peskypippi.comBecause I have a lot to say…

Some people take a walk in nature to find peace, quiet, and serenity

Some people. But not me.

When I bring my kids on a hike, it’s more like:

• Can acid blow up snow?
• What if I attached a rocket pack to a port-a-potty?
• Are there piranhas in the lake?
• Where do they mine emeralds?
• Who would win, a python or a bear?

And then:

“Can we stop and get Dairy Queen on our way home?”

But I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I just love my toothless boy.

As soon as my seven-year-old son’s teeth showed an inkling of being loose, he worked and worked them until they were out. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 teeth are now gone. The Tooth Fairy has been busy.

As a result, I slice his apples for him. Yogurt and pudding are also popular choices. But I think he’s pulling my leg when he claims cherry Pop-Tarts make his teeth feel better.

My son has been sporting a jack-o-lantern grin for months now. There are no signs of grown-up teeth. And with a smile and charisma like that? That’s just fine with me.

As if it’s not enough to raise our children to be kind and confident, smart and self-sufficient, and resilient and resourceful, we also need to teach them to cook.

Yikes!

A panic washed over me last Summer when I realized that my (newly teen) son did not know how to make anything. Other. Than. A. Sandwich.

I felt that he was well on the road to being kind, confident, smart, resilient, and resourceful…but might be lacking in the self-sufficient department.

Resourceful in the kitchen? Yeah, kinda. My son was a pro at microwaving soup, frozen burritos and instant oatmeal. He also used the can opener like a whiz! Opening fruit cocktail like nobody’s business.

Frozen burritos and instant oatmeal will only get you so far.

But could he create something from scratch? Not so much.

I knew what I had to do. Teach that young man to cook!

Cooking 101: creating self-sufficient young adults. (Also known as: creating patient parents who lack proper cooking skills themselves.)

Yikes again!

We began with simple items. Grilled-cheese sandwiches. Scrambled eggs. Quesadillas with refried beans.

We also learned:

• How to cut up vegetables and serve with Ranch dip.
• How to cut an orange into slices.
• How to hardboil an egg. And then proceed to peel and slice it.

This progressed into:

• How to make a smoothie in the blender out of yogurt, juice, frozen fruit, and protein powder.

Ta da! He now knows how to make a few well-rounded meals.

Slowly but surely, my son is expanding his food-making repertoire. I am convinced that he will be self-sufficient in the kitchen someday, and be happy as a result.

And this makes me happy.

At the hospital, the nurses told me to hold my newborn like a football when I fed him.

Now this six-foot-tall young man plays football. With swarms of teenager girls watching.

I was not prepared for this.

I have mothered this boy-man for 13 years. As the years and milestones pass, I try to support his independence, steer his choices, but ultimately let go. And it’s difficult.

One of my favorite parenting mantras is:

“There are only two lasting bequests we can hope to give to our children. One of them is roots. The other is wings.”

I’m better at the roots part. You know, the love and nurturing part?

I am trying to be better at the wings part.

Take for example, football. Do I want my son playing a sport where his body is jostled around and he is required to wear a mouth guard–not only to protect his pretty teeth but to prevent jaw injuries at mega impact? It’s nerve-racking signing all of the concussion waivers. It’s also kinda awesome seeing him in his full gear–with helmet and pads–looking like a man.

He really really wants to play. And he is committed to doing his best.

I am proud of his dedication and enthusiasm. And because of this, I must let go and let him grow. And be his cheerleader.

I can’t help but think of the children’s song, Eagles, which sums up my belief in raising children: letting go.

May this big boy of mine fly down that football field with his mouth guard and his budding wings. I will be watching with love, support, and faith in him. And I may also be sporting a tear or two.

These pictures show me with my son then…now.

I go to the county fair every summer. It’s been a tradition since I was a kid. The fair is EXACTLY the same today as it was those many years ago. Just the way I like it.

Except I’m different now. I’m not the kid begging for cotton candy. I’m not the teenager flirting with boys. I don’t tuck money into my shoe anymore. I’m the Mom, with the ginormous backpack carrying all of the kids’ crap, sunscreen, and water bottles. I am the one in the dorky, floppy sun hat, protecting her face from the sun.

But I’m still a kid inside. I still get that giddiness and excitement in my tummy as we drive into the fairgrounds and park in the straw and walk through the turnstiles and get unlimited ride wristbands attached to our left wrists.

The sights are still the same. Leathered-skin carnies operating the rides. A little gruff. A little leery. A little toothless.

The rides are the same. Ferris wheel with the glowing lights. Bumper cars with their stop-and-go jerkiness and electricity popping. Creaky roller coaster that tic-tic-tics up the ramp and then whooshes you downward propelling screams. I can’t ride the spinning rides anymore (old age) but I watch my kids ride and I encourage them with a big grin on my face.

There are still the teenagers preening and flaunting. Girls wearing their tightest shorts, flipping hair, chomping on gum, checking out the boys in line who are also looking and smelling their finest, checking out the girls. I am no longer the teen, flipping my hair and checking out the boys. My shorts are tight (for other reasons).

Unwinnable games. Darts and balloons. Climb the ladder to ring a bell. Shoot the basketball. Knock over old-fashioned milk bottles. Giant pandas, red dogs, monkeys…a girl’s dream to win one and walk around with a stuffed animal under her arm, boasting. I never won one. Now, I’m like “we don’t need a giant stuffed banana with Jamaican hair.” Or DO we?

The world’s smallest horse. “Step right up and pay a dollar.” The horse is merely a small Shetland pony, appearing miniscule, in a pen built well below the stairs you climb. Every year, I am fooled again. But I have hope.

The piglets, the velvety cows, the endearing goats, the sheep with attitude. The smells of the barns are comforting, with their fresh straw and fresh poop. 4-H kids with their impressive pride, grooming their animals and answering your dumb questions. “What is the difference between a llama and an alpaca?” I ask.

The smells and tastes of the fair food. The same. Pink and blue fluffy cotton candy, deep-fried corn dogs, greasy funnel cakes sprinkled with powdered sugar, salty popcorn.

This year, I returned to the fair again with my three kids. Just as we do every year, where we pack in fun, exiting exhausted and a little bit green-faced at midnight. I take my youngest two kids by the hands and we practically skip to say hello to the goats, let the cotton candy dissolve on our tongues, and board the Ferris wheel to watch the “ants” down below.

I wave goodbye to my oldest teen son, who runs off with a friend–as they quickly ditch our goofball trio–and they do what teen boys do, with their hair gelled, just so.

And so, the cycle continues, round and round, like the Ferris wheel. Some things never change.

I’m hanging with the peeps at Yeah Right…check out other fun bloggers there!

Who knew that my first open-mouthed kiss would be as a Freshman in high school, with a lanky boy with braces, who had just eaten peanut butter?

It all began when I was a Freshman in high school. Dating an older boy. It was raining. I remember the smell of his wet shoes. Big shoes with dirty laces. We started up a game of Monopoly at his house. Led Zeppelin was playing in the background.

Where were his parents? Who knows. We were latch-key kids. What had I told my mother about my whereabouts? Some lie.

What I was prepared for, was to win at Monopoly. My strategy is always to buy all of the oranges and reds and yellows–maybe even all of the railroads–and take over the game. What I wasn’t prepared for was that first real kiss.

Wet mouth. Slobber. Braces. Peanut butter.

It wasn’t what I expected. It wasn’t quite what I had hoped for.

I had been imagining that kiss for years. Even practiced on my arm. And in the mirror.

I had hoped for minty breath. Or cinnamon breath. I was gum-chewer (still am), always paranoid that my breath is “kissing ready.” I was picturing, in my romantic mind, that the kiss would go like this:

But the reality was more like smashing faces. Hitting teeth. And chin slobber. I was partly to blame. I was new at this. He was two years older.

What I couldn’t get over was that peanut butter smell. And the smell of rain-soaked shoes and clothes. They say smells bring you back to a memory.

Whenever I get a whiff of that peanut-butter-and-dank-shoes smell, I will forever remember my first make-out session as a blossoming teen.

What was your first real kiss like?

Ophidiophobia = the fear of snakes. Yeah, I got that.

If my kids ever ask me, “Mom, can I get a pet snake?”

“Hell, no.”

Snakes at museums? I can handle that. Because there are padlocks on the lids. But snakes on the loose? Indiana Jones and I. We both hate snakes.

So, the movie selection with my newly-minted-13-year-old son? Snakes on a Plane. OMG.

• A snake peeping out of the overhead storage bin? Hell no.
• A snake striking out of the toilet? Hell no.
• A snake slithering up your leg when you have nodded off? Hell no.
• A snake sneaking into your purse and then–surprise–you find it while rummaging around for some gum. Hell no.
• A snake attacking the co-pilot? Hell no.

But I wanted to be cool Mom. So we watched, side by side, as the snakes peeped and struck and slithered and snuck and attacked.

Here’s a teensy little clip that made us bust up laughing (don’t proceed if you don’t like swearing…me? #sailormouth):

You and me both, SLJ, you and me both.

I love kids and their gazillion questions.

My son asks while running down a hill, “Is a horse faster than a car?”

“Uh yeah, horses are fast,” I blurted out. Magic answer. Quick answer. That’s all he wanted to hear. Hell if I know.

Then I went home and looked it up. Dang, I was wrong. According to Wikipedia:

Any car in good working order is faster than a horse on a good road. The top speed of a race horse is around 40 mph and that is only for a few miles. Horses can go where cars can not and so would be faster if crossing streams and jumping gullies and hedges is needed.

But sometimes kids need magical answers. My child was running like a horse. In that moment in time, he was a horse.

Wikipedia and your boring facts: you can suck it.

Babies in flower pots? Yeah, I love those. I wish I had taken pictures of my babies in flower pots. Or in pumpkins. Or in tea cups. Or in pea pods.

Seriously. These photos are adorable! And they show how tiny babies start out in life.

It’s a little late now… My baby is now kinda big. He turns 13 today. And has surpassed me at 5’10″.

But no regrets. I’m so proud to see what a nice young man he has become–after starting out, well, the size of a pea.

I look forward to watching him continue to grow and thrive.

Oh, just making some faces with my boy. See how much fun we had with a camera?

See? Sometimes it’s the simple things…