I’ve had it with the current protein obsession. 

Eat half your weight in grams of protein a day. Eat protein every 90 minutes. Eat protein to lose weight. Eat protein to build muscle. Eat protein to stay full. Pack it in. Count grams.

Here, have a beef stick.
Here, eat some cottage cheese.
Here, HAVE A COW.

(Vegetarians, y’all are screwed.)

You can tell people have completely lost their everloving minds because protein is now showing up places it doesn’t belong: in brownies, poptarts, iced coffee, pretzels, water — WATER!

(So, vegetarians, maybe you aren’t screwed after all?)

Whatever happened to — I don’t know — just eating food? 

Meat is meat. 
An apple is an apple. 
Cake is cake. 
The end.

I’ve run the calculations, and even as a meat-eating human, most days I’m not even close to getting my current recommended amount of protein. To do so, I’d either have to overeat, or forgo other beloved staples like rice and bread, veggies, and ice cream — and y’all know I’m not about to give up my ice cream.

But weirder than putting protein where it doesn’t belong is the messaging. No matter the food fad — low-fat, atkins, keto, paleo, juice, 100-mile, etc — it’s always the same: “Food is salvation.” 

But we all know that’s not true, right? I mean, we all know that drinking an ice-cold Coke isn’t going to transform us into scantily-clad, sexy beach babes, and yet somehow protein in our coffee is going to turn us into the best version of ourselves?

Oh, come now.

And there’s another thing that bothers me: the idea that I must have — that I need — more. Millions of people live well with simple diets — beans and rice, ugali and greens, injera and lentils, dal and roti, hummus and pita. To say we need more protein strikes me as presumptuous or entitled. Maybe even elitist. 

If anything, what we probably need is less — less Doritos, with or without the extra protein. 

Sure, protein is important, and some people absolutely need protein-enhanced foods. Medically speaking, protein smoothies, granola bars and water can be lifesavers.

(Awhile back when I was fussing about yet another raging fad, my younger son pointed out that fads have benefits: a heightened focus on anything — be it a new diet or a social movement — allows for advancements. When the pendulum inevitably swings the other way, it leaves behind the benefits of deeper understanding and expanded world views.)

So once this current craze blows over, people who really do need protein-boosted foods are going to have so many great options.

But for the rest of us? Soon most people will (once again) be like, Yeah, protein is good — in moderation.

our traditional non-protein-enhanced Sunday supper

P.S. When I was almost done writing this post, I happened upon an excellent Fresh Air interview with Daniel Lieberman, author of Fed Up: What Evolution Reveals About Food, Diet, Health, and Eating Well. In the interview, he quoted a seventh century B.C. Greek poet: The fox knows many things, but the hedgehog knows one big thing.

When being chased, Lieberman explained, foxes try all sorts of things to escape, but the hedgehog just curls into a ball. Meaning: the fox sees complexity and the hedgehog fits everything into one big (often simple) idea. So when it comes to fad diets, hedgehogs are the ones with the one-plan-fixes-all mentality, while foxes seek the nuance and complexity.

Lieberman’s plea (as I heard it): be foxy.

P.P.S. I almost forgot! I have a great protein bar to recommend! (Because I am nothing if not riddled with inconsistencies.) It’s called The Perfect Bar. My daughter made me try one and they are sooooo good. Like a cross between homemade peanut butter honey balls and the inside of a Reeces cup, but way better than both. Super dense, no weird flavors or textures, with a satisfying chew. Sometimes, we like to cut a bar into tiny cubes to eat with our morning coffee; this way, a single bar lasts several days. They’re on sale at Costco now, I think. In the refrigerator section with all the cheeses. Cost is about a dollar a bar. (Similar on Amazon.)

This same time, years previous: the second first day, jammy oat bars, on eating meat, quark, walk the walk 2020, chocolate cake, full circle, fresh nectarine galette, family extended, on love and leftovers, the quotidian (8.25.14), he got me.

This week, my husband and I experienced a first: we moved a child into college. (Which is kinda funny, considering all our kids have had varying levels of higher education, and he’s our fourth.)

We did all the things: stopped at Walmart enroute to purchase last minute accouterments (fan, drying rack, flip-flops, trash can), stressed over directions, asked directions, got checked in, used one of the giant hampers on wheels to haul all his stuff in, and struck up random conversations with other parents. 

His room is on the first floor of one of the dozens of Hogwarty-type dorms. His dorm is co-ed, a blend of first-year students, transfer students, and a living learning community (that he’s part of).

When we got to his room, we discovered his roommate motionless on the top bunk. When my son greeted him, the guy just grunted. At first, I thought he was just rude, but then when he sat up, rumbled, disoriented, and vacant-eyed, I thought he might be sick. He assured me he wasn’t, but he still seemed confused. He left to shower then, and when he came back, he was a different person: super polite, cheerful, and helpful. And then I realized he’d just been sound asleep, poor kid!

While my husband moved the car to a new parking lot, I helped my son wash out his drawers and closet, advised him on how to arrange furniture, and watched him string twinkle lights. Then I sat on a chair in front of the window fans and tossed encouragements his way.

By the time we were done, the tiny room was actually kinda cute. (I’m pretty sure it looks the best it’s gonna look for the whole rest of the year.)

Famished, we hit up one of the dining halls.

It was $17/person for all-you-can-eat, so we hung out for a bit, people watching and encouraging our son to eat more, more, more. (His meal plan is limited, so he’s gonna have to learn to eat strategically and with gusto.)

Over the last couple days, we’ve been peppering him with last-minute wisdom nuggets:

• Keep your meds out of sight.
• Study in the library.
• Get a haircut.
• Figure out the bus system and transportation for getting home.
• Don’t get sucked into all-night video game marathons unless you’ve time budgeted for them.
• Regarding homework, front-load your semester.
• Research scholarships for next year.
• Socially speaking, capitalize on the first two weeks when everyone’s most open to meeting people. 
• Walk the campus to figure out where your classes are held.
• Work really, really hard.

We said our farewells, and then our son went one way, and my husband and I headed the other, back across the drill field where guns were being waved about and a marching band was tootling.

My husband needed a nap, so we sat down under a tree and that’s when I felt something on my ankle. When I looked down, I saw a giant caterpillar affixed to my shoe.

I have never kicked off a shoe so fast in my life, and I didn’t re-enter my body for a good five minutes.

P.S. No, I’m not sad that he’s off at school. (I went through that when he left for his summer internship.) Mostly, I’m just super excited about all the crazy wonderful opportunities he has at his fingertips. I’m pretty sure he’s gonna love it.

This same time, years previous: the meaning of life, answered, the quotidian (8.21.23), the dairy and cheese report, the coronavirus diaries: week 76, peach fruit leather, the quotidian (8.20.18), the quotidian (8.21.17), a new room, sundried tomato and basil pesto torte, on unschooling and parental comfort level, stewed greens with tomato and chili, photo shoot.

You guys, this baby. 

Names I call him:

Baby
Sugar
Sunshine
Honey Boy
Darlin’
Chunk
Beautiful
Handsome
Pumpkin
Gorgeous
Precious
Squidge
Sweetie Pie
Lovey
Angel Cakes
Shnookies
Bubs
Peaches
Sunny Boy
Bugga Boo
Mr. Hunka Munka

The last few weeks my son and daughter-in-law have been moving houses, so I’ve had Baby at least parts of four days this week (and I think I saw him on the days between, too). It’s been so much fun!

Monday, for example, I was only going to have him for several hours in the afternoon, but then I realized we were going to Foodie Group that night, so I offered to take him with us and then drop him off on our way home. My son was like, Well, sure!

And so I ended up having him for nine hours straight.

Days Baby comes, I often get up early to get work done beforehand. His arrival frees me from the tyranny of my to-do list, and then I slip into vacation mode. 

In the brief moments he’s self-occupied, I putts around the house, prepping our next meal or emptying the dish drainer. Sometimes, we run errands together, or go visit my mom, or I take him along on a walk with a friend. When he needs to pee, I dangle him over the deck railing (they’ve been potty training him since birth), and then kiss his toes and poke his tummy while snapping him into a fresh diaper. I talk to him constantly, asking questions, narrating my every move, and pointing out everything, like the cars driving by and the miracles of running water.

When he tires, I sing. Right now, Wheels on the Bus is top of the charts for his sleepy-sleepy song, but sometimes I switch it up with rumbly, made-up tunes hummed low and off-key, or hymns. 

While he sleeps (as he is now), I write. 

“My son has asked me to watch the baby three days in a row this week,” I told my friend, shaking my head. “What am I going to do about work?” 

She suggests I tell them I’m not available, but no, I don’t want to do that.

“Well, what do you want to do?” 

“Take care of the baby! FORGET CHEESE. All I want ever is be with the baby!” I was practically shouting.

“Then do that,” she said. “Say yes.” 

And so I do, over and over again, because he is the best thing ever. 

There were a few rough spells when we started watching him more regularly, so I asked them to send along a dirty shirt of my daughter-in-law’s.

They swap out shirts so he can always have a fresh dirty one, and Baby is a fan. He’ll grab the T-shirt of Love (my name for it) with both hands and then smash his head into it. The good smells soaked up, he’ll look up at me all smiles, and then a flash of confusion crosses his face.

Ha, he knows!

The Five Positions of Baby

First Position: Center
When I show up at his place, or he at mine, and I first pick him up, he often leans his temple against mine, his body slumps, and he stares ahead, vacant-eyed, like he’s docked into a charging zone. 

Second Position: Outward
He perches on my belly, or on my hip, and faces out, solemnly watches the goings-on: Danny Boy chasing after his ball. The tree branches shuddering in the breeze. The churning fan blades. The big people charging around the house. 

Third Position: Face-to-Face
He grips my fingers and rises to his feet, babbling with self-importance. I jiggle him in the air above my head and he cackles. I kiss him all over his neck and tummy, and he blinks, tense with anticipation. Sometimes his entire body grows still, except for his eyes, flickering as they rove over my face.

Fourth Position: Floor
Flat on his back, he kicks wildly, thrumming his feet on the ground, nostrils flared and mouth wide. I hang over him, talking and teasing, egging him on. I toss a cloth on his face and then yank it away, and he gasps and giggles. In the center of the rug, he’s a bottomless sinkhole into which I pour my attention. 

Fifth Position: Shoulder 
When he grows fussy, I hoist him into my arms and dangle the T-shirt of Love. He grabs it with both hands and rams his face into it, pressing against my collar bone. I sing, low and gravely, my words punctuated with steady butt-thwacks. Soon, I feel his little face stretch in a yawn, and then, slowly, his body grows heavy. As he drifts, he sometimes sings on the exhale — just once or twice — and then he’s out. 

My love for this baby is different than my love for my own children.

With them, my love was all-consuming and fierce, and burdened with responsibility. Everything about my children — their behavior, sleep patterns, diet — was mine to manage, and it all reflected back on me. 

This baby, I love without expectation, restraint, or judgment. Without fear of usurping the parents’ role. Without a need to fix anything, or control.

I don’t think I’ve ever loved anyone this freely before, which is a quite unsettling to discover, really. Fifty years and I didn’t even know love could feel like this? Where have I been!

This didn’t just happen, though. It’s not like I’ve fallen under a spell, or am victim to my emotions.

Rather, I chose it.

It’s like launching myself down a slide. Just so happens that the ride is more thrilling than I could ever have imagined, and it just keeps going and going and going. 

I could get off, I suppose, or I could dig my heels in and slow my descent — but no thanks.

Instead, I’m a-gonna throw my arms high and speed even faster, wheeee! 

This same time, years previous: midway, the quotidian (8.15.22), chocolate milk, almond apricot pound cake, breaking horses, the beginning of the end, bourbon and brown sugar peach pie, tomato bread pudding with caramelized onion and sausage, on getting lucky, knowing my questions, not your typical back-to-school post, a piece of heaven.