The Fierce Diva Guide to Life

In Praise of Pop Tarts

 

“Sprinkles, Mommy!  I want sprinkles!”    

“Rainbow or chocolate?”  

“Both, Mommy! I want them both!   Ow!”  My daughter winces. “They’re hurting me!”  

“Look at me, baby!  Look at me!” I turn her head to face mine.   “Don’t look down there!”

“You can have whatever toppings you want.  You can have every topping in the store.”

“Mommy!  Make them stop!”

S. looks past me at the open wound and at the nurse, in the middle of sewing 17 stitches into her leg, as a result of being hit by a car hours earlier. The staff assures me that she can’t feel a thing, but every time she glances at her injury, she panics. 

“What about marshmallow sauce?”

“Yes, Mommy!  Yes!

S. wraps her arms around me and hugs me hard.

For the moment, she forgets about the stitches.

S. was released from the emergency room that night and the next day, I wheeled my daughter, high on codeine, unable to walk and sitting in an old stroller, into the self-serve frozen yogurt store, to make good on my promise.

This has been the year about food.

Not good food.  Not the clean eating green smoothie kind of food that I used to blog about eons ago.

This year has been about comfort food.

It has been about Happy Meals and peanut butter sandwiches and taking my kids for self serve frozen yogurt more time than I can count. It has been about letting them eat their Halloween Candy and Easter Candy that sits in the kitchen cabinet on any day they want instead of it having to be a special day or occasion. It has been about giving my daughter lollipops three times a day when that’s how many times a day I had to change those bandages on her leg, that first lollipop given at 8:00 in the morning.

Our best nights together were are the pancake house, where I never once stopped them from pouring too much syrup on their waffles, the bagels on the way to soccer games washed down by juice  boxes.

Have you ever checked to see how many grams of sugar are in a juice box?

This was the year I stopped caring about things like that.

This was the year that it was more important to me to watch three children marvel at the taste of a waffle when completely engulfed in syrup.   This was the year that I gave them money for school lunch, even on French toast stick day.   This was the year that we ate pizza three nights in a row.

This was the year that while my kids delighted in Girl Scout cookies before dinner or salt water taffy too close to bed, we sat around a table and delighted in each other.  We shared stories, of school days and soccer practices and play dates.  They were conversations sweetened by and bonded over food.  

These were the moments that I sat with them.  These were the moments that I listened.

We’ve had our best discussions over ice cream sundaes, when, in between each spoonful, my giddy sugar rushed children, eagerly offered the truth.    

One night, a few weeks ago, after B.’s school play and on an 8:00 pm run to Target, with all three kids in tow, Miss F. grabbed my hand as I drove.

“Mommy, I have to tell you something.”   

“What is it baby?”

 “I did something you’re not going to like.”  

“Did it happen at school?”

“It wasn’t at school.”

“Did you hurt someone?  Were you fighting with your brother?”

“No, Mommy. No,  I.. I…”

It was then that she burst into tears.

“I stole something.” 

Through her sobs, Miss F. told me the story.  It had happened in Kindergarten, three years ago.  She had taken a tube of Chapstick from a checkout line display in a grocery store, which had sat in a drawer, forgotten about, until earlier that day.

“I want to take it back, Mommy!”  

“We can take it back.”

“And I want to pay for it.  With my own money.” 

“I think that’s a smart idea.”

“I’m so sorry, Mommy!  I’m so sorry!”

“I know you are baby.” 

“Are you mad at me?”

“You’re mad enough at yourself right now.  You don’t need me mad at you, too. As a matter of fact, I think I love you more right now than I ever have.”  

“Why?”

“Because you were brave to tell me the truth.”  

I pull into our parking space and give my girl a hug.

“I promise it will never happen again.  Ever.”  

“I know it won’t.  Just promise me one more thing?”

I gently grab my girl’s face and turn her eyes toward mine.

“Just keep talking to me.  Every day.  About everything.  Please.  Just keep talking.”   

###

This post is dedicated to Eli Pacheco of Coach Daddy Blog, and was inspired by his post, “What Sandy Hook Taught Me: Keep My Girls Close" that I featured as one of my favorites of the year.  His resolve on how to parent in the wake of the Sandy Hook Tragedy is by far the best I have come across.  If you haven't read this post, you really should. 

This post is also written in memory of my father, Douglas Kaplan, who passed away last week, on the 24^th of April. Running is how we kept each other close, even during the years when we weren't.   Running was our language.  Then, now, and always.  

 

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How to Trash a Vet's Office in 30 Seconds

Bring on the Noise

How to Trash a Vet's Office in 30 Seconds

 

 

“Mom, if I ate 50 hot dogs, how much would I poop?”

“Dude, can we talk about this later?”

“It would be like fifty times the poop I make now, right?”

“Stop,” I mutter.  I eye Dr. S. apologetically as she works on Dolly.

“It’s ok,” she says.  I have boys.

She kneads the dog’s belly.

“It might be intestinal. I’m going to take some x-rays.” Dr. S. whisks the tiny shih tzu out of the exam room and down the hallway. 

The dude and the two girls spill into the waiting area and run around in circles. 

“Guys we can’t do that here.”

They stop and wander to the reception desk and fiddle with the Happy Easter banner taped to the front. S. tugs at the center and rips it down the middle. 

“What just happened?”

“It was an accident Mommy.”

“I’ll fix it,” Miss F. offers.  “I’ll get some tape.”

I look at all three of them and speak slowly.  “We are done touching things.”

Yet, as I’m speaking, the dude grabs a paper Easter basket that sits on a magazine table and squeezes it until it collapses. 

I grab it out of his hand.

“Sorry,” he says.

I glare at him.

“Sit down now or you will never play Wii again.  Ever.”

Dr. S. reappears with Dolly and hands her to me. 

“I can’t get a clear picture on where the blood is coming from.  You’re going to have to take her for an ultrasound.”

There is more blood than there was before, both on the dog and Dr. S.

“She might need a transfusion.  I’ll call over to the hospital.”  

The kids gather around me as Dr. S. contacts the high tech veterinary clinic one town over.

“What’s wrong with her?” S. asks.

“We’re not sure yet, baby.”

They follow me to the seats by the window and comfort Dolly, who’s visibly shaking. 

As they scratch her chin and stroke her head, I remind myself that these are good kids. 

They’re scared, and sometimes it’s easier to say silly words or run around in circles than deal with the scared.  Sometimes, it’s easier to rip up Easter decorations instead of dealing with what makes us afraid. 

Sometimes, it’s easier to be pretend-stoic and be hard on your kids than admit to how freaked out you were coming home to a dog covered in blood, lying in the middle of your kitchen.   

I had a hard time holding it together when I found that dog. How could I expect my kids to?

I’ve seen it all with these foster dogs. They come to us sick, skinny, beaten. Some hide under tables.  Some hoard food. 

All of them are scared.

Yet, with some love from us, they learn to be a little less afraid.

Love goes a long way. It goes a lot farther than fear any day.

xo

 

Editor’s note: Dolly is doing great and was adopted over the weekend! 

 

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Nine Things I {Almost} Know for Sure about Parenthood

Bring on the Noise

Bring on the Noise

 

“I think I know what you’re going to decide,” I say, after I’ve explained her options.

“You do?”

“I’m pretty sure of it.”

“Is it OK? Mommy, is it OK?”

The letter explained that our town will have two cheer squads this year for the age level of my daughter.  One will be competitive, whose goal will be to win the national title in their division, and one squad will be non-competitive, who will cheer at football games.  

Their decision to split into two squads does not surprise me, since many of the parents of these girls, as young as eight, were outraged at the pressure the kids were under to perfect a routine that included stunts, considered dangerous by many, for young girls to perform.   The practices were grueling, two three hours at a time, four days a week, where full concentration was required and it was not unheard of for a coach to yell to bring order back to the room.

Competition cheer is serious business.  I’m a soccer mom and a softball mom, but cheer is an entirely different animal.

The drama and the pressures that I witnessed last season were reality show material.  

I understood the gravity of the situation going into it for the first time last year and explained the ramifications to my daughter the best I could. I never pressured or even suggested that she cheer.   It’s more or less that last thing I would have advised or even thought she’d want to do.  

As a competition squad, their purpose never revolved around football games.  They did cheer at games, yet, at the same time, games were irrelevant.  They were practicing for something bigger from the beginning.

There are those who would argue that cheering simply to compete takes away from the true purpose of cheer, which is to encourage an actual team, playing on a field or court in front of them, and to spread school or town or team spirit.  Yet, given we have two options, only one of them makes sense for us.

You all saw me kick and scream last year over the arguments I had with my girl, the over the top fundraising, the time commitment, and the anxiety over the expense of competition shoes, hair bows, and paying to get us to Florida. There were tears and fights and exhaustion and fake hair pieces for crying out loud.

But, with that said…

I’m letting her compete. 

There’s a difference between doing a good job as a parent and doing a good job as the parent of my own child. 

And I know my child.

She is raw energy with a soul so big that it’s barely containable inside that little body.

She’s intense, like her mother, and in order for her to navigate this world successfully, she needs productive channels in which to throw her intensity.  Because if not, she’ll find destructive channels, or the destructive channels will find her. 

Clearly, I’m talking from experience.

Because for each blog post I’ve written or marathon or half marathon I’ve run or dog I’ve rescued or yoga class I’ve taught, there is something I’ve done as a child or in my young adult life that was as equally destructive as those things are productive, because it’s that same little piece of soul that drives all of those actions.

You can’t change the shape of a person’s soul, but as Miss F.’s mother, I need to know how to steer gently around its curves and corners and teach her to do the same.

 

The most loving thing I can do for my child is allow her to throw herself into cheer and compete with all her heart.

A heart like hers will know great hope and great disappointment. A heart like hers will hurt more than most after defeat. But it will also swell with a happiness known to few over each of life’s victories.  A heart like hers needs to embrace the things and people that will bring her both challenges and joy and provide a place where it feels safe to love life and the things and people around her out loud.

For me and Miss F., loud is all we know. There’s no such thing as being quiet. We’ll shout out the window instead of inside the room if you’re sleeping, or into a pillow if we must, but be warned, we don’t whisper. 

Ever.

If you’re gonna hang with us, you’d better expect some noise.  

 

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Nine Things I {Almost} Know for Sure about Parenthood

Suddenly Sarah

5 For Friday: Guest Post at Coach Daddy

 

Oh, the joy of going grocery shopping by yourself - a luxury that only a mother could understand.

A mall without kids in tow?  It feels as if you’ve just won the lottery.

A girl’s night out? Heaven.

Earlier this week, I confessed to not being the “best” at this mom thing. There are times, I’m selfish.

There are times that even after being away from my kids all day, I just want to leave the house alone.

If I am going to get really honest, there are five places where I’d actually prefer to never take my kids again. 

Ever. 

Under any circumstances.

Some of the places may not make sense to you.  But they make sense to me. 

Today, I am discussing those 5 places that I never want to take my kids over at Eli’s blog, Coach Daddy.

Eli became one of my favorite bloggers literally overnight after I read his reaction piece to the Sandy Hook shootings back in December.  If you haven’t read it, you really ought to.  There is nothing else that will make your heart swell or that will make you want to hug your kids right now more than reading that post. But Eli also writes about a ton of other cool stuff that has to do with coaching soccer and being a parent and being lousy at lent.   

I am grateful that Eli is sharing his space with me today, and there’s room for all of us. 

So come over and visit us. 

Meet you at Eli’s place. 

Nine Things I {Almost} Know for Sure about Parenthood

 

I’m not the best at this mom thing. There are times, I’m selfish. I’d rather write a blog post or go for a run than get down on the floor and play Legos with my kids.  There are times I don’t listen the way I should.  There are times I yell.

I have come to look upon motherhood as a work in progress.  In some instances, I have let go of certain ideals.  In other instances, I have adopted new ones.  Just when I think I have something figured out, I realize how very little I actually know.       

My oldest child, Miss F., turned nine on Saturday.  There is a distinction about celebrating the birthday of the oldest, because it also marks the anniversary of the day you became a mother.  And while I still have a huge learning curve ahead when it comes to parenting, these are the nine truths that I live by.   

1. Putting myself first makes me a better mother

Martyr mom I’m not and have never been.  For the one week I tried it back in 2005, I was miserable. I adore my kids more than anything and I want what’s best for them.  But I’ve also learned that when I take care of myself, whether that means getting my “run” in before Lego time, or closing my office door for an hour in the evening to write a blog post, I am a much better mother. 

2.  My kids will become who they are supposed to be despite my parenting mistakes  

My family would be a great study for nature versus nurture. I have often said that I made all of my mistakes on Miss F., with her being my first child.  Given my misfires, which include taking behavioral expectations to a whole new level, she could have become the most obedient, uptight child known to man.  Fortunately, nothing stops this girl from speaking her mind.  And I mean nothing.  And while she could easily resent me for being stricter with her than my other two, she has grown into the kindest, most compassionate soul there is. 

3.  I am more likely to score a date with Justin Timberlake than retrieve my pre-baby body

Women I know everywhere lament over that post pregnancy weight or the physical changes they embark after baby.  I actually weigh the same as I did before I became pregnant, but the weight is in different places than it used to be.  Do I love this fact?  No.  But there is only so much I can do within the realm of reason to work with this.  I have a choice.  I can channel valuable mental energy into counting calories and performing grueling workouts, or I can live my life. 

4.  Your kids will not die from eating crap

If you have followed my blog from the beginning, then you know what a freak I am about clean eating.  And while I do believe that processed foods have a huge contribution to our health problems, there are times that I can’t be bothered with more than making mac and cheese from a box for dinner (which, I suppose, may explain all those different places the weight has gone to???).

5.  Teach them the best you can and then let it go

Just as I have fumbled and made mistakes as a parent, your kids are going to fumble and make mistakes too.  And it’s going to drive you crazy, especially when you see it coming.  Miss F. had some social problems in school last year that had me acting like a helicopter parent.  I was hovering, all right.  I was totally trying to control the problem. 

Here’s the ugly truth about my micro-parenting – when I am trying that hard to manage her life, it’s because I am motivated by my own agenda and baggage. 

I was “that kid” back in the second and third grade, awkward, not very popular, the last to get picked for kick ball.   Most of us would rather throw ourselves in front of a locomotive than want our kids to have that kind of social status, but we can only do so much to secure their ranking in this world.  If your kids have a place to come home to where they are loved and accepted unconditionally, the rest won’t matter quite as much.  Furthermore, than unconditional love goes a lot farther than your trying to control.  

6. Love them for who they are

Unless my kids are putting themselves or someone else in danger, and unless they are breaking a significant social or moral code, I have learned to teach without trying to change and I have learned to suggest without trying to control.   Embrace them for their flaws in a way that you wish someone would embrace you for yours.

7. Have mentors

Supposedly this parenting thing is instinctual, but at times, not so much for me.  I am lucky that I have great role models.  Some of the best, most inspiring advice I have gotten of recent has come from Kim Hall, one of my favorite bloggers.   Go meet her.  She rocks.  

8. Never use your children as an excuse to not pursue the things you love

There is no better surefire way to die with regrets and resentments than to use your kids as your excuse to not chase your dream.  If there is something you really want to do, whether it be go to school, change careers, or pursue a hobby, find a way to do it.  You might lose sleep. You might go into debt.  You might have to give up a substantial amount of time with your children for a specific period. 

Remember you have choices. It’s ok to choose your kids over another life goal because after children, priorities shift.  But if you have that burning in your heart to do something, you’d better find a way. 

Also, have the honest conversation with yourself.  Do you really not have the time because of your children or are you using them to mask your fear?

9.  Give into missing socks

Is the missing sock worth losing your serenity over? They are going to go missing.  Give up on trying to find them and accept they’re gone forever.  Go to Target and buy a new pack.

###

It’s messy, this parenting stuff.  It has humbled me the way nothing else ever has.  But it has also made me push myself harder than I ever thought possible.  It’s as daunting as it is rewarding and as terrifying as it is cool.   I have some more mistakes in me, for sure, but hopefully a victory or two as well.   I’m thinking mac and cheese would be the perfect main course for that next victory dinner.  

~Namaste

 

What are your tried and true lessons of parenting? 

 

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Diva Versus the Board of Education

The members of Board of Education nodded their heads in unison as if prompted by ventriloquists, while we took turns making our remarks. That only seven parents out of a school with 300 students showed up did not help our cause.  Perhaps I expected too much from people.  It was "American Idol"  night after all, and after a long day at work, people needed to catch up on the Important Things!  Like playing Words with Friends! And Farmville!  

Despite our pleas, the forced resignation of our school's highly respected, untenured principal was accepted. He was the casualty of politics, personnel shuffling, and all of the things that make the business of running a school district unsavory.

After the meeting, I decided to be brazen, interrupt people's Farmville time, and ask parents to write letters.  The Board had made up their mind,  yet it was important for them to see that we would not take their decision lying down.  We were "Concerned Parents." We were watching.         

Many parents responded with enthusiasm.  They wrote letters.  They asked their friends to write letters.  Others declined.  Other ignored. 

As I spoke to parents, some were taken aback by my demonstrative stance.  I was forceful.  I was brash.  I wasn't behaving like a Fierce Diva.

Sometimes being a Fierce Diva does not get the job done, especially with the Board of Education or other red tape institutions. 

In these select and special instances, forget about being a Fierce Diva. You will need to become a crazymotherfucker.

You know me, Divas.  I'm no helicopter parent.  I don't jump in front of my children to protect them from every potential, random, imaginary harm.    However, when it comes to the "big issues," the ones where they actually need protection, such as their health, their safety, or their schooling,  I will be the first one to open my mouth.   

Not only am I not afraid of the Board knowing I'm a crazymotherfucker, I want them to know.  I want them to fully understand that I am the mom who will organize letter writing campaigns and stage protests.  Throw me in jail! I don't care.  I've been there before, as you know.  I want them to know that I am the mom who will call the local newspapers, "Seven on Your Side,"  and Michelle Rhee, former Chancellor of the Washington D.C.  Public Schools, the Ultimate Fierce Diva AND crazymotherfucker, to come up here and straighten out their asses.  Oooooh, I'd like to see them try to fuck with her.   

It's best not to act like a crazymotherfucker alone.  The more crazymotherfuckers you can round up, the better. My guess is that if 300 parents had shown up for that Board of Education meeting instead of staying home for "American Idol," and we had all acted like crazymotherfuckers, maybe the Board would have made a concession.  Perhaps they would have held one of their closed "emergency sessions" to reevaluate the resignation of our principal.

Although it's best not to act alone as a crazymotherfucker, someone has to be the first.  When a cause hits your town that you believe in and that requires someone to rock the boat, perhaps you will be the one who leads the crusade.  When you ask others to join in, some may refuse. They may tell you that the issue has no impact on them.  But it does.  Everything that happens in this world affects all of us, whether we realize it or not.  When you begin to realize it's not about "you" and that it's actually about "us," then you have truly become a Fierce Diva.

Namaste, Divas!

 

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*This is a post from last year that I am "recycling" for Adrienne's "Going Green" link up! 

 

 

The Coolest Guy on Facebook

Confession:  I’m not really that great of a Facebook “friend.” My timeline is one filled with shameless self- promotion. “Please buy Girl Scout cookies!”  “Come to my yoga class!”  I brag about my kids.  I get on my soapbox about rescuing dogs.   I use it to pimp my blog so that if you’re not subscribed to my Fierce Diva page, I’ve still cornered you into getting alerts about new posts (although I’d love you forever if you go like my Fierce Diva page.  I mean that).  

Now, if you want a timeline that’s truly worth following, may I suggest putting in a friend request to Balthazar?  Balthazar, the subject of the post below, is an old colleague, whose jet setting lifestyle could not be any more different than my day-to-day and whose wry one liner status posts are laugh out loud funny.  Balthazar has never once pimped Girl Scout cookies or tried to cajole anyone into taking in a foster dog, and no one in this world has ever swung more heartlessly hilarious punches at Taylor Swift (sorry fans – but even you’d be laughing at  the things he says!)

This is another one of my earliest posts and one of my favorites.  Once you meet Balthazar, you’ll understand why.

 

 

BALTHAZAR, THE COOLEST GUY ON FACEBOOK 

 

"Dear Vegas, you suck.  Love, Balthazar." 

Balthazar has checked into the United Club at Newark Liberty International.  I imagine him, young and single, hanging out in the first class lounge in a pair of Abercrombie jeans and vintage wash oxford, sipping a Bloody Mary, while I sit at my desk gulping coffee, in my yoga clothes, slightly damp from perspiration, seven a.m. on a Wednesday morning, while I enjoy a few last moments of quiet before the kids barrel down the stairs.  Balthazar's Facebook status stands out like a pearl among the suburban trifles in my newsfeed.  Recital photos, Pampered Chef party invites, kitchen renovations,  trips to Disney World, and Balthazar, on his way to Vegas for business for the gazillionth time this year. 

Balthazar  has posted about his breakup with Vegas with unaffected nonchalance more than once.  He's over the first class plane tickets,  trendy hotels, and comped bottles of champagne.  Balthazar leads a lifestyle that I let go of a long time ago for domestication.  To someone like me, who does a "girls night out" twice a year, at best, I'm amused by his indifference, if not disdain, for the in-room Jacuzzis, nightclubs, and lobster dinners. 

Balthazar and I knew each other for a few years during my "pre-diva" days.  It was a peripheral relationship that would have faded, had it not been for Facebook keeping everyone "connected."  The funny thing about Facebook is that it keeps certain relationships artificially alive well after they hit the end of their lifespan, while other relationships are resurrected in a different context.  I have become a champion of Balthazar's quick, clever one-liners.  He rips his anonymous co-workers to shreds, criticizes the lack of style of the people in the airport security lines, and complains about the crying toddler that they ALWAYS seat behind him on his cross country flights.   I've "followed" him to Florida for some R&R, and a road trip to Albany to check out a Hot New Band.  He goes out drinking on school nights and eats at trendy restaurants.  Balthazar is the coolest guy on Facebook. 

If you go to Balthazar's timeline, you'll see that I have "liked" almost every status he has posted.   Because they're fun, unpredictable, and a diversion from middle aged suburbia.  I'm not against reading about your child's baseball game or looking at your recital photos.  I look forward to them. Reading your posts allows me to keep up with your life.  However, Facebook is not only how I keep up with all of you,  it's also my innocent five-minute brain break,  my escape.  Facebook is the "Mother's Little Helper" of the twenty-first century. 

For a moment here and there, I go to Vegas, the Caribbean,  or eat tapas with a microbrew in Hoboken, on a Thursday night.  Not that I'd want to be there every Thursday night.  I want to be here.  Yet, Balthazar is my window, a reminder, a vicarious dip in a penthouse swimming pool while the pasta water is boiling or while the kids are in the bath.

I can't wait to see where Balthazar is going next.  And thanks to Facebook, I get to go with him. 

 

 Do you have a vicarious life through a jetsetting friend or someone you know on social media? 

 

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My Evil Mistress

Love Revisited

Love Revisited

Hey, guys,

The Fierce Diva is on re-runs for the next few weeks, dusting off some of my earliest posts, the ones I wrote before anyone was reading, and giving them a second life.  I thought this would be fun to do leading up to my one year anniversary of blogging, which falls the end of the month.

“Love” is one of my favorite posts, and was also where I introduced Miss F. to my readers. Raising Miss F. can be a challenge for me, which also makes her my greatest teacher.

Happy Valentine’s Day and love to you and yours! 

 xo 

 

LOVE 

 

 

"Mrs. Evans," the school nurse begins on the phone, "Miss F. has a piece of plastic notebook spiral caught in her finger.  No one is exactly sure how it got there."

My daughter is the Accident Queen.  She has fallen out of trees and down stairs, chipped teeth, jammed staples through her thumb, had her lip split with a baseball, and has given herself black eyes. I've learned that unless the fever is over 105 degrees or there is blood coming out of someone's ear, not to get too worked up over these things.

I arrive at the office of the school nurse.  Miss F. is sitting at a small table, reading a book.  "It's in pretty deep," the nurse says.  "I didn't want to fuss with it.  I think it's best you take her to the doctor to have it removed."

"Let me see, baby," I say to Miss F., who tentatively raises her finger, along with the attached small plastic spring, the kind you find on party favor notebooks.

Before anyone can say another word, I yank it out.

"Ah!!!!!!"  Miss F. yells.  "Why did you do that?"

"So you can go back to class,"  I say, grabbing an alcohol swab from the nurse.  I hug her and kiss her forehead as I bandage up the tiny cut.  Miss F. shoots me a wounded stare.  She takes my impromptu surgery as a betrayal.  Miss F. does not like surprises. 

Miss F. has been unpredictable this year.  Some days she wants to curl up next to me on the couch and other days, I feel like I've lost her, to her friends, her diary, and the chapter books she escapes to for hours at a time.  One of my most valuable informational takeaways from studying yoga is the knowledge that the onset of puberty begins at the age of 8 for most children, when the pineal gland, a tiny gland at the top of the spinal cord, which has a balancing influence on the activities of the brain, begins to degenerate.  When this happens, many children become emotional,  or easily disturbed.*  This would explain the changes that many  parents see in their children once they hit second grade,  the sassiness, the mood swings at a new level of intensity. 

Second grade has not been easy for Miss F.  It has marked the beginning of social disappointments, the year that the girls become more discriminating within their friendships, and the discovery that the girls who were your best friends a year ago may not be your best friends forever.  

Part of the problem is that Miss F. has impossibly high expectations of others, a trait she has inherited from me.  I have learned to temper this liability through maturity, but not before experiencing much suffering, at the realization that sometimes in life, others may not love me the same way I love them.  

A few weeks ago, on a Sunday, MIss F. asked if I would take a walk with her. 

"A walk..." I stammer.  I rummage my brain to figure out if I can make the time.  There is the dog to take care of.  A stack of medical bills to decipher from my husband's surprise hospital stay a few weeks back.  I need to start dinner. 

"Ok, let's do it," I say.  I need to take her up on these moments, where she will still allow herself to be my little girl.

We walk through the neighborhood, chatting about school, softball, the summer, which is only weeks away.  We come to a bridge that goes over some marsh lands.  Miss F. wants to divert from the path and head down a small trail. 

A few yards into the trail she stops.  "Mommy! Look at that spider web! It's perfect!"  She points to some reeds that have become the stakes for a perfectly shaped orb, the fine silky threads shimmering from the reflection of the late day sun.  I kneel down next to her and inspect the web.  It's beautiful.  I never would have seen it, had she not pointed it out.  I bulldoze through life, barreling through laundry, emails,  homework, dirty dishes, teaching yoga, writing, and making school lunches for the kids.   I am always onto the next thing, never stopping except for sleep. 

"It looks like Charlotte's web, doesn't it?" Miss F. asks. 

"It does, baby, it's beautiful."

We head home.  It's dinner time.  The smell of barbecue wafts through the air. 

"I can't believe I'm eight already Mommy.  I just can't believe it!"

"Me, neither baby." 

"I wanted to tell you something else.  I forgive you."

"Forgive me for what?"

"For taking that spring out of my finger at school.  It would have been silly to go to the doctor.  Besides, it didn't even hurt when you pulled it out.  It hurt more in my mind than when you actually did it.  You know what I mean? 

"Yes, baby, I know exactly what you mean." 

Miss F. grabs by hand.  She holds it tightly as we walk. 

At least for this moment, she's still mine. 

 

*Taken from Yoga Education for Children, published by the Bihar School of Yoga,

 

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Coming Home

This Ain't My First Rodeo

It was a death wish.

But I had no choice.

We had not one roll of toilet paper in the house. Not one, not even that last little square stuck to the brown paper roll in the middle.  Nothing.  Nada.  Zilch.

I thought better than of running to Costco, since as you may remember, I cannot get out of that place for less than $139.00.  And although the exit fee at Target is not much smaller, it seemed like the lesser of two evils, especially on a Saturday afternoon, where everyone in Northern Monmouth County is at one overcrowded store or the other.

I told my mother, who was watching my kids, that I would “run out and be back quickly,” but that was a lie.

I was alone, as in all alone, in a Target, without children.  I was going to take my sweet old time.

I’ve brainwashed myself in recent years into thinking that taking the kids with me to a store like Target would end up costing me 20% more at checkout than if I had been there alone.  But that 20% is a 100% mistruth.  When I go without my kids, there is always the same upcharge, if not more, because I have time to browse and look at all of the things that I never knew I needed. My storage shelves, purple and orange Champion running bras, maroon hand towels, and sautee pans, along with their unbudgeted bills, tell that story well.

Those marketing people at Target are genius, since you walk right into the clothing section as you enter the store. There was not a chance of my heading left toward toilet paper until I perused the racks of off the shoulder sweatshirts (you know I love that Flashdance look!), tank tops, and newly launched spring dresses. Then, at the back wall of the clothing section, this tee shirt caught my eye…

 

And I fell in love with it.

The saying on it felt like the story of my life, or at the least, the story of my trying to navigate a very crowded Target on a Saturday afternoon, and I thought it might be fun to have it.   And then I realized that I was about 25 years too old to wear a shirt like that, and besides, it was not in my budget.

I resolved to leave the clothing section, but not before I passed a sale rack with

this coat on it.

I think I may have gasped out loud when I saw this coat, and once I picked it up, it was all over.  It was so soft, it had a great silhouette, it was my size! And it was $19.99.  I grabbed it and ran to the dressing room, or I should say elbowed my way through the thick crowed of shoppers. 

Excitedly, I took the coat off the hanger and tossed it on. ..to completely have my perfect coat for $19.99 fantasy ruined by the fact that it looked like an oversized  tutu dress on me.

 

On the hanger, the ruffle looked so cool – but on me, not so much.

Disheartened, I left the dressing room.  Even though this mis-match saved me some cash, it’s totally OK in my book to spend $19.99 on “the perfect coat found on a clearance rack.”  I was off for toilet paper..but not before passing the bath section, where I realized I needed a new shower curtain for our downstairs bathroom.  Shower curtain, check.  New shower liner, check.  New shower hooks?  What the heck?

Finally, I headed toward the checkout line, where I stood for several minutes, until I realized I had forgotten toilet paper.

I ran across the store once more, grabbed the toilet paper and headed back toward the cash registers.

I bought a 12 pack, with the thought that it will keep me out of Target for a while.

Until tomorrow at least?

 

What store is your downfall?

What was your last impulse buy when you were out to buy a "neccessity item?"

  

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Fierce Like Me

Fifty Shades of Shades

Happy Endings...Kind of

It wasn’t a pretty scene that Friday morning.  I’d like to blame it on a long week of pulling midnights to get my editor work done, but by most Friday’s, I’m tired.  My filter is gone, and one whiny outburst from a child will result in my being less than compassionate. 

Less than compassionate I was, as I gave Miss F. “the hand” when she shrieked over not having the “right shoes” to wear to her end of season cheer banquet that night.

I knew it was going to be a problem, and it was one of those problems that I begged would go away. Shoe shopping with Miss F. was tedious, as often, her narrow heel slipped out of every pair of flats in the store.  We could take hours, if not days, to find the right shoes, so being the less than compassionate mom that I sometimes am, I didn’t buy shoes for my daughter to go with her fancy cheer banquet dress.

I suppose I was wishing for a shoe fairy, which fortunately I found, when in the eleventh hour, I reached out to a kind hearted neighbor with a daughter the same age, who loaned us shoes fancy enough for Miss F.’s liking.  

Still, I huffed in my mind, since on this Friday, after a long day and a long week, the “fancy shoe” incident seemed like another hassle in a long line of many that I have associated with cheer. 

Miss F. disappeared into a crowd of the girls from her squad as soon as we arrived at the banquet.

They danced, they tossed each other around (as cheerleaders like to do), they sang Karaoke, and genuinely enjoyed each other’s company.   These girls, after ten hours plus a week of practices together, twelve hour competition days, and a collective trip to Florida, were a second family to each other, and it showed.

The coaches led the awards ceremony with the music to their routine playing in the background.

As much as I kicked and screamed through most of cheer season, hearing that music made me cry.

I saw my daughter grow in amazing ways these past six months, and much of that growth can be attested to her participation on a team.

We all have teams in our lives, most of us have more than one.   Marriages, family, friends, sports, and work relationships are all teams.   Sometimes, the team work on one team is harder than on others.  Sometimes, we have to put in the extra effort for a team mate who isn’t towing the line, and sometimes, we have to sit out on a play that we were excited for.   People leave the team, people join, people get traded, and with each shifts comes a shift in synergy.  Sometimes the new synergy works and sometimes, it doesn’t. 

I’ve played on winning teams before, and I’ve played on teams that failed, and with each failure, I‘ve needed to look at myself.  Because when a team fails, it’s rarely the fault of one person.

In the first cheer completion of the season, I worried about Miss F., a flier, falling down from the top of her pyramid and being blamed for the team’s failure, until a friend of mine explained to me the obvious:  When a flier falls, it’s not just the flier’s fault, it’s the fault of the back spots as well.  Of course it is.  It’s a team effort. A flier can’t be expected to maintain that perfect balance mid-air on her own.  She needs to be supported by her foundation.

I did a replay of the morning in my mind, the walking past Miss F. with my hand up.  That wasn’t being supportive of my team.  That was “I don’t have time for this bullshit,” except not having the right shoes to go with her outfit wasn’t bullshit to my daughter.  

Through the eyes of an eight year-old, the having the right shoes was meaningful.   Even if the problem wasn’t important to me, being on her team meant that I needed to let her know that I understood that it was important to her.

After dinner, an ice cream sundae bar and dancing until 11, the banquet ended. Miss F. was tired, but she was happy to have spent the night with her girlfriends, her team.

As I drive us home, I decide it’s time to revise our playbook.  

 

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