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.

We had a plan to meet up for a visit. My good friend, Irma, and I. Easy enough, she eats at 4:00 p.m.

Admittedly, I scheduled our visit like she was another appointment in my busy day. Get the kids to school, jog, conference calls, dentist appointment, and client meetings, then meet up with Irma. I was to visit my “adopted grandmother” at her senior living community. I drove like a maniac in traffic.

I arrived late. The white-haired crowd had already dispersed from dinner. Dishes were clattering, as the bussers wiped away dropped napkins, rolling peas and spilled iced tea.

A friendly woman, named Barbara, walked me to Irma’s apartment. Apparently, all of the residents know her. How can you resist Irma’s charming smile, funny stories, and kind words? The door was unlocked, as always. I knocked and called out, “Irma! It’s me!” I didn’t want to startle her.

She wasn’t there. Her place was quiet and tidy. Silk flower bouquets. Hummel figurines. A loud ticking clock, marking the seconds. An afghan to cover cold legs.

I left the chocolate chip cookies I had baked on the table, with the lace doily. “Oh, you sweet Darling. You always do such nice things for me,” I imagined her saying. I wanted to hug her frail, ninety-something-year-old shoulders. And see her twinkly eyes and her dangly earrings. The pair I gave her a decade ago. Now, far too heavy for her drooping lobes.

Where was she?

She always showered me with encouraging, complimentary words. I needed my “Irma fix.”

I navigated the maze hallway, down the elevator, and outside to her raised bed garden. In the hopes that she would be tending her delphiniums. At that same moment, Irma was meandering the maze hallway, up the elevator, looking for me.

The delphiniums were a lovely shade of periwinkle blue–though a bit weathered through the heat of summer–and were staked up. With the hopes to stay strong and perky another month. Hopeful.

Circling. Searching. I must have passed the white-haired trio of women sitting on the bench gabbing and enjoying the evening air, four times. They gave me a perplexed look.

An hour later after I had left and was driving down the freeway, Irma called me with her sunshiny voice, “Hello, Dear! I am so sorry. I took a walk and checked my flowers and got caught up talking to one of my friends.”

Of course she did. That is just so Irma.

I smiled, “It’s OK. It was my fault for being late.” (And I mentally kicked myself.) “Let’s plan another visit in a few weeks.”

And I knew that when I said that, that I had better prioritize Irma in my over scheduled life.

Because friends should not be treated like appointments. And Irma, much like her beautiful delphiniums, will not last forever.

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Being the youngest grandchild gave me pampering privileges.

My grandfather, with his Einsteinish hair–crimped, like white cotton candy–would sit in his La-Z-Boy chair, with the cracked seat cushions, letting me pet the whiteness. But only for a few minutes. Too much giggling.

He would let me sit on the armrest while he did his crossword puzzle in the daily newspaper. I loved how he would straighten the newspaper out just so—crackle–and fold it back into quarters, and then into eighths. A perfect rectangle. He was always with pencil. If not in his hand, then one tucked behind his fluff. The heavy black Webster dictionary was by his side. He would look up words as he read and pontificated. And he would put a check mark by the words he looked up with his pencil. Proof that he had been there. Over the years as I would flip through the wonton-thin pages of the dictionary, I was amazed at how many words had been studied.

As I sat by his side, balancing on the armrest, I was encouraged to watch, but not talk too much. He liked my company but he didn’t like distraction. Except for the hefty bowls of Butter Brickle ice cream my grandmother would bring us. The brown sugar toffee crystals would dissolve on my tongue and I’d let the ice cream pool into liquid—savoring and prolonging the moments.

I would sprawl out on the orange-gold shag carpet that smelled a little wooly, a little doggy. I’d spread pillows onto the floor, to make a nest.

His soft pencil scribbles usually lulled me into a nap.

Sometimes, special memories don’t hit you until it’s too late.

I want to go back to that living room on White Oak to hear the newspaper crinkling, smell the carpet, taste the toffee, and fall asleep in my special nest, pampered in the love of my grandparents.

I’m not a fan of washing laundry these days. What a chore.

But it didn’t used to be a chore. Growing up, my mother didn’t buy a washer and dryer until I was a teenager. So, every Saturday night, we’d haul a week’s worth of dirty laundry to the Laundromat.

It was our Saturday-night ritual. And it was kinda like date night.

With a purse full of quarters weighing down one hand and the jug of bleach in the other hand, laundry night was also a workout.

I remember the sounds of the chugging of the washers. We could wash 10 loads at once!

Then we’d sneak out and go next door for donuts. I would get a chocolate old-fashioned doughnut and a bagful of doughnut holes. Oh yeah, and a raspberry jelly-filled doughnut with powdered sugar. The anticipation of folding those mountains always increased my appetite.

When drying the clothes, the Laundromat would fill with the wonderful smell of Bounce. If it was raining, it would be so toasty inside.

Time to eat the donuts and guzzle down the carton of milk. And talk. When it was time to fold, that’s when the party really began.

My mother taught me to match up the socks and fold them over in pairs so they stayed together and how to tri-fold bath towels. Just like the Hilton.

It was together time, snack time, and hang-out time. My mother transformed the typically tedious ritual of doing laundry into Mom-and-daughter date night.

Sometimes I think people don’t really wanna care what you have to say…take a few basic-conversation questions:

1. How was your vacation?
2. How is work going for you?
3. How are the kids?

Does the other person really want to know about your vacation? That you had potato skins as an appetizer, that your hotel comforter was comfy, and that you had perfect weather? No.

Does the other person really want to know about your work? That you’re working too many hours, that your deadlines are crazy, and your boss is cranky? No.

Does the other person really want to know about your kids? That one child had an eye infection, one got a B+ in science, and the other skipped to the next level in swimming? No.

I think people are so entrenched in their own lives that they don’t really want to hear much of anything care about the other person. What they really wanna hear is simply:

1. How was your vacation? Great!
2. How is work going for you? Busy!
3. How are the kids? Happy!

And…you’re done. No time for details. No interest in two-way conversations. Where did the empathy go? It’s now sometimes more like a check-off-your-list: did I ask and did they answer? Check.

I think some people have forgotten their manners. Forgotten how to converse. Forgotten how to listen. Forgotten to care.

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?

Birth stories (La La La). I’m not listening.

Not because I don’t like pain and contractions and epidurals.

I just don’t want to hear about YOUR labor story or HER labor story. At least, not so much.

I mean, you probably don’t want to hear about MY labor story, right?

It’s like this. You get a group of women together and when one starts talking about HER labor story, the others want to jump in and share their stories. When I was in labor…

“I was 6 centimeters dialated.”

“I had a water birth.”

“I only pushed twice.”

Blah, blah, blah. Then suddenly, everyone is talking at once. And no one is listening to anyone. And then women start trying to top each other with who has the most impressive-scary-wild-amazing birth story.

You nod. You gasp. You sympathize. You oohh and you ahhh. Because, like, that’s what you’re supposed to do when chatting about labor with fellow mothers.

But do you really care about the other woman’s story? No, I didn’t think so. Deep down, you want to tell YOUR story.

So here goes Pippi’s birthing and labor stories in the off-chance you want to hear:

1. First baby. Was induced. In labor for 20 hours. Had a midwife. No epidural. Wanted one at the last minute, but it was too late. Pushed for 30 minutes. Learned true meaning of “ring of fire.” Baby arrived healthy. Whew.
2. Second baby. Was induced. Had Mexican food the night before. Mistake. In labor for 14 hours. No epidural. Umbilical cord wrapped around baby’s neck; the nurse told me to to lie down, with minimal movement, for the remainder. Doctor was on her way…running late. The nurse asked me if I could hold the baby in. Are you kidding me?? Pushed for 15 minutes. Baby arrived healthy, despite the cord. Whew.
3. Third baby. Was induced. In labor for 13 hours. No epidural. It was approaching midnight. Tried so hard not to have an April Fool’s baby. Pushed for five minutes. Baby arrived healthy three minutes after midnight…on April 2. Whew.

Post a comment with your labor story. I would just LOVE to hear it.

Read other great blog posts at this link. Tell ‘em Pippi sent you.

Never look a gift horse card in the mouth.

Someone gave my husband a $100 gift card to fancy schmancy restaurant. Not a chain restaurant. And definitely a no-kids-menu restaurant.

It was a teensy tiny place with white table cloths and candles. With a menu written in calligraphy.

Date night! We had big plans of ordering tons of drinks. Tons of apps. Tons of food. Tons of dessert.

I even wore something with a little elastic around the waist to account for expansion.

But whaddya know. After scanning the menu–gulp–prices were so high, our visions of drinks and apps sorta dissipated. Even with the $100 gift card.

“We’re fine with water,” I told the waiter.

I ordered the mushroom ravioli with cream sauce. And my husband ordered the chicken with pesto and pine nuts.

No apps. No extra drinks. Face it. We’re kinda cheap when it comes to restaurants. I mean, we’ll spring on beers and a pile of nachos as big as your Grandfather’s Chevy any day.

What can I say? I like big food. (I also like Sir Mix-a-Lot’s I Like Big Butts song…)

The salads arrived. Nothing special. Just your typical grass-and-weed mix. Crunch. Crunch.

Then the main course. And it looked like this.

I’m not kidding you. I thought I ordered RAVIOLIS. As in a huge pile of them. I felt like the giant in Jack and The Beanstalk eating a pea. What is UP with the ginormous plate and the itty-bitty food that cost as much as my winter parka

Do you take your knife and fork and slice up the one freaking ravioli?

And you won’t catch me offering, “Here honey, try some of mine.”

My husband’s meal was just as comical. He’s a big guy. Like NFL-quarterback big. You can’t fool him with the sauce drizzled in a spirograph pattern, creating an optical illusion.

We finished our dinner snack in about 8 minutes. Taking little bites and drinking lots of water.

The check came. That was that. We shelled out $20 of our OWN money for a tip. And left with our tummies grumbling.

Then we hightailed it Burger King for dinner #2.

giant plants. small portions. kaching.

You like the high guessers.

You know when you buy something that’s a really good deal and you say to your friend, “Guess how much this shirt was?”

And you want your friend to say, “Hmm. $100?”

You say, “Less.”

She says, “$80?”

You say, “Less.”

Until finally, you break the wonderful news…you scored the shirt for $8!

See? High guessing reinforces what a smart shopper you are! And shows what a good friend you have for validating you.

So the other day, I tell my nine-year-daughter when she’s opening a can of fruit cocktail to be careful because those lids are sharp and you can cut yourself. I showed her the scar on my thumb from opening a can of beans. I told her that it bled for hours (indeed, it did….skin was flapping…I could feel my heartbeat in my thumb…yikes!)

She asks “How much blood did you lose? 30 percent?”

Ah, I LOVE this child. She’s a high guesser. SHE will do well in life being a good friend.

This poem, The Prophet On Marriage, was read at my wedding ceremony. Nineteen years ago this year.

In this poem, Khalil Gibran–an author from Lebanon–wrote about togetherness and sharing, but also about being your own person and having your own space.

That Khalil. He was one smart cookie, I mean pita.

The Prophet on Marriage
by Khalil Gibran

Then Almitra spoke again and said…
“And what of Marriage, master?”
And he answered saying:

You were born together,
and together you shall be forevermore.

You shall be together when the white wings
of death scatter your days.

Aye, you shall be together even in the
silent memory of God.

But let there be spaces in your togetherness,
And let the winds of the heavens dance between you.

Love one another, but make not a bond of love.
Let it rather be a moving sea between
the shores of your souls.

Fill each other’s cup but drink not from one cup.
Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf.

Sing and dance together and be joyous,
but let each of you be alone,

Even as the strings of a lute are alone
though they quiver with the same music.

Give your hearts, but not into each other’s keeping.
For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts.

And stand together, yet not too near together.
For the pillars of the temple stand apart.