peskypippi.comBecause I have a lot to say…

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?

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.

My 8th grade son was to participate in a debate at school. This was the culmination of a six-week project. Researching, reading, gathering talking points and facts. He was prepared. Except.

The final part was to dress the part.

Uh oh.

This is a young man who wears jeans, t-shirts, athletic shoes, and a hoodie. Daily.

So, we went shopping. What to wear. It was the great debate.

• Blue shirt or white shirt?
• Silky tie or cloth tie?
• Blue pants or black pants?
• Silver buckle or gold buckle?
• Oxfords or lace-ups?

Ultimately, I encouraged him to pick out what he would feel most confident in.

I think he won the confidence debate, don’t you?

I’m kinda sick of my negative body image issues.

“But, Pippi! You’ve had three children! Each baby stretched out your belly, like three feet!”

Truth. Reality.

It seems that I am running high on negative body issues and low on self-confidence. It concerns me that my less-than-robust self-confidence will mess with my ability to be a strong role model for my children. How can they grow to be self-confident if I don’t exude self-confidence?

“But, Pippi! You’re always so positive and so happy and so loving! You are a great Mom! Your kids adore you! Your husband loves you! You are surrounded by family and friends who think you’re awesome! You have a great job! And, man, what curly hair!”

Truth. Reality. I am so blessed. What am I even complaining about?

“But, Pippi, happiness is about inner beauty and needs to come from within! And not something you seek outside yourself! You know this!”

I do know this. I am my own hurdle. This. Has. Got. To. Change. I need to change this.

I read an article that brought clarity to my jumbled thoughts. It’s about finding happiness within. Gilbert Ross, the author of the How to Find Happiness, is trying to encourage people to break the negative pattern “I will be happy if…” If I lose 20 lbs…If I get a raise…Whatever the if is, it’s always something. This leaves us feeling empty and sad because we are never gonna be happy until we surpass the next hurdle. And there are always more hurdles. (I know this. I ran track and hurdles back in high school.)

As a first step, I am connecting with these negative feelings and am working to transform them. It is high time that I make peace with myself.

After all, I’m clever. I have a winning smile and personality. Golly, people like me! I have so much to be positive about and thankful for in my life.

So that I can continue to be a glass half-full person, I need to also fill my glass with self-love and self-confidence. One drip at a time.

This is something we all deserve. Fill ‘er up.

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.

Shut the Front Door Garden Gate!

The Carrot Seed is a little children’s book, published in 1945, about a boy’s determination…to grow a carrot. Despite the fact that his mother and father and brother are all naysayers. Instead of reassuring him, they all say “It won’t come up.”

Dude! Where is the support? Where is the encouragement? Why would you tell a child that his little seed won’t grow even if he’s doing his best to nurture it?

Whenever I read this book to my kids, they think the boy’s parents are a bunch of assholes. They are right.

Simple premise, yet there is more to this story. This little boy believed in himself, despite the assholes around him.

“Everyone kept saying it wouldn’t come up. But he still pulled up the weeds around it every day and sprinkled the ground with water. And then, one day, a carrot came up just as the little boy had known it would.”

What self-confidence! What empowerment!

I mean, the little dude didn’t just pull up a carrot, he pulled himself up by his bootstraps.

The little boy pulled away from the crowd of children. The other kids were romping around the playground, chasing, skipping, playing tag. Laughing loudly, hollering.

The little boy was humming, smiling, quietly playing on his own. He balanced on the beam, climbed the play structure, did spins on the bars.

• “Mom, look what I can do!”
• His mother would look up from her book, “Oooh, cool! Great job, honey!”

The exchange of words and support made him smile. He continued to hum and meander.

The other eight children were tearing through the park: a colorful, loud mass.

The little boy climbed silently, slid peacefully, smiling and humming.

The kids invited him to join in. He didn’t want to. He knew them; they see each other every week at their older sisters’ soccer practice.

No. He was content to play on his own. To have his own space. To do what he wanted.

He sprawled out at the bottom of the slide and gazed up at the clouds.

The little boy’s mother sat alone on the park bench, separate from the cluster of soccer Moms who were huddled on the sidelines watching the girls practice. The mother was enjoying the late afternoon sunshine, with her book How the García Girls Lost Their Accents, looking up to smile and acknowledge her son. She read; she tweeted on her phone. She was peaceful and quiet. She, too, gazed up at the clouds.

She was content to read and tweet on her own. To have her own space. To do what she wanted.

After all, the apple doesn’t fall far from the monkey bars.

If you didn’t catch the little boy’s mother on the park bench, you can catch her on Twitter here: @PeskyPippi.

One word for Oscar Pistorius, the South African Olympian runner with artificial limbs: awesomeness.

I mean, I tear up at the Olympic athlete stories. Their stories of struggle. Their stories of sacrifice.

But Oscar Pistorius?

This guy has no legs. He had both legs amputated below the knee as a baby and wears prosthetic limbs.

And he ran the 400-meter semi-finals in the Olympics.

Awesomeness.

And I’ve been complaining that I have callouses on my toes.

Dude.

There are naysayers who say his artificial limbs give him an advantage over runners with regular Olympic legs. Are you kidding?? Maybe those naysayers need to walk in Oscar’s shoes for awhile.

Oscar is a true athlete, with amazing ability, attitude, confidence, inspiration, and spunk.

I will never complain about my toes again.

Kickball. Two teams. Two captains. Time to pick teams.

There were always the best players who could kick a home run every time. There were the fast players, who could round the bases with little effort. I was both.

Then there were the kids who were picked last. Their dejected faces drooping, as they shuffled over to the rest of their team. Were their feelings hurt? Did they know they lacked mad kickball skills? Did they know they sorta sucked?

I never knew because I was always a team captain or one of the first to get picked. I was one of the tallest girls in 8th grade. Long legs. Athletic. I excelled at kickball.

It wasn’t until later in life that I started getting picked last. And let me tell you, it sucks.

I play indoor women’s soccer and the teams get formed on the spot. You show up wearing a dark shirt or a white shirt. Forming teams is usually pretty easy. The dark shirts vs. the white shirts. Except sometimes teams are a little skewed. And some player shuffling goes on. I am usually picked, oh, about sixth.

There are six players on the field. Do the math.

I’m still tall tallish and I still have long legs. But I’m not as athletic as I used to be. I definitely do not excel at soccer. But I am decent. I try hard. OK, I try my best. I get sweaty. I’m a team player. I’m competitive. I cannot help but do the comparison:

Pippi = Rudy. Sort of.

You know Rudy? That kid had heart. Even though he only played during the game for like eight minutes.

When I go grocery shopping, I can’t help but think about picking teams, especially when it’s time to select the apples. Pick the shiny, firm apples? Or pick a few that have a little dent or a bruise?

Yeah, I’m that sucker who feels sorry for fruit.

For every half dozen apples I select, I grab a deformed one and vow to eat it first when I get home. Because no one likes getting picked last.

Hey! I’m hanging out with other cool bloggers at Yeah Write. Check them out!

Does this outfit/dress/blouse/sweater/pair of jeans/jacket make me look fat?

Chances are. Yes. We know when we look in the mirror if we are feeling confident with our looks and our choices in outfits. So why do we waste our time asking our husbands/boyfriends/partners if we look fat or not.

If your buttons are gaping; your sleeves dig into your arms; your muffin top runneth over; or you’re just not skinny enough for skinny jeans, then don’t even ask.

Do we really need men to validate our looks and reassure us (even with a fake), “Nah, Sweetie, you look GREAT.” Yeah, kinda.

Here are six more questions that should just be left unasked:

1. Do I have more wrinkles than last year?
2. Do you like my hair better short or long?
3. Where do you want to go for dinner?
4. Do you think the banana bread was dry?
5. How do you like the new outfit I just bought?
6. I bought a new lamp. Do you like it?

Why bring attention to inferior beauty problems? Why focus on the negatives? Why call attention to the extra money spent?

Instead, look in the mirror and smile at yourself. And answer your own questions:

1. Put on the wrinkle cream in private.
2. Wear that new hairstyle with sass—whether short or long.
3. Pick a restaurant that serves beer on draught; he’ll be happy.
4. If you think the banana bread is dry, smear a little butter on it and maybe some peach jam and serve it with a smile. And a glass of water.
5. Wear the new outfit with confidence and save the “outfit talk” for your girlfriends.
6. Give the old lamp to Goodwill. Without a word. He may not even notice.

Some of this “talky talk” is better saved for girlfriends. Or not. Sometimes you may not really want to know what they really think either.