I'm sure this anxiety dream was spurred on by a combination of things- for one, Hallmark/Westland's 143 million pound beef recall, 37 million of which had already been sent out to Federal nutrition programs which includes the School Lunch Program. But mostly I think it came from the fact that I'll be sending the first of my two sons off to kindergarten in the fall.

As a self-proclaimed worry machine, it's fairly easy for me to get caught up in my feelings of powerlessness-especially powerlessness against societal pressures that seem to permeate anything or everything directed toward parents and, in particular, mothers. Every day I wake up and worry about the registered sex offender neighbor and the cost of healthcare, daycare, and orthodontics (apparently nowadays, dentists refer kids as young as four to orthodontists!). I cut the boys' grapes into quarters so they won't choke. I worry I'm scarring them for life because I refuse to make cheap, crappy candy- and plastic-filled goody bags to give out at their every-other- year birthday parties. And every time I finally make it to the shower, I am sure Norman Bates is coming for me (this one's strangely intensified since having children).

Then there's the whole food thing. I agonize about the food I'm going to serve my kids that day. Will we meet the daily requirements? Will my inability to plan and coordinate well-balanced meals stunt their growth and ruin their physical health forever? When it comes to nutrition, do I really know anything at all?

If not for the good cup of French press coffee my husband uses to lure me out of bed each morning, I might stay there eternally, weighed down by the worry and guilt that churns in my skull because I use disposable diapers, buy toys made in China, and haven't yet stopped using the possibly poisonous plastic baby bottles.

Until the beef recall, I hadn't really spent too much time worrying about school lunches. I've applauded chefs like Alice Waters and Jamie Oliver for the work they've done to improve school lunch programs, but school lunches weren't on my parental radar yet. Then not two weeks after I enrolled my son Clyde in kindergarten, we all read the story about the biggest-ever beef recall. Start the spin cycle . . .

Yesterday, I had a conversation with my best friend's ten-year-old daughter who goes to the same elementary school that Clyde will be attending in the fall. Apparently, I was subconsciously channeling my "school lunch worry" because when I asked her, "How do you like school?" she replied, "Yeah, I like it. It's good. But the lunches are GROSS!"

"Really? Gross? Like what did you have today?"

"Like these hot dog things."

"Hot dog things?"

"Yes. With frozen and then cooked strawberries."

"So did you eat it?"

"No, I always trade with my friends who bring home lunches."

"I see," I said.

"So I would make Clyde's lunch if I were you."

I had to ask myself what worry would I let go of in order to make space for the new, school lunch anxiety-and how? After all, isn't worry the faux armor I use to protect my family? That's what I like to tell myself. If I let down my guard on the wrong thing, we become sitting ducks, open targets, easy marks. It was simply time to recognize the very fragility and beauty of our vulnerability. Again. For the umpteenth time, it was time to face the reality of my powerlessness.

I don't hope to solve all the world's problems or put an end to all my parental worries. I know that's impossible. I just want a clear path. I want to know what to do. I want to see the small choice that turns into big, positive results. But that is not the way life works. We don't get to know if what we're doing today will pay off tomorrow. We don't get to be in control. From what I can tell, the only thing that appears to work against powerlessness is admitting it. Admitting you are powerless and then going forward in powerfulness in spite of your powerlessness. So when I'm not flailing in worry, that's what I try to remember to do. I try to do the next right thing-with gusto.

Today I popped open my very first community supported agriculture (CSA) box, and Clyde and I stuck our hands in, rummaged around, and each pulled out a carrot. We immediately snapped them in our teeth while I ogled the pears, oranges, lettuce, and radicchio, and he saved a caterpillar who had stowed away on the kale. When grocery shopping, we continue to buy as much real food as we can find and to boycott the cheap meat industry--in our collective pursuit of quality not quantity--working toward switching to humanely raised, grass-fed and grass-finished meat. We've pretty much eliminated high fructose corn syrup from our everyday purchases. But I have no idea what I'm going to do about school lunches.

Come September and faced with the reality of "hot dog things," I'm most likely not going to try to overhaul the school's lunch program. And I'm definitely not going to rear and kill my own chickens to feed the elementary masses. Most likely I will try to pack identifiable foods for my son whenever I can, in hopes that he'll take this knowledge with him on the days when he has to buy his lunch. Overall, I will continue to try to turn worry into the best decisions I can make every day, ones that I can live with, and, like most parents, I will do my best to take care of my own and hope that care ripples outward.