and nurturing for body and spirit. What could be a better model for my daughter and all our children, who are growing up in the new world we create for them?

Next time: The Clothes

(image by Seth W. via flickr)