Eco-Journal – Musings of an Eco-Worrier

Ugly Undies - May 07

I think there are 2 things that will trigger non-greenies to make eco-friendly choices: money and style.

If we can show people how these things will save them money, they’ll do it. It might be harder to convince them when the savings are long-term, as with installing solar panels, but as long as the financial payoff is there, we’ve got a chance.

If money won’t do it, the only other option I can see is style. If something eco-friendly is more cool or funky than the original, it will sell, especially to young people (of which I perhaps over-generously consider myself one.) A good example of this is the clothes on www.gladragz.com.au, which sells really funky retro-style skirts made of reclaimed fabrics. A not-as-good example is www.slingfings.com.au, which has the most amazing funky clothes all produced by solar power, but with virtually nothing under $200, it may only be accessible fashion aficionados who spend that kind of money on their brand-label clothes*. And a complete non-example of this is the undies I bought at Target the other day. I was so excited to see organic cotton undies readily available, not having to be hunted down off obscure internet sites. So excited that I bought 2 pairs, despite them being slightly grandmotherly in style – not quite boy-leg and navel-high, but just not as cute and funky as some of the pesticide-ridden ones I half-guiltily bought at the same time. We need more creative small companies targeting eco-friendly stuff at the young and the vain.

(*This is actually an amazing site and their very cool bags are not so expensive.)

 

Okay, I need some positive reinforcement about the eco-friendly changes I’ve made since this site was started, so here goes:

 

 

Buses

 

It’s great to be living near a main road in a big city, and being so handy to the bus. One can’t put a price on convenience. Or so I imagine.

 

I resolved to take the kids to a play centre at Coopers Plains on the bus this morning. This should have been a simple task. After all, the bus stop is only 5 minutes walk from my gate, and the play centre is on the same road as the bus stop, only about 3 minutes drive away. How handy! So how is it that absolutely every step from leaving the house to arriving at my destination could go so wrong?

 

I thought I was so organized. I’d rung Transinfo and done all the calculations to get me to the bus stop in good time but without too much time to kill. Amusing a two-year-old at a bus stop on a main road with limited mobility due to a baby strapped to my chest is not my idea of fun. I had packed the bag with great care, even remembering a bib for the baby and a washcloth – just unheard of. I had money in my pocket, we had slip-slop-slappped, and I had the light and streamlined travel stroller in case of toddler fatigue. (Unfortunately, my toddler isn’t strong enough to push me in it, so I would have to settle for putting him in it.)

 

Well, as it turned out, the timing wasn’t that bad. After the always-harrowing dash across what my mum calls “the highway” I had just under ten minutes of bench-climbing and

-jumping games to supervise before the bus turned up. Of course, this is not as straightforward as it sounds. I still had to breastfeed the baby while staring at the horizon for the bus to allow me enough time to detach her and squeeze her through the complicated loops of the hug-a-bub sling as well as collapse the stroller while wildly waving one hand to the approaching bus driver.

 

I don’t know what got into the bus driver to make him do what he did next. Maybe he’d been up all night with a newborn and was just sick of the sight and sound of babies. Maybe he was about to finish his shift and didn’t want to miss the next innings of the cricket. Whatever it was – although I had everything perfectly under control – as he opened the doors, he called out something about another bus being “not far away” – one that had a sloping entrance rather than a big step. I guess he was trying to make it easier for me. But by the time I’d asked him to repeat himself twice because I didn’t understand his lingo, it would’ve been quicker just to come and get the stroller off me, if he really wanted to help.

 

Anyway, in times of stress, I suddenly turn into my mother, and I smiled cheerily and said something like “righty-o” as that seemed to be what he wanted me to do (i.e. not get on his bus, and get on the one that was supposedly just around the corner).

 

All I can assume is that between the second bus being right behind him and it showing up twenty minutes later is that it was hijacked by a knife-wielding lunatic, or maybe just someone who’d been kept waiting too long. The only bus I saw in that fifteen minutes was one triumphantly declaring “OUT OF SERVICE”. If twenty minutes is what the driver meant by “not far away”, he clearly has never been in charge of two children under three at an isolated bus stop on a busy road in the blazing sun with a backpack, frontpack and a stroller. Anyone with children can imagine how things went from just barely under control to completely wild in those fifteen minutes.

 

So in the nicest way possible, I gave the bus driver a serve, telling myself it was constructive feedback that would help improve the public transport service. He didn’t really say anything, and when I heard his thick accent, I realized he probably hadn’t understood a word the raving hysterical mother in front of him had been saying.

 

Luckily we weren’t hijacked, and I arrived at my destination four minutes later. Things improved slightly from there. The baby knocking over her food container, splattering banana everywhere, was really no big deal. The toddler doing a disappearing act in the climbing gym to do a poo, and not having suffocated under all the balls as I originally feared, was exposed by an older boy jumping down with a “Poo! He stinks!”, and this was only a minor embarrassment. Nothing compared to the mayhem that ensued as I tried to change an oversize toddler on an undersize change table, with the most noxious, messy poo ever created finding its way onto everything, and then discovering that despite my most meticulous efforts I had packed three of the baby’s nappies and none of the toddler’s. (To look on the bright side, I had had the foresight to remove the baby from the hug-a-bub before attempting this, which is probably the only thing that kept the poo within the confines of the change table.) Rather than risk it going nappy-free I chose to risk my toddler’s future reproductive capabilities by squeezing him into a nappy two sizes too small.

 

(Note, all of this was only made possible due to the promise of dates, which I was constantly reminded of throughout with “dates! Dates! Dates!” being constantly barked in my face. After the ordeal, my toddler was rewarded with several dates, despite this probably what produced the noxious problem in the first place.)

 

We managed to struggle out the door and down the road to the bus stop, which was inexplicably located ten minutes’ walk away, despite having gotten off virtually just outside the play centre. Neither the oppressive heat, magnified by wearing an 8-month-old in a heavy, hot sling against my chest, nor my rapidly declining blood sugar levels were a significant issue when I pictured being five minutes’ walk from home within four minutes.

 

To be fair, the bus wasn’t too late. It was more that I got on the wrong one, the one that stops fifteen minutes’ walk from my house, rather than five minutes. It was more that the wind kept blowing our hats off and the stroller flap back. It was more that the baby was thoroughly sick of it all by then, having stayed up twice her allocated time without complaint. Perfectly understandably, she cracked, as did I. By that stage, I was irrationally hissing “sssshhhhhh!” every few steps, and feeling very sorry for myself, and regretting the decision to help combat global warming by catching the bus.

 

Still, it didn’t take me long to get over it. I’m planning another outing for this afternoon.

 

Ironing - 22 November

I’ve just finished a month’s worth of housework.

At least, that’s what it feels like, as I haven’t had time to write my Eco-diary for a month, and housework is mainly what I’ve been doing. Looking at my two angels under three, you’d never suspect they could create so much housework…looking at their smiling faces as they drool, regurgitate food (mainly the baby), drop food, throw food and smear food (mainly the toddler) and systematically undo every housework task as you complete it.

Which brings me back to housework. You know, one task I really can’t reconcile myself with is ironing. Not because I hate it – on the contrary, there is something soothing about ironing as you watch TV, something rewarding about seeing the clothes look satisfyingly clean and crease-free. No, it’s more because of what a waste it all seems. A waste of time (despite what my mum chooses to believe, her perfectly ironed clothes are instantly blemished with creases for the day as soon as she has sat down to eat breakfast); a terrible waste of electricity (the iron is supposedly one of the worst household appliances for electricity usage).

And for what purpose? It’s not like the effort of ironing is required to stop our houses being overrun by vermin (like picking food up off the kitchen floor) or even to allow us to have the next meal (like cooking or washing up). No, the ironing is purely for vanity. We iron purely because we are worried we’ll be judged if we don’t.

Imagine dropping your child off at day care in rumpled clothes. We fear that people will think we’re not coping with being a parent. I already worry that people judge me for not ironing my two-year-old’s clothes (at what age does wearing ironed clothes become a social expectation?) – but not enough to do anything about it yet. Still, I can’t bring myself to completely shun the iron for the sake of the environment, especially as in my “other life” I’m required to “look professional”. And this is what goes through my head with every whoosh, hiss and bubble as I push that iron back and forth.

I wish some environmental group would organize a “Shun the Iron” day:  a day everyone could wear rumpled, unironed clothes to work to make a statement about the importance of our everyday actions, including housework, in the battle against global warming. But for now, I avoid society’s wrath by dutifully ironing my clothes.

I have tried multiple strategies to deal with my guilt.

I have at various times chosen to wear non-iron (mainly tie-dyed) clothing for most of the time. Unfortunately this has resulted in inadvertently dying my husband’s work socks a pinky-purple colour, and then I just got sick of hand-washing.

I have also secretly raided the ironing basket and hung up work clothes I deemed to not need ironing, until my husband got sick of pulling wrinkled work shirts out of the closet every morning (before you think he’s a chauvinist, take note that he performs almost all of the ironing in our household, possibly because it gives him a legitimate excuse to watch more sport on TV).

And finally, I have tried folding clothes as soon as I get them off the line, and then sitting on them. I am sitting on one such shirt as I write. I am convinced that the combination of body heat and bum-pressure does a moderate job of smoothing out wrinkles. You will have to let me know if you agree when you see me on the street wearing my Eco-mum shirt.

Bicycling - 23 October 2006

My attempts to save the environment today took quite a comical turn (though it took me a while to see this).

I have a history of unintentionally appearing awkward, foolish and even a bit repugnant due to my commitment to a cause. An example from today would be spurning the plastic bag and walking out of the supermarket with far too many items pinned to my chest with my jaw, necessitating that I kneel on the ground and put all my groceries down in the middle of the carpark to unlock my car door. Yes, I imagine I appeared a bit foolish at that time. An example of repugnant? Again, a scene from today at playgroup: as I couldn’t find a lid for my baby’s food container, and I couldn’t bring myself to use cling wrap over the top, I stuck my hand in my bag to retrieve a nappy and instead withdrew in shock my hand covered in orange mush. Not too sophisticated. (I’ve never been one of those mums who has everything arranged in their suitcase-sized baby bag, from individual tissue packs to nail scissors in case their baby’s nails demonstrate inordinate growth while they are out.)

But probably the most ridiculous of the day was when I joyously rode my bike to the corner store to save a car trip to get 6 tomatoes. This time I remembered to take my own bag. I am sure that any pedestrians watching me zip back along the bikeway, with tomatoes, unbeknownst to me, dropping out one by one through a hole in my too-recycled plastic bag, found it more amusing than I did once I got home and discovered what had happened.

So then I jumped back on the bike and retraced my “steps”. I recovered all but one and got twice the amount of exercise in the process. This eco-friendly stuff has a way of delivering multiple benefits.

Busing it - 21 October

Yesterday I made the eco-friendly decision to take the bus to Mothers’ Group. It was only up the road – a short walk to the bus stop, a two minute bus ride, then a medium walk. How complicated could it be? What could possibly go wrong? (Very, and everything, as I knew from previous experience: schlepping one child in a sling around my neck (the similarity of the image to a noose being entirely intentional) while trying to stop my independent two-year-old soul from dashing onto the road; rather stupidly I ended up at the bus stop on the wrong side of the road for buses going in the opposite direction to my desired destination…leaving the bus driver smothering a smile I dashed across the road only to twist my ankle in a ditch, dragging my two-year-old down with me and my unsuspecting wide-eyed baby too, safe but startled from her vantage point in the sling. How much simpler it would have been just to jump in the car!)

I ignored the gnawing, niggling concerns in my head. So what if I was so sweaty when I got there no one wanted to sit near me? So what if I wasn’t able to carry the usual load of (largely dispensable) bits and pieces we mothers lug around for our children, probably even forgetting some essential items like nappies in the process? So what if it costs (at face value) an exorbitant sum to travel less than a kilometer? I’d made up my mind. Taking public transport was one significant action I could take.

Hats donned, sun-screened up, hydrated and strapped in, we set out for the bus. Had I left enough time to allow for the inevitable dawdling? Had I left so much time I’d be stuck trying to keep a toddler amused for an indeterminate period at the bus stop? Was I going to have to turn around and go home again by the time I got there?   

I didn’t consider for a second that it might actually be fun. And it was. Singing at the tops of our voices all the way to the bus stop, seeing my two-year-old jump up and down and cheer when the bus approached, listening to his running commentary being met with smiles from strangers and experiencing more colour, pattern and texture in nature than any art class could provide him with, made me realize that life with kids is about enjoying the journey. (And maybe next time I can remember the nappies.)

Little by little - 19 October

Ever since I began to identify as an ecologically conscious person, I have struggled with the idea of being a balanced, well-rounded person. I have been convinced that to make a difference, you need to be an environmental “extremist”. The idea of “doing your bit for the environment” used to really get my goat. Surely doing your bit FOR the environment entails you are doing a lot AGAINST the environment? Since simply getting through the day in the modern-day industrialized world means producing waste, polluting the atmosphere and generally producing a super-size ecological footprint? I felt that this advice – to do “your bit” – encouraged us to feel somewhat self-satisfied with a mediocre amount of effort, ultimately justifying the remainder of our plundering, squandering and earth-dismembering.

Is it possible I was wrong?

After all, this belief I held, while generating an enormous amount of emotional turmoil, didn’t exactly translate into an impressive stream of self-sacrificing actions resulting in a tangible change to my ecological habitat. I have never been a wilderness volunteer. I have been to a community reforestation morning exactly once. I didn’t protest at Lucas Heights. Oh sure, I simmered and raged when I heard about it, and thought, dammit! I should be there! But I wasn’t. The handful of rallies  I have attended have been rather stressful and awkward as none of my friends at the time were keen to get involved in such “extremist” behaviour, and have largely been memorable for the efforts I made trying to pretend I wasn’t on my own. So in fact, the sum total of my environment-saving actions looks a lot like the “do your bit” advice that comes across to us in the media – just accompanied by a lot of angst about the fact I should be doing more.

Maybe, then, it’s better to direct all this self-punishing energy into simply doing the small things enthusiastically and encouraging others to start with the easy stuff too…and then seeing where it leads.

Consuming Passions - 18 October

Is it human nature to have just one major focus, ideal or passion in your life?

Is this a major obstacle to getting people to sit up, take notice and make ecologically conscious living a priority? I worry that it is. Everywhere you go, everyone you meet seems to have one major passion that they direct a lot of their leftover energy to (leftover after work, family and the day-to-day routine). I don’t just mean hobbies. I mean the stuff that people can talk all day about and that they feel defines them as a person, and that if you talk to them long enough about, they almost try to convert you. It might be the footy, it might be their motorbike, it might be yoga, it might be the Zone diet or the religion they’ve been reborn into. For a few people it’s saving the planet, in whatever shape or form that might take. I worry that it’s too few to make a difference. It seems that everyone is too busy with their major passion (which usually isn’t the environment). I worry that there’s only room for one major passion, that people can’t define themselves as “Greenie” because they’ve already got a clear picture of themselves as “House Renovator”, “Schoolteacher/Defender of Kids From Troubled Backgrounds” or “Book Collector” or whatever else it is they are passionate about. Is it possible to find room in people’s identities for a green streak, to help them take action without fearing they will suddenly sprout an unkempt beard and wear hand-wash only tie-dyed garments?