A Farewell To Woody

Woody moved out last weekend. After living with us for four years, he packed his bags and walked out the door. He didn't even say goodbye. He just left. And he took Buzz Lightyear and Cowgirl Jessie with him.

I still remember the day Woody moved in. It was Christmas morning, just after Eric's third birthday. Santa brought him during the night and he was waiting under the tree when we woke up. Everyone was thrilled to meet him, especially Eric.

Eric has been watching Toy Story all summer.

Over. And Over. And Over.

He knew all the lines. "There's a snake in my boot!" Eric would scream before collapsing to the floor in giggles. No one was surprised when Eric sat on Santa's lap and whispered in his ear "May I have a Cowboy Woody, Please." Of course, Santa said yes.

It all started out so beautiful. Woody and Eric became best friends. Woody slept in Eric's bed, most often squashed beneath him. They played together every day and shared secrets. Eric even wrote his name on the bottom of Woody's brown boot - in permanent marker.

I guess I thought it would last forever. I thought nothing would ever change. I believed the magic would never end. Only it didn't turn out that way.

Eric stopped watching Toy Story and became infatuated with Spider Man. Woody never said anything but I'm sure he was jealous.

Then Woody moved out of Eric's bed. He claimed he was more comfortable sleeping in the toy box with the other action figures. But I suspect he really missed staying up past bed time and singing songs with Eric.

Eventually, they drifted apart.

When the final breakup came, Eric and Woody shook hands amicably and went their separate ways. Cowgirl Jessie and Buzz collected their gear, sighed and waved goodbye.

Nobody shed a tear.

Except me.

A hot cup of Metaphors for Breakfast

Some people play sports. Some people play cards. Some people play with their food. I like to play with words. So I hope that you will enjoy a little bit of word play with me, just for the fun of it.

A Hot Cup of Metaphors for Breakfast

I’m going to mix my metaphors
And then sit down to eat
A hearty heap of synonyms
A truly tasteful treat.

After, I’ll check my Thesaurus
Just to see about how far it is
To the downtown dictionary
The definition of exemplary.

And if I’m really patient
I may spy an alliteration
Perched atop a paragraph tree
Singing sweet similes to me.

As the sentence commences
Exuding with exclamation,
I’ll locate the last lexicon
In the closing punctuation.

Fall down. Get Up. Repeat.

Fall down. Get Up. Repeat.

Fall down. Get Up. Repeat.

I’m at Eric’s hockey game looking at a poster hanging on the wall. It’s a photo of a little boy, about six years old, wearing a hockey jersey, helmet and skates.

He has a hockey stick in his hand and a smile on his face. The boy is picking himself up after a fall on the ice.

The caption says “Fall Down. Get Up. Repeat.” It’s one of my favorite posters.

Eric (age 7) is almost ready to go onto the ice for his game. I hold out my fist and he knocks his knuckles against mine.

“Skate fast.” I say. "And fall down."

Eric smiles. “I will.”

A mom standing next to me overhears and gives a puzzled look. I know she is thinking “What kind of Mom tells her kid to fall down?”

This kind. I know something she doesn’t know. Falling down is one of the most important things to learn when you are playing hockey.

Mark Messier fell down. Mario Lemieux fell down. Even Wayne Gretsky fell down. And he's the great one.

Good players don’t mind falling down. It’s part of the game.

Just like in the poster.

Kids know this. Kids are not afraid to fall down.

Beth (age 2) knows about falling down. A few days ago we were playing at the playground. Beth was sitting on the big kid swings.

“Push me higher Mom!” she ordered. I pushed. Beth shrieked with glee.

While Beth was giggling, Emily (age 4) came over to join us. As I helped Emily onto one swing, Beth plummeted off the other. She landed face first in the playground mulch and burst into tears.

I ran to her, scooped her in my arms and held her close. Less than a minute passed before she looked at me. “I’m OK.” She said.

I wiped her face with my sleeve and put her back on her feet. She climbed onto the swing.

Fall down. Get up. Repeat.

Falling down isn't just for hockey and playgrounds. And it’s not just for kids.

Grownups need to fall down too. But for some reason, as we grow up, we stop allowing ourselves to fall. We develop fear.

We talk ourselves out of trying something new. We talk ourselves out of pushing harder. We talk ourselves out of taking chances. All because we want to succeed but we are afraid to fail.

But contrary to what most people think, success doesn’t come from success. Success comes from failure.

Success comes from falling down, picking yourself up, and trying again.

And trying again.

And trying again.

It’s true for athletes. It’s true for engineers. It’s true for actors. It’s true for actuaries.

To be successful, you need to risk failure. You need to accept failure when it happens. You need to learn from failure. You need to press on.

Fall down.

Get Up.

Repeat.

The Problem with Puce

Author's Note:
This was prepared for a creative writing class. I was told to "be a color."

The other students picked red, black, orange, pink; the kind of colors found in a Crayola eight pack. They described the sunshine, the sky and the ocean.

I picked Puce.
+++++++++++++++

The Problem with Puce

As colors go, I am often left out. It’s because of my name. Puce. Admit it. You thought I said puke. Or worse, puss. Everyone makes those mistakes.

Last week, a married couple was thumbing through the swatches.

“We need the perfect color for our baby’s room,” she said.

“How about this one?” he suggested. I tried to reflect more sunlight so they could appreciate the full spectrum of my hues.

“It’s lovely,” she said. “What color is it?”

“Puce.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Absolutely not! Did you know that Puce is the French word for flea? I can’t brag to Nellie that we painted our baby’s room flea. She painted Crysta’s room Flamingo.”

The mother-to-be was right. My name derives from French. But I am rather royal. After all, Marie Antoinette brought me to popularity in the 1700s.

Those were the days. Ball gowns, head dresses, slippers and drapes. I was all the rage. Till I fell out of favor. Things didn’t turn out so well for Marie either.

The problem isn’t my shade. I’m actually extraordinarily attractive. I’m a combination of brown and purple. Like a chocolate and grape milkshake. I get along with deep blue. And I combine especially well with other shades of purple.

The trouble is my name.


Puce.


Should I hire a publicist? Or maybe have my name changed. I understand Mauve is taken. But what about Palace Purple?

After all, it’s all about marketing.

Pluto is a Planet. So Say I.

I won’t accept it. I don’t care what the scientists say.

They’re wrong. There is no other way to explain it.

Pluto is a planet.

There were nine planets the day I was born. There were nine planets the day I learned to talk. There were nine planets when I started kindergarten.

There were nine planets when I entered the third grade. I know because Miss Martin made us memorize all the planets for our third grade science test.

Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Neptune, Uranus, Pluto.

I got an A. That’s because I knew there were nine planets, including Pluto.

And it didn't stop there.

There were nine planets when I graduated from high school. There were nine planets the day I got married. There were nine planets the day Eric was born.

There have always been nine planets. It’s a fact of life as certain as the sun rising in the east. It's a fact of life as certain as the earth revolving around the sun.

Fact. Not opinion. Cold hard fact.

Now I hear some egg head sitting around with his head up his asteroid is downgrading Pluto. He's saying I've been wrong all these years. After all this time, he is going to change the rules.

No way.

I reject it.

I’m not a big fan of change; especially when it has the potential to impact the results of a game of Trivial Pursuit or my third grade GPA. As far as I’m concerned, everything from the day I was born needs to stay exactly as it always has been. I’m more comfortable that way.

Well, except the seasons. Seasons can change. I'll authorize four. No more, no less.

And the tides of the ocean. Tides can change. I’ll permit two. High and low. But I draw the line there.

What shouldn’t change are my babies.

They keep growing up on me when I’m not looking. Every night when I put my children to bed, I tuck them in and whisper in their ears “Stay small.” But somehow, during the night when I am not looking, they grow up.

I’m starting to run out of babies. Eric isn’t a baby anymore. He’s seven going on thirty. He thinks he knows everything. Maybe he does. I sure don't.

Emily isn’t a baby. She’s four. But she wants to do everything her brother does. Like ride her bike fast and skateboard. She doesn’t care that she’s too young. She does it anyway.

Beth is definitely not a baby. She's two. If you say “Oh my little baby” she’ll correct you. “I’m not a baby. I’m a big girl.”

She is. She is a big girl.

Sigh.

No matter what I do, they keep growing up and changing. Soon they will be teenagers, borrowing the car and staying out late.

Then they won’t want to play "Chutes and Ladders." They won't want to read “Five Little Monkeys.” They won't let me sing the "Bumble Bee" song to them.

That’s why I’m not giving in on Pluto. It was a planet for 76 years and gosh darn it; I intend to keep it that way.

P.S. Why did we name a planet after Mickey's dog?

Hop Scotch For Homework

Eric is sitting at the kitchen counter looking at me with his angry eyes. “Do I have to do my home work?” He asks.

I sigh. “Yes.”

“Can't I just go outside and play?” He whines. “Why do I have to do home work anyway?”

I pause before answering. A number of responses run through my head. Most are likely to be a fifteen minute dissertation on my beliefs about education in our society.

Instead, I settle on “Because Mrs. G. (his teacher) says so.” Eric adores Mrs. G. and my answer satisfies him.

I have some controversial views about homework. In my mind, it’s unnecessary and a waste of time. I don’t let on to Eric that I believe this. He has a great teacher who we all love and goes to a wonderful school. I don’t want to upset the balance in the classroom, so I go along.

Don’t get me wrong when I say I don’t believe in homework. It doesn't mean that I don’t value education. I do value education. I should. I could have bought a three bedroom split level for what I spent on mine.

But as much as I believe in the importance of education, I don’t believe that all education, or even the best education, is found in books, in the classroom or in homework. To me, the best education is in living.

Eric is a good example. He’s seven and in the first grade. He receives daily instruction in math and reading. But he learns math and reading in things he does outside the classroom.

Last week Eric challenged me to a game of Monopoly. It’s become one of his favorite games. I like it because we get to make some great family memories. He likes it because he often wins.

But it's not just fun and games. Eric learns while we play. He adds and subtracts to keep track of his money. He counts as he moves his marker around the board. He reads the card telling him to “Go to Jail.” He learns and he loves doing it.

If you ask me, elementary schools should assign a game of Monopoly instead of math worksheets for homework. Or Scrabble. Or building with Legos. I'm flexible.

It’s more than board games. Activities like sports and music are also a great source of education.

Studies show that students who play sports have better grades, higher test scores, superior self-esteem and a firmer grasp on essential life skills. Simply put, kids who play are better students.

Whether its basketball or tennis, kids who play sports develop essential aptitudes and attitudes. They learn leadership. They tame time management. They tackle teamwork.

As a result, they are more likely to achieve success in the classroom and in the work force than their bookworm peers. And these same benefits can be found in non-sport play, like music, theater and art.

Eric plays soccer in the spring, baseball in the summer and hockey in the winter. From these activities he learns how to fall down and pick himself up. He learns to work with his team, to listen to the coach, and to make quick decisions to score a goal.

One really awesome baseball coach even taught Eric how to look someone in the eye when shaking hands. I'm happy to see that from sports, Eric learned real skills that will make him a better person.

That's why I think hopscotch for homework is more important than history.

When it comes down to it, I guess my views on education have a lot to do with my views on learning. Learning, I believe, isn't about how well you did on the SATs.

It’s not about class rank or grades. It's not about how many tests you take or how many books you read. It’s not about whether you can recite the essential causes of the War of 1812.

Learning is about doing.
Learning is about experiencing.
Learning is about loving.
Learning is about living.

Is It Crowded in Here or Is It Just Me?

Recently I visited Chicago for a business trip and stayed at an elegant hotel in Millennium Park. My room was on the nineteenth floor with a scenic city view.

When I arrived in my room, as is my custom, I opened every closet, cabinet and drawer to see if there was anything interesting. All I found was the bible, the TV remote and a dry cleaning bag.

On the bathroom sink I discovered two tiny bars of soap, three miniature shampoos and a three ounce bottle of hand lotion. Pay dirt. I made a mental note to pack the unused items to take home with me the next day.

The following morning as I was strolling through the lobby, the smell of fresh coffee tickled my nose and led me into a shi-shi coffee joint on the first floor. I’m fairly certain I ordered a café grande with cream and sugar. But what I received was a ten ounce cup of mud and a bill for four dollars and fifty cents, plus tip.

I used the coffee cup as a hand warmer until I arrived at my conference. Then I traded the designer java for a plain cup of joe that the conference planners were giving out for free.

Just before entering the conference, I stopped to admire a piece of artwork. It looked like someone lit a napkin on fire. In fact, the only reason I knew it was art was because it had been placed in a frame and tacked to the wall. It probably represented “man’s inhumanity to man” or “the plight of our souls.” Either way, I wasn’t impressed.

Spending a day in Chicago made me realize something important. I’m a hick.

If you put a 1997 Bolligner Blanc De Noir in one glass, Mad Dog 2020 in another and a cup of tap water mixed with dish soap in a third, I’m pretty sure I couldn’t tell the difference. And when it comes to dining out, you're more likely to find me chowing down at Boo Boo’s Hot Dog Hut than at Ruth’s Chris Steak House. It’s because my inner hick prefers it that way.

I’ve come to like my inner hick.

She's a swell gal from a small town. She has a a saucy grin and a can-do attitude. In my mind’s eye, she looks like Marlo Thomas from “That Girl.” But her name isn’t Marlo. It’s Betty Jo.

Betty Jo is very practical. She would never pay four bucks for a cup of java. Betty Jo would pick the beans, grind the beans and serve it with homemade apple pie.

Betty Jo regularly argues with my other inner self. Her name is Shelby.

Shelby is a successful career woman trying to climb the corporate ladder and stomp on the glass ceiling. She wears neatly pressed pant suits and stylish brown pumps. Shelby tells it like it is and doesn’t take any crap. I imagine Shelby looks a lot like Candice Bergen (a.k.a. Murphy Brown).

Shelby would never pay four bucks for coffee either. But she would tell the barista where he could put his beans.

My favorite inner self these days isn’t Betty Joe the hick or Shelby the corporate climber. My favorite inner self is Florence. You can call her Flo.

Flo is a suburban Mom. She enjoys PTO meetings, playgrounds, and science fair projects. Flo drinks lemonade and shops at garage sales. Flo likes to wear floral print capri pants with a smart top and flip flops. I picture Flo as looking exactly like Florence Henderson (a.k.a. Carol Brady).

Unlike Shelby and Betty Jo, Flo might buy a four dollar cup of coffee. But only if she had a coupon.

You might think it gets a bit crowded in my inner being with Shelby, Flo and Betty Joe. But I’ve found that they’re great company when I’m traveling. Betty Joe takes care of stealing the shower cap from the hotel bathroom. Shelby gets to argue with cabbies and push through crowds. And Flo is in charge of picking out a little treat to bring home to the kids.

And all three of them like to join me in making fun of the burnt napkin artwork hanging on the walls of a swanky metropolitan hotel.

Serenity

Many of my friends that have children are struggling through the teen years with their offspring. Since I started my family later, I'm lagging behind.

Recently I was sitting with a group of friends who have adult age children. One mom remarked “As long as I am alive my child will never get a tattoo.”

I thought this statement was funny for two reasons. First, the “child” at issue is an adult. She has already finished college, has her own apartment, and pretty much supports herself. And second, the daughter already has a tattoo, a pink rose on her shoulder. Apparently, mommy dearest is the only one the county who doesn’t know that her kid’s been inked.

What struck me about this conversation wasn’t that a post-college gal bucked her mom's wishes and got a tattoo. What struck me was how much this mom really believed she could continue to exert control over the lives of her adult children.

Control is an illusion.

Even though my kids are young, I’m already coming to terms with three facts of life.

• Fact one, while they are children there are limits on what I can control.
• Fact two, once they are grown, I’ll have no control.
• Fact three, no matter how difficult it may seem, this is a good thing.

Being out of control is tough lesson for someone like me who thrives on order. But since I’ve become a parent, I’ve been learning to let go. I've been learning that when it comes to my children, I have less power than I realize.

Take bed time as an example. As a mom, I can enforce a bed time of eight o’clock every night. But once my kids are in their jammies and tucked into their beds, I can’t force them to sleep. That’s up to them.

I’ve been through this with Emily, age four. Every night we follow the same routine. Bath, Jammies, Stories, Bed, Lights Out. Some nights she falls asleep immediately. But often, if I stand outside her door at ten o’clock, I can hear her singing “You Are My Sunshine” to her teddy bear. I know that if she stays up late and doesn't get enough sleep she'll be grouchy in the morning. But I also know there’s nothing I can do about it.

I’m also learning that I can’t control what my kids like and don’t like. Eric, age seven, doesn’t like oranges, which is weird because he likes Orange Juice. But no matter how hard I try, he refuses to take a single bite of an orange. The pungent citrus smell turns him off.

I know, if I wanted, I could force him to eat one. I could use threats and rewards. I could badger and barter. Any maybe if I prodded and pushed hard enough he would eat the orange. But no matter what I do, and no matter how hard I try, I can never force him to like oranges. That choice belongs to him.

Finally, I'm learning that I can’t control how my kids think. I can guide them. I can teach them. I can lead them. I can be an example for them. I can hope and I can pray. But in the end, their dreams, their wishes, their desires, their beliefs, whatever happens inside their heads belongs only to them.

And the older my kids get, the less control I'll have. Before I know it, all of my power will be gone. Whether it’s picking a boyfriend, choosing a major, selecting a job, or deciding where to live, after my baby birds leave the nest, there won’t be much this mama bird can do.

So right now, I’m practicing letting go. I sit back and watch Eric make a bad decision and I let him live with his consequences. He needs to learn cause and effect. And letting him learn these lessons is the best thing I can do for him.

I watch Beth (age 2) running. I can see that she is going too fast. She will probably fall down. But I let it happen. I know she needs to learn for herself what speed is right for running.

Every day in little ways I’m getting ready for the day when my kids won’t need me. I'm preparing for the day when they'll fly away. I'm hoping I can teach them well and trusting that they'll do the right thing.

And every day, I’m saying that prayer:

God, give us grace to accept with serenity the things that cannot be changed; Courage to change the things which should be changed; and the Wisdom to distinguish the one from the other.

Reinhold Niebuhr (1892-1971)