Homemade shampoo. Way better than garbage.

You know what's weird? I'm nervous about writing a blog post about waste-reduction and homemade shampoo. I'm nervous because writing about the habits that I've made for myself (or that were reared into me) are personal, I do them for personal reasons which are in-line with the personal way in which I choose to live. And writing about those habits feels so arrogant. Which, as I type that, seems downright really silly.  Arrogant for living with a lighter footprint? Arrogant for weeding my garden by hand instead of by Monsanto? Arrogant for washing out my garbage can instead of using plastic garbage bags? But being green is often seen as synonymous with a holier-than-thou, choke on my electrical exhaust, my compost doesn't stink but my armpits might mentality. Which! is why I'm nervous about writing about homemade shampoo. 

Except for the other day I posted the following question on the gDiapers facebook page, and shared it on my own page with the accompanying statement. Following that I was pinged with requests (more than 1! More than 2 even!) to talk about it (my habits I suppose?) in more detail. 

We have to stop making garbage. So let's start here:

If some of the above items seem daunting, skip them for now. And let's just start with one. Shampoo! Because it's the very most fun on the list to say AND it smells delicious. I have been on a mission to create for myself a packaging-free shower. I've never been one to buy into a different body wash for each day of the week, and my shower has been pretty simplistic for a long long time, but I knew it could be even more blissfully without labels and added chemicals. So I've been weaning myself off of store-bought shampoos and conditioners, and using soap and water (gasp!) for the rest of my body-scrubbing. My soap comes without packaging (soap is already pretty dang hygienic, it doesn't need a plastic layer), so I've just been winding down what was left in the 'poo bottle over the last few months. Conditioner ran out some time ago. I only wash my hair about twice a week, sometimes less. And so far not one person has run away from me screaming "The stench! The stench!"

So homemade 'poo. Easy for me. Easy for you.

Let's lay out some expectations:

1. Your homemade shampoo will not froth under your fingertips. You don't need it. You are, however, very used to it.

2. Your hair may not feel "clean" in the stripped down, lighter than air way that 10,000 parabens and sulfates can provide. Mmmm, sulfates. Your hair will, however, be actually clean. Think of it like this. You have painted walls in your home. You can wash them down when they're dirty with soap and water. Or you can rent a pressure washer and blast every last speck of dust off of them (including chunks of paint and plaster). Clean? Yes. But probably more than you were looking for. You have been unnecessarily power washing your hair. Stop it. Give your hair some time to adjust to its new state. Un-pressure washed. It will right itself. It will find its balance. Please don't give in to the knee-jerk reflex of "but my hair just gets so greeeeeasy". You were not born with a brand requirement. Your maker (god, the universe, your mom, frito-lay) did not custom-design your genetics to only work with Paul Mitchell or Aveda products. Packaged products do not make you a better person, NOR do they even make you a cleaner person. But! They do take your money, your time, a fleck or two of your soul, and a whole lotta earth-space:

thank you to the film Trashed for this incredibly telling (and totally real) photo. 

Now go find yourself a reusable bottle, I mean several.

There is no shortage of homemade shampoo recipes on the interwebs. Pinterest was custom made for DIY shampoo. And cat beards. But I did find one pin that took me to this blog post. And that was the winner. She had already done all the research for me! AND she did the trials and experiments. Way to go, Ashley. Way. To. Go. So here's Ashley's research and hard work swiftly re-created by me in my boyfriend's kitchen. And I'm not kidding. Make sure you have a few reusable bottles ready to go. I found an old glass milk bottle with cap at Goodwill. But then I also had to use another empty corked bottle, and an empty dish detergent bottle. Cause one batch of homemade 'poo equals a whole lotta homemade 'poo. 

Ingredients:

• water, about a gallon - $ free-ish
• 6 or so tea bags (I used chamomile cause I'm "blonde") - $3 for a box of tea
• 1/4 cup castille soap (I used lavender) - $10 for the big bottle
• 1/2 cup baking soda - $ dirt cheap
• 3 tsp Xanthan gum - $13 for the whole bag
• essential oils - $ whatever you have or want to spend

Fill up a soup pot with your gallon (give or take) of cold water. Put your tea bags in and raise the temp. When the water starts to bubble a bit, turn off the water and let it steep. While it's steeping, go ahead and fill up your 1/2 cup of baking soda, which, will look like the largest amount of baking soda you've ever used at one time.

bananas and chocolate chips not required, unless you are hosting an Arrested Development party and have to make frozen chocolate bananas to go with your cornballs and vodka drinks.

Pour your enormous half cup of baking soda into the tea water. If you don't stop to take a million photos, it will fizz in a pretty gratifying way.

fizz

Whisk in your Xanthan Gum and get rid of all the little clumpies. Xanthan Gum, by the way, is a REAL thing that you can buy in the grocery store. It's with the baking stuff. If it's not, order it online. That $13 bag of mystery powder will last you a lonnnnnng time. Also, it's not so much a mystery as just not talked about enough. Poor Xanthan Gum. In short, it's a thickening agent.

Then whisk in your 1/4 cup of Castille soap. Whisk whisk whisk. If your children are nearby they'll pretty much love what the soap does to the whisk.

So. Now it's whisked. And you're practically done. In fact, you are probably quite alarmed at 1) how few ingredients this took, 2) how very little time it took, 3) how very little mess you made (compared to the frozen chocolate banana/deep fried cornball mess you'll be making soon enough), and 4) how this project could so very easily turn into a party in which everyone brings a couple bucks, their own reusable container, some wine and cheesecake, and then fills up their own shampoo bottle!

Let it all cool down a bit. Add some essential oils (if you want). I added some tangerine essential oils, maybe 20 drops or so, which, though I thought the chamomile/lavender/tangerine combo a bit odd at first, I ended up being really pleased with it. Annnnnd then whisk whisk whisk recruit your boyfriend/girlfriend/husband/wife/partner/tall child grab your reusable bottles and a ladle and then SCOOP WOMAN SCOOP! SCOOP YOUR 'POO!

I filled this entire milk bottle (rubber bands added for grip), a reusable dish detergent container, and a tall corked bottle that I think once contained homemade kahlua. 

I really honest to god don't want to do any math right now, but. Fine. So let's say I made a gallon of shampoo. Cause I did. With all the ingredients that I actually spent money on at a grocery store (not counting essential oils cause I didn't buy them for this specifically), I spent about $26. With the amount of ingredients that I actually used, I could replicate this recipe another 15 times EASILY without going to the store for anything more than baking soda. So that would be, oh, 16 gallons (give or take) of lovely good smelly homemade shampoo that I spent about $30 on, also give or take. And how much garbage will I have left beyond after 16 gallons which also equals a lifetime supply of shampoo? About this much. 

And guess what I could re-use that big fun bottle for?

Thank you to Ashley of Ashley's Homemade Adventures for the original recipe and post!

I broke ma' pony!

You know how you have this big, hairy asshole? And it smells and is sometimes grumpy, and it's a little bit dopey and eats you out of house and home? And so you sadly decide to NEVER leave the house with it, which can be inconvenient at times. But you have to, cause that asshole is out of control.

And then you finally take the advice of absolutely millions and you reign it in. You head to Amazon to find that cure for the household asshole. And then you let the package sit on your kitchen table for a few days. And then finally FINALLY you open it and welcome in a new adventure. And ohmyword. I am trying so hard to not sound like a commercial right now, but tonight I finally bought (I mean opened the package that arrived days ago that contained) a Gentle Leader. It's not a muzzle it's a head collar! is what it pleads on the front of the package. Which is a bit comforting. Cause the thing looks like something straight out of a Pulp Fiction basement scene. It came with a training DVD, which I admit, was a bit intimidating. If something requires an explanation so long that I have to take a thing, put it in another thing, find the clicky thing that turns it on some magical way, and then sit down and pay attention to what it's telling me, it does not bode well for whatever the thing is supposed to be or do. The great news was that it also came with a poster! Sigh of relief, I tell you. I called Dexter over (my bit, hairy asshole - which I hope you figured out long, long ago) and he stood in front of me, perfectly in front of me, like he was mimicking the irish setter in the poster. Or whatever breed it was. Probably irish setter. More likely a lab. Everyone has a lab. A LAB FOR EVERYONE!


I read the easy-on-the-eyes 96pt font. Followed the pictures, carefully. Adjusted, re-adjusted. Hugged Dexter's big ol' floppy neck. *SNAP!* and *CLIP* just like the poster said. Then I stood back and gave it a go. Let Dex lumber about the kitchen for a step or two, then watched him paw at his face like a bear that ate a beehive, shook my head and said "ohhhh you hate this". And with the wise guidance of my Cransky, I re-adjusted, re-adjusted some more, then stepped back, and gave Dex clearance to wiggle out into the backyard. I did a test kick of his tattered and popped pink soccer ball and Dex lunged after it, un-inhibited by his head collar (which is totally not a muzzle). This was a go.

It was raining. An incredible once-a-year-if-that type of rain. Muggy, deliciously warm, coming down hard enough to soak you but soft enough that you could look up into it, that kinda rain. I threw on my raincoat, shot a glance back at Cransky, snapped open my palm and said "Leash. Stat." Clipped it onto the "o" ring and Dex and headed out the front door into the magical dusk, Cransky flapping his apron in the doorway behind us, wishing us well.

Dexter tottered down the front steps. He swayed his head like Ludo. And then he righted himself, like a canoe that's found its current. He pulled a little to the right, and then eased back to my side. He tried to trip me up on the left, but then glanced back to center and maintained a straight (or straight enough) path. I stooped to pick some fragrant white flowers. They're a ground cover and they come up for only 2-3 weeks a year. Their stems are silver and lovely and I have no idea what they are. I grabbed a little bouquet and my big, hairy asshole and I set off around the block. My elbow never strained, my stride hardly changed. And Dexter had his head up for once, looking around him with very bright and happy eyes. Finally getting his nose out of the death and dog poop smells of the sidewalk periphery and into the air!

My sandals were soggy, his coat was splotched with rain, and we walked back through the front door and declared "Victory!" And we high fived. His paw was very dirty. And I said to Cransky "Quick! To the iPhone! This moment must be commemorated! Cause woo hoo! I broke ma' pony!" And Cransky's eyes got wide, and he knowingly flew to the iPhone charger and quickly swiped to the camera app and snapped up this beauty:

I know the look says less "I'm loving this face prison" and more "I'd rather be a squirrel" but trust me, this dog is STOKED.

River's words.

There is no shortage of hilarity and wonder from the brain and mouth of River.  I thank my lucky stars that I get to be his mom. Here are some of his words from the last 8 years (in no particular order).

When everyone's up in heaven we'll all get our balloons back. - River to a sad Maggie

"glad I'm not that fish. or really, any fish at all."

Riv: You know what's great about nuts for boys? They're another word for our balls. (and he points down so I know what he's talking about) 

Me: Do you know what the real word is for them? 

Riv: Yes. My junk.

Putting Maggie to bed and someone knocks on the front door. I tell River not to answer it. After I put Maggie to bed Riv says "Mom, you should have answered it. She looked important. She was holding a pen."

Riv: School wasn't as good today. Skylar broke up. 

Me: She broke up? 

Riv: Yeah. She broke up on me. I don't even know what that means.

I just asked Riv if there was anything he wanted me to say on his behalf on FB about his first day of kindergarten. He turned to me and said "This is all I have to say" and then gave me a big hug. 

Attempting to explain addiction to a 5 year old: "It's like a bad habit, like when you bite your nails." 

Him "or when I pick my nose and eat it!" 

Me "So we just don't pretend to smoke cigarettes. Let's pretend to be an astronaut instead." Him "or a mailman on a unicycle!"

Me: Man, you sure are blonde right now. 

Riv: Blonde...but smart.

Well, River has an imaginary friend. He has pants with rats all over them. Blonde hair ("like me!") and a Superman t-shirt. His name is Jerry. And if you see him, tell him River's looking for him and that he can just "text" him. Seriously.

"mom, can I have another peanut butter and jelly sandwich? OR, better yet, a pile of jam on my plate?" 

4th of July quote of the day: Mom, it's our country's birthday. I think it's turning 8.

Me: Today's father's day. 

Riv: yeah, it's for moms too. 

Me: no, it's just for dads. 

Riv: Huh. Okay. I guess that's fair.

Explaining years, dates of birth, to Riv tonite, in relation to a Dr. Seuss book. "You were born in 2005, mama was born in 1977, Grandma was born in 1944, this book was written in 1940....." and River interrupted "so this book is just about to die."

"I think I might be a magical person."

woke up to "I'm 5 I'm 5 I'm 5 I'm 5 I'm 5 I'm 5 I'm 5!" coming from River's room. Poor guy. His birthday's actually tomorrow.

River's practicing his Harry Potter. " 'ermione! Ron Weasley! bloody 'ell!" "Give it 'ere or I'll knock you off yer broom!"

To the kind Mr. Round Table Pizza delivery man, my son has this to say to you "I'm gonna tell that pizza guy thanks. Thanks thanks thanks that is. Cause I LOVE this pizza."

"I'm going to go in the back yard to climb a tree. Right after I pee all over it."

"Dodgers means that they dodge, which is cheating. Dodgers are cheaters."

Riv: So I don't know any teenagers. 

Me: You know Mykayla. 

Riv: Oh yeah. But what about the vegetarians?

River: I like John Donaldson. He's a funny guy. 

Me: Who's John Donaldson? 

Riv: He's Manzer's cousin. He's a great guy. We should hang out. (Manzer is his stuffed lion, formerly named Leah, until he realized that lions with manes are boys and instituted an immediate gender switch).

River just said "Pinky swear me that you won't tell Dada this." We hook our pinkies and he whispers "I like aliens sooooo much."

Riv wants to know if "biscuit" is spanish for "english muffin".

River: who wants to see what's in my total package?

was listening to info about the documentary Crude on the radio and Riv asked "why do some people have oil in their yards?" in reference to some indigenous tribes in Brazil. I explained as best I could. He replied "Oh. I wish we had ice cream in our yard."

"It's two happy monsters smiling for the camera."   

Riv: I think thunder and lightening is a dog, flashing through the sky. 

Me: totally! Did you think that up in that little head of yours? 

Riv: Actually, mom, I have a strong head. And yes, I did.

just carved a vampire pumpkin BY MYSELF since River said "Ew. This weakens me." This from the kid who picked up roadkill two days ago.

River wants a TouchNBrush (not available in stores). River says "Did you hear that Mom? It uses EVERY LAST DROP of toothpaste."

River says he's changed his mind. He doesn't want to be a zombie for halloween. He wants to be a zombie's cousin.

left the latte on the roof of the car and drove off. River said "Well. I guess you'll just have to get a beer."

River just said "You're right! I AM 4 years old, because I'm bigger than the washing machine."

Riv "It's a robot destroying a town and a superhero flying over him, giggling."    

A post I don't remember writing.

I just found all this in my notes on my phone. I haven't edited it at all. I remember writing it as much as I remember going to the grocery store 7 weeks ago. I probably did it. But I couldn't tell you for certain. So. That's a brain adventure.

The italics may have been unnecessary. 

Feb 10, 2013

Recount the day. Start with the shit. Not just the incredible amount of flaccid lipped poop talking, but the shit of how the day began. On my ass. Repeatedly. The immense frustration. There is no goddamn joy in racing down a mountain just to painfully ride up to the top again. I had Tim explain to me the fun. Why, no seriously, TELL me why this is a fun thing that people pay stupid amounts of money to do? How is this more fun than absolutely anything else in the world? I don't care about the cold, but it hurts! It's frustrating! It makes me an angry bitter gal. I haven't snowboarded in 7 years, so before my 30's even, which I can't even fathom cause I've been in my 30's for like 62 years now.

Then, it wasn't like there was a rainbow that sliced through my victim's visage and revealed a floppy happy muppet underneath, but I took it back a step or seven. Rode the easiest slope there was, and we went as a group. And we flopped down the mountain together. And I glimpsed just a teeny bit in my peripherals, which is where magic happens, a tiny bit of dancing joy, flittering about like a sugar high sugar glider on the edge of my vision.

Then we went up higher. Where I had no business being. Where I freaked out over the grade of the slope beneath me and gaped at the mountain top that seemed so close I could whistle the gravel off of it. And I spread my hands out in front of me to demonstrate the expanse of all I was seeing and muttered a "holy shit look at this view" to Tim, and thought this THIS is the joy I can relate to. This is where the birds get jealous of us. This is where my anxieties of scooting my rear down the side of a snowy mountain seems so minuscule compared to the massive effort it must take for the mountain to simply BE. And it doesn't seem anxious at all. Not even with all us little bugs squirming all over it.

Un-dream squashing

Do you ever just feel like you're really lucky? Not that you've finally "won" at some socially ascribed visual of what lucky looks like. But lucky on your own terms.

Tonight I feel that way. Lucky. Really legitimately and genuinely lucky. It has nothing to do with money (clearly), except that it also totally does. It does as money pertains to you and who you really are and where you fit best in the world. Not everyone would make a good Fortune 500 CEO. Not just on the business front, but being able to utilize the packaged CEO lifestyle that comes with it, all its nuances. Some people are meant to have that life. And when they've secured it, and they look around them, and they say "Yes. This is where I'm my best." then they're lucky, too. But when they look around them and they say "Crap. I need x, y or z more or different in order to feel good about myself as a human." then no. Not lucky. Right? This isn't rocket science. Or like trying to get the bolts off your daughter's training wheels with your bare hands. We're told from day one to be true to ourselves. To be what we want to be. Because we can be.

But then we mold into the common recurring themes of the environment around us. And what we want to be strays a bit from who we really wanted to be when our eyes were bigger and our impulse to be accepted was smaller. Not for absolutely everyone, maybe. Or at least, if not for everyone, just maybe not all at the same time. Some of us may not realize we're lucky until we're just about to die. Others know it when they're 7.

I think it's kind of like dream squashing. It's what I always tell River not to do to his sister. "Don't be a dream squasher." You want to grow up to be a rainbow. And then you're told that's ridiculous, for a gazillion reasons. And so you want to grow up to be something else that's most definitely not a rainbow. Dream squashed.

I'm lucky because I have absolutely everything I want out of life, right here. All of it. Two kids who are quirky and fun and who love each other. The best of loves. Friends who know me and my closet inside and out. Friends who I would trust with the lives of my children. I have a job that invigorates me. I have angst. But just enough to keep me constantly challenged and aware of how I can work to alleviate that angst (hello? Winona Ryder?). I have people who will love to engage with me, and who will absolutely hate every word out of my mouth. I have people who dislike me. I have people who I dislike. But the likes are always winning. And the dislikes are always exercising my patience muscle. That fucker is getting strong. I am living life in a way that I chose, that was not imposed upon me. I am good in this spot.

I want to be able to travel a lot. But it just doesn't work out that way. Maybe it's not because I'm not working hard enough in a high-paying mega-corporate job. And maybe if I changed that then I could travel. Maybe instead I'd just find out that it wasn't money that was preventing me from traveling. It was simply not for me at this time or in this body. I'd honestly be better here in this spot. This town, this role, this house, this air space. And if I were to travel a lot, I'd find my contentment gauge plunging in the wrong direction. Because I know right here that I am being the person that I want to be. And who knows where that might take me. My dreams haven't been squashed at all. I just forgot what they looked like maybe.

Maggie's cute ant that is likely still un-squashed.

I'm off my woo woo rocker tonight and I know it. I was doing my laundry, not giving a care to separate any particular colors from any particular anything, and it occurred to me that I am so good here. And if I get to live in a 2 bedroom house with a slug problem in the basement for the rest of my life and be guaranteed to be at least this content as I am now, fuck yeah. I'll take that deal. Cheers to being here, guys. All that is good and all that is shitty. Honor both of them, cause they give life a worthy balance.

Remembering the things that I'm forgetting.

You know how they say you forget the pain of labor and childbirth?

I didn't. 

I had two incredible birth experiences. I breathed through the rushes. My midwife massaged my back. I threw up on my ex-husband. I sucked on the most delicious ice cubes. I swore like a mother when the back labor kicked in and silently thanked my midwife for approving every single expletive.

I remember it ALL.

It may have helped that shortly after each birth I wrote down the details. But I've only re-read them each once or twice. What I think is the likelier reason for remembering them so vividly is that they were each a very precise, one-time occurrence. Not like a song that you hear over and over everyday in the car on your way to work, not like macaroni and cheese night that you have every Thursday. But like watching a full-length rock opera, live on stage, or having roasted rattlesnake for dinner. Those things will leave an impression.

What saddens me are the memories that were more akin to macaroni and cheese. Delicious, yes. But not unique. Not profound in the way that birth was. These memories are slipping, or gone, or maybe they never even existed at all.

They're a blur.

I changed a lot of diapers. But I don't remember any of the specific diaper changes (except for a few cloth diaper blow-outs -- clearly before I switched to gDiapers).

I took my babies to the grocery store with me. The only grocery trip I recall specifically was in fact not a grocery trip at all, but when River made his 2 day old debut to my co-workers at Trader Joe's.

I wore my babies. All the time. But unless I see myself in a picture with Maggie on my back or River nestled against my chest, it's like it didn't even happen. Except for knowing that it did.

I woke a lot during the night. For nursing. For changes. The sleep deprivation was so hard at the time, but I cannot recall one specific memory that had me up at odd hours, rocking baby.

I buckled my babies in to their carseats so many times it became like Tetris. You know, how then you start to see floating tetris blocks everywhere on the horizon and you try to float them down and spin them so they'll fit between the trees or the buildings. It's a thing. But I can't tell you a particular memory about that action I did multiple times a day for multiple years.

I know these thing happened because I did them. But not because I remember them. It's a peculiar phenomenon that has me aching to recall the rhythmic day to days of having and caring for a baby. Aching to recall, mind you, not aching to do them all over again.

While the haze of recollection is melancholic, it has brought to my attention that there are things happening around me that I don't want to lose a grip on. The closeness of helping River with his homework. The countless hours of drawing Rapunzel with sidewalk chalk in the driveway. The fierce urge to fly through the grocery store because the kids are driving me batty. The songs we sing at bedtime. The books we read together each night. None of these have the roasted rattlesnake or rock opera effect. They're not bold. They're not 4 hours of labor and 20 minutes of pushing. They're not a toddler poop-filled bathing suit on an otherwise nice evening in the woods.

They're a pulse. A heartbeat. And they're what make me tick more than anything.

The start of the longest list ever.

Here's why having kids is so freaking amazing:

1. I get to hug their potential


2. I get to share in their awe


3. I get to hear their dreams, in their own words, with their own vision


4. I get to experience their creativity in new mind-blowing ways every day


5. I get to listen to them learn to tell jokes, to whistle, to blow bubbles and to speak in Scottish accent


6. I get to giggle with them when their bath water gets bubbly when they toot


7. I get to see them love each other


And that's JUST from today. This is a lifetime of riches, right here.