Chalk and Cheese Chronicles

Getting Kid Friendly at Whole Foods Blossom Hill (San Jose)

The long awaited grand opening of the new Whole Foods Market Blossom Hill is today!

I got to tour the store a day in advance of its opening and let me tell you, this is a store that was thoughtfullly built, with emphasis on eco-friendly and energy efficient development and design. That said, I toured the store from the perspective of a parent shopping with young kids. The sheer size of all these massive new Whole Foods Markets makes it not kid friendly in my book. When I'm pressed for time or have kids in tow, I need to be in and out of a grocery store fast.

So let's have a look...

Coffee Bar

The first thing that caught my eye was the location of the coffee bar. It was right there at the entrance where I could hit it on the way in or on the way out. The coffee bar serves Allegro coffee and organic, soft-serve Straus frozen yogurt which I know my children will love. For Kombucha fans, the elixir will be available on tap.

 

 

Restrooms

Restrooms are on the front right side of the store, not far from the in-store dining area. Each restroom is equipped with a swoon worthy Dyson Airblade hand dryer which is always fun for kids to use.

Grind-Your-Own Nut Butters

One of the places in Whole Foods where I always stop with my kids is the grind-your-own nut butter section. It's a fun way to show kids how peanut butter and almond butter are made. Of course, once my kids spot the chocolate chip blend, they aren't content with grinding up plain old peanuts.

Healthy Eating Specialist

There are store tours just for moms as well as classes and free consultations with the store's in-house, full time Healthy Eating specialist, Georgia Brown. Georgia caught my attention when she re-quoted the warnng that "this might be the first generation of children who might not outlive their parents" due to unhealthy lifestyle choices. You can bet I'll be seeking out Georgia's advice whenever I'm in the store.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sticker shock over the pediatric dental bill!

When I was a kid, I had three cavities total. My brother had 12? 13? I don't know - a lot! But while my mother probably fretted over the oral hygiene habits of her children, she didn't fret about breaking the bank to fund our dental care.

When my twin boys and I stepped into our pediatric dentist's office a few years back, it was love at first sight. The office was bright, beautiful and inviting. The office staff was warm and friendly. The wooden toys were clean (unlike the plastic toys at our pediatrician's office - yuck!). Cartoons played on a flat screen TV and a sparkling clean train table entertained young patients in the waiting room. A subtle aquatic theme decorated the office, the work of an interior designer. The pediatric dentist was engaging and good with the kids.

There were Method products and Geberit wall mounted flush plates in the restrooms!

A Dazed Mind and Happy Feet

We're at Saravana Bhavan, nourishing a friendship back to health over a dinner of dosas and steamy cups of Indian chai. But our words fall flat, unable to remain aloft. To our left, the kitchen sizzles with the sounds of frying; to our right, a flat screen television blasts a Bollywood beat and above us, the piped in sounds of traditional Indian music together compete quite effectively, drowning out our conversation. We give up, our voices strained.

My friend suggests we do something relaxing and borrows my phone. She calls ahead. They are open late, she is sure. "Ok, ok, " I hear her say, "we'll be there at 10."

"What time do they close?" I ask. "Eleven p.m., " she says. "Let's give it a try," I reply.

We jump in the car and drive, passing by older style motels with neon signs. This is the seedier stretch of El Camino in Palo Alto. Then we see it - we think. There are two signs for very different businesses, but with similar names. It's confusing. Shadows move from behind the curtains - it's that one. We are not alone at this late hour. We duck into the non-descript, darkened building, chased by the night air.

Three people greet us. "We were at the apartment, " they say, "but we came back."

Sorry, says my friend, but I'm cringing of embarrassment. I'm not keen on being the last ones in. We're inconveniencing them. What time did they really close?

The dimly lit room seems enormous, with spaces for 15 people. We lie down on side by side oversized loungers. I feel nervous. Nobody talks. (Clothes are on, only my head band was removed.)

Slosh, slosh.

Water, hotter than I'm used to arrives in a plastic tub. I slip my feet into it, trying to relax but my mind is at odds with my feet. My mind says relax, stay. My feet say run away quickly. Too hot!

I bristle but my germ free feet stay put.

A Mammogram and a Red Carnation

All the women exiting the door were carrying long-stem red or pink carnations. When the red carnation was pressed into my hand, I'd dismissed it as a cheesy representation of cheap champagne and rented limos. Puh-lease, I thought, exiting the room empty handed.

A few days later, a thin letter arrived in the mail. I knew the drill. A thin letter almost always delivers the very good news that test results were normal. I tore open the letter and had already mentally filed it away when I did a double take. What's this? I held the letter up closer, it said:

Your recent mammogram showed a finding that requires additional imaging studies for a complete evaluation. Most such findings are benign (not cancer). Please call us to schedule an appointment for these tests if you have not already done so. A report of your results was sent to your doctor.

Oh.

Immediately, my hand went to my breasts and then to the keyboard. Google, be my friend, I prayed.

Can I be sick today?

Cheese Boy has the sniffles.

"Maybe I'll keep you home tomorrow, if your cold worsens, " I tell him as I tuck him in at bedtime. Don't want to pass germs on to the entire preschool.

His sleepy eyes twinkle with hope, "Really?"

Then he drifts off to sleep, dreaming of a nose full of snot.

In the morning, I find crumpled pieces of used tissue stuffed into the space between Cheese Boy's mattress and his bed frame. "Rough night, " I surmise.  But Cheese Boy's nose is only a little bit leaky.

"Do I have to go to preschool?" he asks me.

"Let's see how it goes, " I say. "But it does not mean you get to do anything fun. It means that you'll have to stay home. Perhaps even in your bed."

We do our usual morning scramble of begging and pleading with my boys to brush teeth, put on shoes and leave that toy at home! Finally, we're in the car, on our way to preschool on the tardy side of course.

Once out of the car, my boys race each other to their classroom. They're happy, mingling with their friends and checking out the morning's projects.

"OK, Mom, let's go, " Cheese Boy announces, pulling my hand.

"So you're not feeling well. Really?" I ask.

Cheese Boy forces out a cough.

"Alright, you can stay home with me. Let's tell your teacher."

We inform his teacher, bid a temporary adieu to our Chalk Boy brother and saunter out the door. And I do mean saunter. Sick people do not saunter.

Once out in the fresh air, Cheese Boy looks up at me with a big, satisfied grin. It's the grin that says, "We really pulled one over on everyone, didn't we?"

He skips off toward the gate, filled with glee. He is not so sick that he can't go to school, but I feel like following his lead. "Let's go out for breakfast!" I'm about to say. As twins, my boys so rarely get alone time with either parent, so I relish the days when I get to be 1:1 with one of them, even if that child is under the weather.

As we get to the parking lot, we run into a girl from his class and her mother who are just arriving at school. They look surprised to see us leaving. "He's, um, sick, " I explain, my fingers signaling quotation marks. "Sick."

"Oh, come on Cheese Boy, come with us, let's go to school, " they say, cheerfully.

"OK, " he replies and turns back around, following them to class.

"We're back, " I explain to the teacher and to his brother.

Cheese Boy scoots off in search of his friends.

I head home, missing my little "sick" boy. He'd have made terrific company at breakfast. I drive home, replace Cheese Boy's box of tissue with a fresh one and plunge into a morning of housework.

Maybe Cheese Boy will be sick again tomorrow.

Original Chalk and Cheese Chronicles blog post.

Hey New Nurse: Get Some Life Experience!

I miss my nurse practitioner! She was warm and earthy and had such wisdom. I trusted her completely. She was a part of an amazing team of staff at private practice of one amazing and much loved Silicon Valley OB/Gyn. I was there for my annual exam, expecting to see her. I heard the "Helloooo!" and the sprightly steps but when she pulled back the curtain, it was a new nurse and she was...young.

"How are things going?" asks the new nurse, smiling. We go through the usual litany of questions, finally arriving at the question of sex.

"Well," I say, "it's funny how life with kids can kind of zap away a lot of your energy. I'm always tired! Hey, can you test my iron levels"

She stops, leans in closer and tells me that it's very, VERY important to nurture a marriage. "People get busy, but we musn't neglect our marriage," she urges, her voice full of sympathy.

Um, my marriage is fine, thank you very much. But I'll step things up, if that's what you think I should do.

All You Need is a Lollipop...or Sometimes Not!

The wee driver of the shiny teal convertible turns to me and smiles as if to say, "This is the life, isn't it?" With one hand casually gripping the wheel and the other hand tasked with holding a grape lollipop at the ready, my three-year-old J is the picture of a carefree existence. I smile back, but he has already shifted his attention elsewhere. On a TV just in front of him, a friendly blue dog and his friendly pal Joe have just encountered a moon fairy. "It's Blue's Clue's, Mom! " chirps J, through sticky lips stained purple, making him look as if he really could be one of Blue's friends. Somewhere just outside his consciousness, a stranger is circling his head like a gnat, snipping away at his hair with scissors, but J hardly notices. J is having a blast.

Accursed

“Go,” she hisses, her eyes like tunnels of darkness. “You are bad luck. Leave! LEAVE!” Her words lash out like tentacles, following me as I flee down the stairs to the safety of the busy street, adrenaline racing.

I’d been trying to get pregnant, trying and trying. I’d charted, taken clomid, even prayed, but still, no baby. Then I’d heard about a renowned local mind-body fertility specialist who had worked baby magic on all sorts of women, even women who had been turned down by fertility clinics. So I thought, why not try? With my still healthy FSH levels and no diagnosed issues, I might be an ideal candidate for this clinic. Plus, I’d always been curious about Chinese medicine.

So I booked an appointment.

The inconspicuous location, with its flight of rickety stairs and painted blue door, made the setting seem mysterious, even romantic, like a set in a movie. Inside the snug reception area, posters blanketed the walls, all triumphantly announcing the clinic’s success rates over the years. Sixty-something babies in year 200X! Candid shots of babies were taped to the walls, along with newspaper articles and thank you letters. It was all very impressive. Tendrils of incense swirled about the room, and I inhaled deeply, breathing in the dream.

Soon, I am led into a corner room. I change into the hospital-like gown and await my session. When the masseuse enters the room, she catches me reading my book (a page turner!) and quickly reprimands me. Put that down, she orders, it is bad energy to read! I’m startled but my nerves quickly settle down and I begin to enjoy the deep tissue massage. It’s really nothing more than a gentle massage around my abdomen but it settles me. Heat lamps warm my body.

On some days, I’m just not that into swimming

I’m prone to misplacing things. Some objects land in predictable places and are easy to find. My lipstick, for example, often manages to roll out of my bag and get wedged in the floor space next to the driver’s seat of my car. My keys, like all keys, magically disappear and reappear from my purse to the kitchen counter to the pocket of my sweatshirt. I can’t find my medical insurance card anywhere. If a quick search around the house fails to turn up the missing item, I then turn my suspicions to my sticky fingered twin toddler boys who like to hoard items in secret places. I once suspected that maybe, just maybe, they’d managed to steal a paring knife from my kitchen counter, but then later I realized I’d probably left it in the container of the rotisserie chicken I’d been carving and then had tossed the whole thing into the trash.

My latest missing item fiasco concerned a certain feminine hygiene product. I usually don’t misplace things like that, I don’t! But it’s just that, well, I’m a pad person (explain in a moment). Call me old-fashioned, but I just prefer pads. The only time being a pad person presents a problem is when there’s water, i.e., swimming pools. When I was an adolescent, I once feigned sickness to avoid having to go swimming with a bunch of friends. I just couldn’t own up to the embarrassing truth (shudder, shudder). You just can’t go swimming when you’re a pad person. You just can’t. But fast forward to the present and it’s the morning of my kids’ much loved (parent-and-me) swim lesson. I get my period. Of course, it’s the worst possible timing for me, being a pad person, but this time, I am undeterred. My kids want to go swimming, and mommy is going to take them!

Grandma's Pantry

BabyStyle has a t-shirt that says, “What happen's at grandma's, stay’s at grandma’s.” I know my mom would agree. My twins, however, are still at that age of innocence – they just don’t lie and they love to offer up tidbits of everything they’ve done, including what they’ve eaten at grandma’s. The other day, within earshot of grandma, they shared with me the exciting news that they’d been eating ice cream. Grandma, sensing that I might disapprove, quickly clarified that it was “not the sugar-filled kind.” That can only mean one thing: Splenda! Grandma buys it in bulk at Costco.

Open my parents’ pantry and you’ll see a world of highly processed, fully artificial foods. I know, I’ve checked. At grandma’s house, it’s a mix of wonderfully prepared fresh foods and some very bad-for-you foods, all served up with a mound of good intentions. At grandma’s house, my kids have dipped their pancakes in fully artificial maple syrup. My kids have washed down a meal with cranberry juice made from high-fructose corn syrup. They’ve snacked on Pocky stick cookies!

My parents are frugal, pragmatic and fuss aversive; very old-school. It would be odd to see my dad at Whole Foods. My parents aren’t label readers. They’ve not bought into the idea of organic anything, mostly because they think it’s too expensive (I agree). MSG? Great! My Chinese dad says a million Chinese have eaten it with no ill effects. I won’t dare suggest that my parents replace those Goldfish snack crackers with Annie’s Organic Whole Wheat Bunnies because they’ll say it’s the same thing and perhaps it almost is. I can’t even secretly stock my preferred foods into my parents’ pantry; they just won’t use it.