peskypippi.comBecause I have a lot to say…

I have been drinking the Disney Kool-Aid.

I do not own a Goofy t-shirt. I am not a wearer of Disney pins. My vehicle does not sport a sticker with our family members in Mickey Mouse ears.

Yet I know the songs to The Nightmare Before Christmas. I own the majority of Disney movies on DVD. Even Blu-ray. Watching Cinderella with with my daughter makes me happy. On Sunday nights as a child, I watched The Wonderful World of Disney, cuddled in my jammies. I rode It’s a Small World 30 years ago. And again last week.

See? I’ve been drinking the Disney Kool-Aid since I was a child.

How can you NOT? In our culture, it’s almost force-fed.

As an American family, you “go to Disneyland.” This part was sorta nagging at me since my two youngest kids, aged seven and 10, are the perfect age and we hadn’t been in five years. Down the line, my daughter may not want to go. Or, she may not want to go with me. The time was NOW.

It was my Mom duty to go to Disneyland.

So, I planned a surprise trip, with my husband’s stealth encouragement. The suspense of keeping this secret for two months! On my daughter’s 10th birthday, we sent her to school and promised we’d pick her up a little early to do “something fun.” Maybe a frozen yogurt treat? She’d like that. That’s the kind of girl she is.

On the way to the airport, I nearly peed my pants, I was so excited. Excited to head to sunny California for a few days. But mostly, excited to share the magic with my children. This video shows my daughter’s I-don’t-believe-you reaction, as we announced the Disneyland plans while pulling up curbside at the airport, with her bags secretly packed in the back. You can hear the giddiness (Kool-Aid) in my voice. I don’t think it quite sank in with her until we were actually walking through airport security.

And here we are spazzing out on the airplane. Giddy with excitement! I was extra giddy. I was about to be a kid again and see “the magic of Disney” through their child eyes.

And when the flight attendant asked what we would like to drink, we answered:

“Disney Kool-Aid.” Duh.

They say a tween is the age between middle childhood and adolescence, usually between eight and 12 years old. I have one of those. She turns 10 today.

She is full of life. She is radiant. She is blooming.

In her room, you’ll find her surrounded with 52 stuffed animals that smile down on her. Bunnies, a leopard, dogs, elephants, owls, an alligator, monkeys, bears, dragons, even a sloth. An “animals of the world” wall poster takes up half her room. Where do pygmy marmosets live? Ah, now I know.

A bookshelf with Dork Diaries, Judy Moody, Judy Bloom, A Secret Garden, and old favorites Pinkalicious, Fancy Nancy, The Giving Tree, Goodnight Moon, and Curious George. Dusty soccer trophies since she was four.

Posters with horses galloping in snow, in water. One white horse smiles with a pink rose in her mouth.

A red horse stable in the corner with Breyer horses of all sizes sits next to her cash register for playing store.

On her desk is a bin with 200 markers and thick drawing pads, Origami papers for new birds to form, and a sewing machine waiting for new creations. She has mastered purses and animal tails. Tails? To pin on her skirts, of course.

Her dresser spills over with earrings. Her ears were pierced on her ninth birthday. Cute penguins, hearts, butterfly earrings. Trendy dangly feather earrings.

Her iPod is docked by her bed. My alarm skills are no longer required. Adele songs fill her playlist. She knows all of the words.

Drawers are filled with cheetah-print leggings, polka-dot miniskirts, and t-shirts with puppies. She is a colorful being with her own sense of style.

She plays with her puppy every chance she gets. She shops for new earrings. She jumps rope at recess. She draws fanciful dragons. She wears adult-sized shoes; we are nearly the same size. She bakes cookies with me. She likes to cuddle up by her Dad to watch volleyball. She dresses up in capes, wings, and tails and flies through the house with her little brother. She watches The Simpsons with her big brother. She could easily stay up past midnight on weekends if we let her. She plays an aggressive game of soccer. She makes fairy houses out of twigs.

My girl-child-tween-tween is 10 today. This is just the beginning of her blooming.

It was a decade ago when my husband gifted me a guitar for my birthday. It was the sweetest birthday present ever. Sweet because he was supportive of my “musical dream.”

You see, I kinda wanted to be like Maria from The Sound of Music.

Dorky, right? Are you kidding? Maria was freaking awesome.

I wanted to learn to play Do Re Mi Fa and Old MacDonald Had a Farm for my young son. I was eager to strum along in his Kindergarten class down the line, to entertain the children with my forthcoming talents.

A glistening, wooden acoustic guitar smiled at me, beckoning. With new red picks, a tuner, a guitar case, and everything!

I tried to pluck. I tried to strum. I watched the DVD Playing Guitar for Dummies.

But I couldn’t do it.

I tried. For days. Weeks.

I just couldn’t get the hang of it.

Then, I got pregnant with my daughter. And I got busy with other things. Years passed. My guitar sat lonely in the corner of our living room, gathering dust.

Years later, people would visit and see the guitar and ask, “Cool. Do you play?” “Yeah, I play,” I would lie. Because saying “No, I never learned,” sounded so lame.

I later tried playing from time to time, but I didn’t have the patience (or the skill). I tried Guitar Hero. And I sucked at that too. Red. Green. Blue. Green. Red. Red. Yikes!

Now my daughter is nine and is learning to play the “fancy guitar in the corner of the living room.” We dusted it off. Bought her some new strings and neon picks. She has the patience. And she seems to have some talent.

I smile at her enthusiasm as she strums. And I smile that it was my husband who bought me the guitar in the first place.

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My youngest son turned seven years old today. All he wanted for his birthday was The Batcave Lego set. I obliged.

But he wanted something else.

So the day of his birthday donned a sunny day. Our one sunny day sandwiched between two solid weeks of rain. I took the day off of work so that I could be with him to celebrate his birthday. I had plans of taking him to the zoo, out to lunch…it would be our adventure…let’s go!

Doing up the day my way.

He wanted to stay home to play with his new Legos.

“But it’s sunny out. Let’s go to the zoo,” I urge.

My son was perfectly happy building. All day long.

“I’m fine right here,” he insists. Giddy amidst bricks and instruction booklets.

Well, whaddya know. My baby boy is no baby anymore. While he wants to play all day, he is old enough to know what he likes and wants to do with his time. We parents need to listen to our kids. They deserve it.

Happy birthday baby boy young man!