peskypippi.comBecause I have a lot to say…

Once upon a time, there was a young girl who wore pigtails and overalls. She was a nature lover, this girl, who loved climbing trees, blowing dandelions, observing worms, and oohing over butterflies. One day, she discovered a lizard and picked it up. She examined its scaly, grey back, little beady eyes, and long tail.

When it was time to go home and leave the lizard where she found it, she actually didn’t.

She snuck that lizard into her overalls pocket, making sure that lizard was safe and warm and protected.

She proceeded to cuddle that lizard and build it a little home. In a shoebox, with grass, plenty of love, and ta washcloth to keep it warm. What else could a little lizard need?

With the over abundance of love and nurturing, the lizard’s tail broke off. The young girl quickly taped it back on.

The lizard soon perished. The young girl had smothered her lizard pet, with her over nurturing, and was in tears.

She learned a few life lessons on that hot Summer day. Not only did she learn that many species of lizards release their tail when they want to escape from a predator, but:

• How to care for a creature, but also to give it space.
• How to love a creature, but not over smother it.
• How you can’t fix a problem with a simple patch.
• And how, at some point, you need to set the creature free.

As I recount my daughter’s story from several years ago, I now see that her lessons learned are also parenting lessons that I am learning.

My son decided he was done with his G.I. Joes, so he gave the lot to his sister. Who quickly discovered that G.I. Joes are way cooler than Barbie.

Fingers that grip! Elbows, knees, wrists, and ankles that bend! He can stand on his own!

My daughter quickly got to know the G.I. Joe gang. Step aside, Barbie, with your tiny, non-standable feet.

My son doesn’t really want to learn how to tie his shoes. He has put it off. I blame Velcro.

We practiced the bunny ears. We even did the one where you have one bunny ear and then you strangle the bunny with the other loop. I thought violence and a little humor might help.

I promised him a new pair of shoes (any color!) when he decides to learn to tie. But he seems to prefer simply slipping on his shoes. Even better with no socks!

He can totally do it. Dude! He just finished building the Lego Millennium Falcon in like three days. That’s 1,254 Lego pieces! If he can put together 1,254 pieces, he can put together two laces.

But, whatever. It’s a good thing that Velco shoes come in all sizes. Or, maybe there are Lego shoes?

I’m not sure why our society is obsessed with removing unwanted hair.

I remember back in the seventh grade, desperately wanting to shave my legs. I begged my mother. She said I could, but only up to the knee. That was a lovely sight. Hairless calves. Hairy thighs.

Then in the ninth grade, I discovered tweezers. And proceeded to overpluck my eyebrows.

Shave this. Shave that. Tweeze this. Pluck that. Blast that unwanted hair!

It wasn’t until the past decade that I discovered waxing. Professional eyebrow waxing. Upper lip waxing.

Over the years, when it came to swimsuit season, I simply used the razor to tidy up. No problem.

But I kept hearing about the wonders of bikini waxes. Friends told me, “You should totally do it!” But I put it off. Until right before my trip to Hawaii, when I put “bikini wax” on my to do list. Yeah, I totally did it!

And here are four things I learned about a bikini wax:

1. It was embarrassing.
2. It hurt.
3. Wear your pretty bikini panties. Oops.
4. Be clear with what you want. Oops.

I wasn’t exactly clear with what I wanted. Maybe it was the language barrier?

Let me just say that it’s a good thing hair grows back. Because two words: Hitler’s moustache.

My eight-year-old son wrote three reasons why he loves me:

1. She hugs me.
2. Cooks delecius spaggeti. [sic]
3. Signs me up for stuff like gymnastics.

Aw! I’m touched that he singled out three things I think mothering is all about:

1. Love.
2. Nourishment.
3. Support.

Happy Mother’s Day, y’all!

My eight-year-old had a check-up at the doctor. I had him prepared for all of the questioning:

1. What do you use for safety in the car? A seat belt.
2. How much TV do you watch? Not much.
3. Do you eat lots of fruits and vegetables every day? Yes (give examples).
4. Do you exercise every day? Yes (give examples).

So easy! But he wasn’t prepared for this: Let’s say your house is on fire, what do you do?

A fire?! No one’s house catches on fire. My son was prepared for the question about the old lady who pulls over in her van asking for help finding her lost puppy.

He answers simply, “I would stop, drop, and roll.” Good answer!

His doctor says, “Your clothes aren’t on fire. Your house is. You open your bedroom door and there’s smoke everywhere.” Freak the kid out, why don’t you.

He thinks for a second and says, “I would climb out of my window.”

“Yes!” she exclaims. “Now you hear your Mom calling for help. She’s trapped. What do you do?”

I’m trapped? WTH.

A worried look on his face but he answers confidently, “I would go in to help her.”

Aw, what a sweetie! Yeah, no. Wrong answer.

The doctor continues, “No, you call…” And she pretended to hold a phone to her ear.

“I call 9-1-1!” he yells.

“Yes!” she exclaims. Whew! He passed the fire quiz.

After the appointment, my son was worried and was full of questions.

• Mom, how does a fire start?
• Mom, would you really get trapped?
• Have you ever been in a fire?
• If I climb out of my window, I would need to jump off the roof. But if I jump off the roof, will I die or just break my leg?

I reassured him how rare it is for houses to catch on fire. “It will probably never happen. Look at me. See how old I am? I’ve never had a fire in the house.” (Well, except the time the microwave popcorn caught on fire…and when the dishtowel was too close to the open gas flame…and when the log rolled out of the fireplace, nearly catching the rug on fire.)

My son seemed relieved.

But check this out.

The VERY next day, a house in the neighboring neighborhood caught on fire and burned down to the ground. In like three hours. The family got out safely, but nothing else was left, but ashes and rubble.

A real-life reminder that while we were not prepared for the doctor’s questions, we need to be better prepared for a fire. Check out HealthyChildren.org for good information on fire safety for families.

My daughter learned three life lessons this week.

And I was reminded that I often blurt things out without consulting The Proper Parenting Handbook.

Here’s what happened.

My daughter came home upset that she wasn’t invited to her friend’s upcoming birthday party.

• “What?!” I shrieked. “But you guys play all the time!”
• “Yeah,” she said sadly. “She just didn’t want to invite ME.”
• “What a little bitch!” I said.

Lesson one: Ten-year-old girls can be bitches too.

Another day after school, my daughter came home even more upset that her puka shell necklace–her prized $3 purchase from our trip to Hawaii–broke into 200 puka shell pieces. She was planning to wear it all year, to remember our wonderful family vacation. A boy had grabbed her necklace from her neck (!), sending puka shells scattering.

• “What an asshole!” I exclaimed. “Let’s get him to apologize.” That seemed to make her feel better.

Lesson two: Calling someone an asshole for asshole behavior automatically makes you feel better.

• And I offered, “Oh, Sweetie, I know that was special to you. I could buy you another one but it wouldn’t be the same, would it?”
• “No,” she lamented. “That was my special necklace.”

Lesson three: Some valuable things can’t be replaced, because the value is in the memories.

I may not say all the right things. I may say some very wrong things. But I always try to talk things out with my daughter. Even if an obscenity pops out from time to time.

How many plastic spider rings does it take to raise a child from toddler to teenager? In our case, 500.

I invested in a whopping bag of plastic spider rings, when my oldest son was about three. Five hundred of them. “These will come in handy to top cupcakes, to add to goody bags, and to play jokes on people,” I had thought. Whoa! So many fun times ahead!

Well. My oldest son just turned 14 years old this week. When it was time to decorate his cake, I rummaged through the bin where I keep cupcake papers, food coloring, sprinkles, birthday candles, and plastic spider rings.

There was only one spider ring left. What?!

We had finally exhausted our supply. I had baked an abundance of cupcakes over the years to deliver to school functions, added the rings to birthday goody bags, and distributed them at Halloween.

The rings marked milestones in my son’s life. They took him from toddler to teen. And now, the spiders are gone.

But the other day, as my son stood there in the kitchen–standing 6 ft. 1 in. tall–he tasted his mud pie birthday cake and giddily shrieked, “This is your best cake yet, Mom!”

His enthusiasm and kindness are reminders that despite age (and height), he is still the same on the inside.

My daughter decided to chop off eight inches of her hair while we were on vacation. I (mostly) try to support her when she makes her own decisions. So, a visit to SuperCuts in Kihei, Maui, and 25 minutes later: done.

Why did she do it?

a. She wanted a change.

b. She likes to make her own decisions.

c. Her hair was so tangled from salt water and chorine that she was forced to cut it.

d. All of the above.

Dude! It’s always “d.” Duh.

Rest assured, no self-confidence was cut.

I just got back from Hawaii and saw some lovely coconuts!

Code. And not code.

Botanically speaking, a coconut is a fibrous, one-seeded drupe.

On my trip, I didn’t see any hairy, brown, and hard “drupes.” You know, the coconuts you can buy at Safeway on the mainland.

I learned that a fresh, young coconut is green. When you visit a roadside stand, you can drink from one. And sip the splendor that is coconut milk. And if you’re lucky, after you’ve had your fill, a Hawaiian native will take his machete and carve off the outer layer, to expose the juicy meat of the coconut for you to partake.

Ah, coconuts. Island style.