contamination of a childhood

I grew up eating fruits and veggies that were grown outside my bedroom window. I ate meat from animals I had probably seen alive at some point, and probably on our own property. I now drive my SUV dutifully to the supermarket to pick out glossed over, processed, chemical and hormone contaminated foods to cook for my family.

I would love to know that what I feed my family was grown and tended with the same care as the food I was privileged with as a child. I would love to worry about worm-holes in apples or a daddy-longlegs in with my strawberries, or caterpillars in my broccoli. Instead I have to worry about the treatments given my produce to prevent that. I have to worry that the chicken I'm baking never once saw sunlight, or even ate a real worm yet somehow managed to grow to have a 1 lb. breast cutlett.

I grew up in a house lit by a rural electric company and could go up to two weeks without electricity or tap water (we had an electric well). I managed to read (we couldn't get TV reception anyway), draw, bathe and cook without incandescent lighting and how to make water from a nearby creek safe to drink and cook with by boiling it atop our wood burning stove. Now I come home to a front porch light that is glowing bright, walk into my living room and am greeted by the artificial faces smiling from a large TV, cook dinner on an electric glass top stove, and nag my husband about leaving lights on.

I would love for my family to be forced to slow down and give attention to the activities that we take for granted in our daily lives; to have nothing better to do than light candles and play cards or tell stories and sing. Now I have to worry about what habits my two year old might pick up from watching cartoons or my husband's video games.

I grew up climbing small mountains, skinny dipping, fishing, building fires, catching frogs, and being outside. I am still bothered by noise from loud cars and discovered my allergies didn't exist until I moved to a more urban area and had to adjust to smog and "red air quality alerts." I still prefer the gentle swoosh of cross-country skis to the metallic buzz of an ATV. Outdoor exploration for our family now is limited to a fenced back yard with neighbors frowning from their back balcony, or requires driving at least an hour fighting the traffic of trucks towing boats or campers.

I would love for my son to know fish outside of a tank, to know that slime really exists beyond Nickelodeon and that birds chirping, bugs clicking and water rushing are the sounds that make up "quiet." I would love to have to bathe my son every night because he was playing in dirt and mud and pond water all day. Hell, I'd love to get to play in mud and pond water every day. Now I have to worry about what chemicals have seeped into my dandilion-strewn yard from my neighbor's perfectly manicured kentucky blue-grass. I have to look out for cigarette butts and broken beer bottles in the dirt where we dig and play. I have to explain to my son the dangers of an unfamiliar face, even if they are just offering a "Hello" as we pass.

But now, more than anything, I wonder how polluted and contaminated the magic of childhood has become.