Instead of being a naysayer, how about being a yaysayer. Here’s what I mean…
When you tell people you’re getting a puppy, these are comments you might get:
“YOU’RE getting a PUPPY?!”
“Do you KNOW how much they pee and poop?”
“They will eat EVERYTHING.”
“Do you KNOW what you’re getting yourself into?”
“Are you SURE you want a puppy?”
“It will wreck your house.”
“Better hide your shoes.”
“It will turn your yard upside down.”
“Ugh. Why do you WANT a puppy?”
Naysayers and Debbie Downers. All of them.
I mean, imagine if you tell someone you’re pregnant or adopting a baby. And imagine these SAME comments for a human child. You would probably drop these friends like a hot potato. And, oh, by the way, have you ever HELD a hot potato? They are freaking hot.
I think the snarly comments are made by people who may lack boundaries, who simply like to blurt out their opinions. Regardless of their impact.
Some people are well-meaning and try to be helpful. They like to point out things you may not already know. As in, “You may want to put your shoes up high because puppies like to chew on shoes.” Haven’t we all watched Marley and Me? We KNOW the damages puppies can cause (we also know the love puppies and grown dogs can offer).
And some people are reality-based. As in, “Puppies are a lot of work. You have to train them to pee outside by taking them out every 10 minutes.” Gee, thanks for the pee tip.
While other people are just mean-spirited and want to burst your happy puppy bubble. As in, “Are you SURE you want a puppy??” When you’ve already told them you’re GETTING a puppy. Of course you are sure. And you are excited. (Again replace the “puppy” reference with “baby” and the comment is even meaner.)
As a future puppy owner, aren’t we simply expecting people to say:
“That’s awesome!”
“I love puppies.”
“Puppies are the best.”
“Your family is gonna love a dog.”
“Aw, so cute. I can’t wait to see a picture.”
“Very cool.”
“I want a puppy.”
The next time you hear someone exclaim, “I’m getting a puppy!” Maybe ya might want to hold in the meanness for a second, and high-five the person instead. And shriek, “COOL!” #yaysayer
There is nothing more exciting on a Saturday morning than to watch my daughter tear it up and rough it up during a soccer game.
She’s the one in all blue. The one that looks like she’s gonna break the other girl’s arm. Or did she already?
We teach our children to be kind. We teach them to be empathetic. We teach them to be good citizens, good learners, good listeners, good people. We support their creativity. We support their dreams.
And let me tell you. We support them when they kick some ass in sports.
That’s where my competitiveness comes out. Yeah. I’m the parent of an athlete. I am impressed by her athleticism, determination, and strength. Not only am I proud, but I am learning from her.
I am the parent hollering on the sidelines. I am the one high-fiving my husband when our daughter protects the goal. Scores a goal from half-field. Or roughs it up on the field.
You see, what’s funny is my daughter is soft spoken. She has a fairy-like, sing-song voice. She plays with dragons. She paints vibrant canvases. She is unique and free-spirited and peaceful.
But when she’s on the soccer field, better hide the girlie girls. Because #99 is a powerful force.
Here’s a recipe (and a how-to video starring Pippi) for easy fruit-and-protein smoothies you can make for your kids. These make a great, healthy after-school snack.
Here’s what you need:
Blender
Milk (or flavored yogurt such as peach or raspberry…or orange sherbet is even yummier)
Frozen berries (strawberries, blueberries)
Protein powder (I selected whey-based protein powder that is pretty much flavorless)
Banana (the browner, the better)
As you’ll see from the video, the kids lovelike tolerate these. The reception from my youngest was “huh.”
You see, I forgot that they prefer smoothies made with yogurt instead of milk. Or better yet, orange sherbet. But who wants to shoot another video? Not me.
I am in awe of nature. But I don’t always have the patience for it.
I love to watch nature shows on TV. You know, where the brown bear catches a salmon. Or the cheetahs attack the weak wildebeest. Or the dung beetle rolls on, well, a big ball of dung. Or the birds of the Amazon puff up their feathers and perform their mating rituals.
Knowing my luck, I’d travel to Kenya on a wildlife tour to see cheetahs…and this is what I would probably see. Uh, yeah. I would need a T-shirt that says, “I went to Africa and all I got was a photo of grass.”
That further proves my awe of the photographers and camera crews that have the patience to capture all of this wonderfulness to enlighten those of us who will never get the chance to experience–and film–spiders hatching, elephants trekking for new water holes, tiny tree frogs up so close you can see his pupils.
I mean, imagine how long you would have to camp out, with your tripod and camera and open shutter to capture lightning. Especially because, like, we don’t even have lightning where I live. Talk about patience.
I had a teensy little experience the other day to photograph wildlife: a robin feeding her young. I know, nothing jaw-dropping or exotic.
But it touched me, just the same.
My next door neighbor’s waterspout is a perfect place for a nest. The same robin parents come back every year to build a nest. It’s part of our family’s Spring ritual to check out the craftsmanship of nest-building. And then to hear the babies chirping. The parents use our back yard as their grocery store. Where, apparently, worms are on sale.
Oh and did you know that both parents are involved in food shopping, meal preparation, and feeding?
So the other day, I saw the baby birds peeking out with their eyes wide and beaks even wider. Methinks, “Grab the camera with the telephoto lens and transform yourself into wildlife photographer.” Yeah, I actually said that to myself. #dork
I placed my body up against the fence, about 10 feet away from the nest. Close enough to get a good shot. But not close enough to freak out the parents.
I waited. And waited. (I had to pee.) And waited. (Kids were arguing in the cul-de-sac. SHUT UP!) I waited some more.
I waited 18 minutes…which felt like an eternity.
The babies sat there, in their nest, with their beaks open. They, too, were waiting. “Where is my dinner??!!” (I was starting to wonder the same thing as my belly started to grumble.)
Here is what I saw.
Besides learning about bird behavior, methinks I also learned a little more about being patient. And being appreciative. And just being.
Why can’t we be friends? Well, I tried. But she was a bitch.
Here is how it went down.
My daughter met a friendly girl in her third-grade class. Annie* was another turquoise-leggings-wearing child with a quirky sense of humor. Oh goody, a new friend for my daughter! My daughter got Annie’s number and plans were soon made for a play date.
A few days later, I called Annie’s mother, Nancy.*
Nancy and I clicked! She was so nice. We were the same age. We swapped stories. There was laughter. We were both mothers, juggling work and activities. Oh goody, I may have found a new friend too!
We scheduled the girls’ play date for a few days later. Annie and her mother came over and I invited them in and gave them a tour of our home. The girls giggled and ran upstairs and instantly began organizing a puppet show.
Then, Nancy handed me an AdvoCare sample. And that’s when all the trouble began.
Turns out she is an AdvoCare distributor. AdvoCare is all about energy-boosting supplements and vitamins to give you more energy, lose weight, and “improve your performance.” I later learned that Nancy is pretty famous infamous in our neck of the woods. A power seller. And she is infamously annoying too.
The AdvoCare sample, called “Spark,” was a berry supplement to boost one’s energy. I took the sample, thanked her, and promptly tossed it into my kitchen junk drawer.
This little packet had a life “spark” of its own.
Back to the play date. There were puppet shows, dress-up, a stuffed animal parade. drawing, Kung Fu Panda. Popcorn, chocolate pudding, sliced apples. The girls laughed and shrieked. A great play date.
When Nancy picked up her daughter several hours later, she asked me again, “So are you going to try the energy sample? Just add it to your morning smoothie. You’re gonna have so much energy! You’ll feel great! I do!” Lots of smiles of encouragement.
“Yeah, I’ll try it,” I lied. I had no intention of adding this packet to my morning smoothie.
Stubborn? Maybe. “I am NOT taking HER supplement,” I thought.
Righteous? Maybe. “I don’t want fake-sugar, red powder in MY smoothie.”
The next day, I get a call from Nancy. Oh goody, I thought, she’s calling to schedule another play date for the girls since they had so much fun. Uh no.
Nancy: “Have you tried the AdvoCare sample?”
Me: “Not yet.”
Nancy: “Are you planning to?”
Me being wimpy: “Yeah, I just haven’t gotten around to it yet. Soooo, do you want to get the girls together sometime next week?”
Nancy: “Sure. Your daughter can come to our house after school on Wednesday.”
It’s a plan. The very next day, I get another call.
Nancy: “I’m hosting an AdvoCare party and would love you to come. It’s on Thursday at 7:00 p.m.”
Me (cringing and lying): “Oh that sounds fun but I can’t. Maybe another time.”
Nancy: “Well, I’m having another AdvoCare party the following week. Can you make that work?”
Me (feeling put-on-the-spot, I wimped out, but was getting mad): “I’ll check and get back to you.” Then I hung up. “What is her DEAL?!” I thought.
Her deal is that she is making her money off of selling AdvoCare and the way she does it is by hosting parties. “What is MY deal?!” I thought, “Why don’t I just tell her no?”
I hate going to fake parties. “Fake parties” where you’re supposed to mingle, hear the presentation, and buy whatever is being sold. Candles that smell like candy canes, potpourri that smells like peaches, make-up that makes you break out, and AdvoCare supplements and vitamins that give you oh-so-much-energy. And you feel forced to buy something because the hostess is a friend of your friend. And you don’t want to be cheap. So you try to mingle. You drink a glass of white wine and eat the Triscuits and wonder why there isn’t more to eat. After all, you’re buying a candle for twenty freaking dollars. Shouldn’t that warrant some good cheese? Or some seven-layer-bean-dip?
I appreciate that these entrepreneurs are taking action to make money, with a flexible schedule, that enables them to stay home with their children. But I don’t appreciate when the selling turns to selling-by-force. It’s manipulative and annoying.
A few days passed–before the second play date–Nancy called me again.
Nancy (persistent): “So, can you come to my party?”
Me (getting a little ballsy): “No, I’m not really into going to those types of parties.”
Nancy: “I’d be happy to schedule a conference call with you to tell you all about AdvoCare.”
Me (A freaking conference call?? Finally, I’ve had it.): “You know what? I’m not into AdvoCare. I have plenty of vitamins and supplements. I don’t need any more.”
Nancy: “But I think you should hear more about AdvoCare. It’s really a great product.”
Me: “I don’t mean this to be awkward but…” (And you know by saying that, it’s going to be awkward) “I feel like you’re pressuring me to buy AdvoCare whenever you talk to me. And I don’t think that’s cool. I mean, I’m glad that our daughters are friends, but I won’t be buying any AdvoCare. Ever. So please stop asking me.”
There. I said it. Totally awkward.
Nancy: “Um, OK.” She sounded weird. And that was the last time I heard from her. Second play date? Never happened.
And THAT is why we can’t be friends. Um, Nancy, don’t use your daughter as a way to sell your products. That’s just awkward. And when the mothers say no, don’t pull mean tricks and ruin sweet, childhood friendships. That’s just mean.
I haven’t spoken to Nancy since. But I do see her gold Honda Odyssey around town, with a ginormous AdvoCare window cling on the back. And now that I can see her coming from a mile away, I get the SPARK out of there!
I was raised primarily by my mother, who divorced my father when I was still in diapers. I was raised by a dreamer, a world traveler, a romantic.
My mother taught high school English and Social Studies. And when I was in sixth grade, she won a six-month paid sabbatical to travel to Europe. Off we went. My mother and I. To explore Europe. I left the learning-of-fractions and A Tree Grows In Brooklyn and the entry-into-adolescence behind.
We were off to visit France, England, Ireland, Spain, Portugal, Italy, Germany, Switzerland, Scotland, Belgium, and Holland. Those countries became my classroom.
Upon our arrival in London, with our eight suitcases–not joking–we were the vision of tourists gone bad. I mean, does an 11-year-old know how to pack for six months in Europe? No. Upon discovery, my mother found that I had packed roller skates and horseback riding boots. Just in case. I mean, who knew what adventures Europe would bring? We ended up lugging our suitcases to a post office and shipping more than half of the crap home. By boat.
Now much lighter and freer, we were ready to explore. With our passports and Eurail passes in hand, we were the jet-setting duo.
Maps were studied. Train schedules were examined. Pretty soon, itineraries and schedules were abandoned. We were the wanderers and walkers, logging in dozens of kilometers of walking a day.
One plus is that I spoke fluent French. I had attended a private French school through fifth grade–remember that I told you my mother was a dreamer, a traveler, a romantic? Yeah that. So here I am. A lanky, honey-haired, 11-year-old, who spoke impeccable French, taught by native French speakers. So my bad-ass 11-year-old self attended school in Aix-en-Provence, France. And made friends. I was “La Americaine.” I was sorta famous. And I was sorta loving it.
But, then, I was plucked out of school. School was too limiting! We had adventuring to do and pastries to sample! We…
Picnicked at Champ-de-Mars in Paris.
Sampled Gouda cheese in the village of Edam, outside of Amsterdam.
Listened to cuckoo clocks in the Black Forest region in Germany.
Wandered the canals in Venice.
Are shepherd’s pie in County Kerry, Ireland.
Visited Beatrix Potter’s home in the English countryside.
Explored the beaches of Portugal.
Watched the Changing of the Guard in London.
Stayed with a Swiss family in a thatched farmhouse, where they milked the cow to serve fresh milk at breakfast.
Learned to order gelato in Italian. “Una copa de mille cinq de stracciatella y cioccolato, per favore.”
Viewed the paintings at The Louvre and the Sistine Chapel.
Ate tripe in Germany. And it was delicious! OMG. I later learned that tripe means a cow’s stomach lining. I am now a semi-vegetarian.
It was the best experience I could imagine. I will always carry that with me. That trip and those experiences widened my scope and view of life. It opened my eyes. It made me aware. It made me appreciate. My mother made it possible. She exposed me to a huge, amazing world…far beyond the little town where we lived in California. With her love of travel and dreamer-like senses, my mother gave me the world.
You’ve heard of the glass half full. But have you heard of the bucket half full? As in the vomit bucket?
The other day, I woke up sick. Sick, sick, sickety sick. Several trips to the bathroom. Enough said. I thought to myself, “I’ll call in sick to work and have the day to myself to sleep off the sickness.”
Not so fast.
Time to wake up my oldest son. “Uhhhh, Mooooom, I feeeeeel siiiiiick.” “Take a shower,” my husband suggested to see if he feels better. Five minutes later. Nope. Still stick. He’s staying home from school.
My daughter, who vomited the night before, woke up still sick. She’s staying home.
My youngest son walks like a zombie out from the toilet. “Mooooom, I have diarrhea.” OK. He’s staying home.
My husband heads bolts out of the door, heading off to work. Unscathed from the sick wrath.
To recap. One sick Mom. Three sick children. All at home. With the stomach flu.
Doomsday?
Actually no. Despite multiple visits to the toilet, it was actually a day when all four of us stretched out on the sofa. Lying feet to feet. Comatose. We watched Lady and The Tramp. We dozed. We watched Bee Movie. We ate chicken noodle soup. We watched The Sword and The Stone. I dozed. We drank Sprite. We lazed around all day together. We were pathetic together.
Will we look back on this sick day as being awful? No way. The togetherness was healing.
I enjoy the wonders and blunders of raising three kids, ages 7, 9, and 13. I parent with love, thoughtfulness, and humor. I'm married to my college sweetheart. Poop talk doesn't scare me (even at the dinner table). I'm a fan of lipstick and red licorice. I'm friendly, opinionated, dorky...and perennially pesky. Join me for some chatter!
