Shrek is an onion. With layers. So am I. That’s my life.

Some people want to simplify, removing layers. Not me. I keep adding them. Marriage. Children. Work. Pets. Life. Sports. Activities. Chores. Interests. Projects.

I want to.

Milestones. Routines. Celebrations. Injuries. Accomplishments. Failures. Happiness. Sadness.

• Basketball ends, soccer begins.
• Conference calls. Writing projects. Deadlines.
• Wash a load of laundry, fold another.
• Coordinating playdates.
• When are football sign-ups?
• Family movie nights.
• Science fair.
• What’s for dinner?
• Me time. Us time. 1:1 time.
• Grocery shopping. Hello Costco.
• Working odd hours. Working out odd muscles.
• Trying new recipes. Giving away old clothes.
• Celebrating holidays.
• Did you brush your teeth?
• Sweeping up dog hair.
• Homework.
• Rotting vegetables in the refrigerator drawer.
• Happy hours with hubby.
• Plant new bushes, dogs dig them up. Replant.

I am told, “You need to simplify.” But why?

I like it this way. I like my layers. I like my busy-ness. I like my life.

There will be a time for me to simplify. Now is not that time.

Don’t sweat the small stuff.

Unless it’s a button that just went up your daughter’s nose. A few years back, when we were vacationing in Canada, my daughter quickly located the miniature sewing kit in the bathroom, with the oh-so-pretty, shiny buttons.

And she promptly stuck one up her nose. Way up.

Yikes. So far up did that button travel, that we hesitated to prod with a finger.

Crap. Do they have 911 in Canada? Didn’t we pass an Emergency Room en route to our hotel?

We were sweating the small stuff.

Fortunately, my oldest son suggested she blow it out, like a booger.

Out it came. And off to dinner we went.

The end.

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“I’m bored.”

You’re WHAT??!!

I can’t accept boredom from children. My children or anyone’s children. At my house. In the middle of summer.

• There are crafts. Bendaroos. Play-doh. Modeling clay. Water paint. Acrylics. Markers. Stickers. Stamps. Hole punchers.
• There’s a puppy. He loves to play. And cuddle. And wrestle. And fetch.
• There’s Xbox 360 and Kinect. Party games, sports games, Lego games, shooter games, dance games.
• There are board games. Would You Rather? Sorry. Monopoly. Trouble. Operation. Bird Bingo. And about 20 others.
• There are outside toys. Bikes. Scooters. Pogo Stick. Roller skates. Full-size basketball hoop. Chalk. Giant bubbles. Frisbees.
• There’s an outside swimming pool, sandbox, swingset. Or I’d be happy to set up the sprinkler.
• Nerf guns. AirSoft guns if you’re over 13.
• Oh yeah and what about tag. Kick ball. Hide-and-go-seek.
• Snacks. Pizza. Juice. Ice cream sandwiches. Watermelon cut in wedges.
• There are Legos. Zoobles. Littlest Pet Shop. Star Wars figures. Ponies. Barbies. And, oh, about 58 stuffed animals.
• Movies. Take your pick.

Do kids really need prompting these days? Do they need an activity list of things to choose from?

Yikes.

When I was a kid and was told, “Go and play.” I did. And I didn’t ask what to play.

I chased after the ice cream truck on my bike. My sister and I played Frogger on Atari. I read everything by Judy Blume. I showed my friend how Barbie and Ken could make babies. I sketched. I played kickball and Nerf football with the neighbor kids in the street. I caught frogs and lightning bugs at my Dad’s. I did rubber stamps and stickers. I sprawled on my friend’s pink carpet while listening to the Grease soundtrack. I crank-called strangers. I practiced kissing in the mirror. I tried out cookie recipes. I wrote in my diary. I bought Fun Dip and Jolly Rancher Sticks at 7-11. I stared at the clouds. I watched The Brady Bunch and The Beverly Hillbillies. I made those goofy nylon potholders with my goofy potholder loom.

And if I said “I’m bored,” I would be given chores, which quickly shut me up.

So, if you’re a kid at my house and I hear “I’m bored,” I just may hand you a shovel. And you can pick up dog poop. #choices

What are some of the things YOU did as a kid?

This is a little story about a boy and the piano recital that wasn’t. But then it was.

My youngest son has been taking piano lessons for six months. Every Wednesday after school, we trekked to the piano teacher’s house, where the piano is nestled in the dank-smelling basement. The teacher? She is vibrant, calm, smiling, talented, and a wearer of scarves and hats. The kind of hats you would buy at a street fair. With a faux flower tucked in the brim.

She encouraged my son that he could learn a song. And he did.

The Charlie Brown theme song aka “Linus and Lucy” has been practiced multiple times a day. For days. Weeks. Months.

Over time, my son got pretty good. Plinking away. Wrists up! Read the notes! Don’t memorize!

The piano teacher held a Summer Recital in a fancy auditorium, where children and their parents were requested to wear fancy clothes.

It was a big deal.

My son was ready. And then a few days before the recital, he came down with an eye infection, causing his left eye to swell shut. His left side of his throat and left ear were swollen too. A few doctor visits. Specialists. Bottom line: no recital.

No recital?! No video of my baby playing the piano, dressed in his finest? No bow at the end?

The reality was, I was just overjoyed the antibiotics kicked in. And his eye was slowly starting to open again.

So several weeks later, we had our own recital. At home. We all gathered around the keyboard. I wore a dress. My son played his song. There was a standing ovation. We popped the apple cider. It was indeed a celebration.

There was lots to celebrate.

As parents, we all learn this. That things change. In the blink of an eye.

This is not my son playing. Give him 15 years and he just may…

When it comes to Star Wars trivia, I am not the the brightest star in the galaxy. In fact, I am sort of retarded. If there were CliffsNotes, I would get them. Just to keep up with my seven-year-old son.

I first saw Star Wars at the movie theater when I was eight years old. When I tell my son that I know about the first Star Wars, my young son will correct me and say, “No, MOM, it’s not the FIRST Star Wars, it’s episode IV: A New Hope.”

WTH?

When you start messing with chronology and prequels, you lose me. You had me at Clone Troopers, Boba Fett, Jango Fett, General Grievous, Count Dooku. And Anakin. Who IS this kid?

If I had to write an essay on the Star Wars storyline and how these characters interact, I would pee my Jedi briefs. I just don’t get it. And I’m a pretty smart cookie.

I mean, I know Chewbacca C-3PO, R2-D2, Han Solo, Luke Skywalker, Darth Vader, Jabba the Hut, Princess Leia, Storm Troopers, Yoda. You could quiz me. I even know the Millenium Falcon and the Death Star.

Dude! When I was a kid, C-3PO and R2-D2 did a Public Service Announcement about immunize-your-children-against-Whooping-Cough. Whooping Cough?! Yeah that. Now I sound as if I’m as old as Yoda.

Then there’s the Wookies, Ewoks, even Jar Jar Binks (doesn’t he sound like Dobby in Harry Potter?) I know them!

I am the mother to three children who happen to love this sextiology. My youngest son will talk for hours straight about Boba and Jango. I nod and smile as if I totally get it. (I don’t have a clue.)

But I’ll buy the Lego Star Wars game on Xbox 360, light sabers, the Clone Trooper Halloween costume, the Lego sets, the Yoda jammies, toothbrushes. Regardless of my Star Wars retardation, I DO have a clue about consumerism and merchandising. I get that.

Set “a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away

In other words, are you a shatterer-of-dreams? How you react to and answer other people may be telling.

Take some of these questions my kids asked me this week. If you answer #2, you just might be an asshole.

Do clouds taste like cotton candy?

1. Yes. And I bet rainbows taste like fruity cotton candy. Yum!
2. No. Cloud are made out of water molecules. Not sugar and air.

Are fairies real?

1. Yes. I hope that someday soon, I can have a tea party with a fairy under a toadstool.
2. No. Fairies are fake.

I’m going to marry ice cream. Are you?

1. Yes. I will marry mint chocolate chip.
2. What a stupid question. I am already married to your father.

If I were rich, I’d buy all the Legos in the world.

1. That is so cool! I love Legos!
2. Once you hit 13, you will probably be sick of Legos.

Or take some of these statements I have made recently. Again, if you answer #2, you know the drill.

I’m going to start selling my famous banana bread online.

1. That’s a great idea! Your banana bread is delicious.
2. That sounds like a lot of work. And you won’t make much money.

It’s always been a dream of mine to open a pie shop. I could call it Pippi’s Pie Shop.

1. How fun! I would totally visit. I love pecan pie.
2. Don’t quit your day job. Restaurants always fail.

 I just got a puppy!

1. I can’t wait to meet him!
2. What were you thinking?!

I love convertibles. Someday, I’ll buy a bright, cheery yellow one.

1. When you get one, let’s go for a ride!
2. How stupid is that? You live where it rains nine months out of the year.

With your asshole-like responses, you just might be shattering the other person’s dreams or wishes. Instead, how about a slice of dreamy pie, with a side of cloud?

You know you’re too busy when…your child doesn’t have time to poop because you are rushing from activity to activity.

That’s when you know that you have too much going on. And that’s when you know you have turned into PSYCHO MOM.

School. Playdates. Doctor appointments. Extra curricular activities. Sports. Lessons.

When is enough enough?

It is enough when your child gets home from school, goes upstairs to poop, but you stop him mid-poop and yell, “HURRY UP! GET YOUR PIANO BOOKS! WE’RE GONNA BE LATE FOR YOUR PIANO LESSON!”

Do we want to speed through childhood and life? So much that we can’t even go to the bathroom?

This week was my breaking point. It is now time to reassess. And maybe not sign up for that extra summer camp.

Am I turning into the type of mother who over schedules her children? One of those psycho Moms that I find annoying? The kind whose children are so busy, they don’t have any down time to simply lie in the shade to discover that grass blades indeed make great whistles?

Summer is upon us. We need to drop something. Lower expectations. Something.

I used to believe in only one activity per child at a time. Then one activity turned into two. But does swim lessons count as an activity or is it a necessity? I care and want my children to be well-rounded and interesting and active. But I also want them to be happy. Are they happy when they are rushing from activity to activity? Their distressed faces tell me otherwise.

With three kids, there’s soccer, piano lessons, gymnastics, art class, horseback riding, football. Three kids multiplied by x number of activities. Now we’ve got an algebra problem. And I suck at math.

As a child, sure I had lessons–tennis, ballet, gymnastics, swimming, horseback riding, even drama and cooking class–but I also remember having lots of free time. Idle time. Play time.

Run-through-the-streets-to-chase-after-the-ice-cream-truck time. Time to loll with my friends in the shade and pick blades of grass to turn them into whistles.

Fast forward a few decades and now I’m yelling at my child to hurry up while he’s pooping? Yikes.

I don’t want to be THAT kind of Mom. I want my children to be happy. And have plenty of time for pooping and whistling.

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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.

This is what bedtime looks like around here.

P-A-R-T-Y!

Got road trips?

Here’s a nifty little idea for you non-crafter parents that you can create in, oh, about 8 minutes. You may call it a jar of rice with toys in it. I call it Pippi’s Traveling Treasure Trove that you shake and take with you in the car to entertain the kids.

What prompted this was:

1. My kids have an overload of miniature toys they don’t play with because the toys are hiding at the bottom of toy bins
2. My kids need something to do in our long (10 minute) car trips.
3. Reuse and recycle, baby!

Here’s all you need:

1. A big plastic container with a lid. Ours was a tub with peanut butter-filled pretzels.
2. A crapload of miniature toys.
3. A 5 lb. bag of rice.
4. Mix together.
5. Screw lid on tightly.
6. Presto! Now you can bring Pippi’s Traveling Treasure Trove virtually anywhere! And your kids can shake it and search for all the hidden treasures. What’s old is new again. And maybe you’ll have some quiet while driving.

And just think. When you’re done with this clever toy, you’ll have rice for dinner.