Nothing Less Than Perfect

I always say that if I could wrap up one thing and give it to my children (especially my daughter) as a gift it would be self-respect. I choose that word over self-esteem, as I believe it encompasses so much more. But the point is I want them to have the right balance of confidence, fearlessness, self-awareness, self-control and graciousness, so they can choose not to doubt themselves – and more importantly – find a way to tune out those that may doubt them and not see them for who they are.

I know this is a big wish. I was a teenage girl once, and in talking to Andy, things were not as rosy for teenage boys as I had always thought they were. But if they can muster through those years (or any other period of their life where we are tempted to question who we are or what we should be doing) knowing that they are loved and that they are the best Avery and Alex that they can be, then I can only hope that I did an OK job as parent.

Now with all that emotional and psychological talk out of the way, I thought I would share a glimpse of our Sunday morning dance party. Love the song (F**kin’ Perfect by Pink) and think it reiterates my philosophy noted above. But the video only reinforces again that I got my work cut out for me with Avery.

PS. Don’t worry, I only play the radio version for the kids. And not sure where Avery learned those Madonna-esque dance moves.

Baby in the Bar

Things have been super busy at work (in a good way) and the kids have been behaving – so little time and not much to write about. Instead, thought I would share a viral video that caught my attention today. Remind you of anyone?

Breaking Tradition

March 17 means many things to our family. Green beers at Brazenhead. St. Patty’s Day t-shirts from Old Navy. Basketball Brackets from Sally White. Anniversary-like dinners for Andy and I. Yes, the sentimental part is that Andy and I met on the night of March 16, which turned into the morning of March 17 (I know, that sounds bad, but it’s not what you think – get your mind out of the gutter and I can share the story about how my friend threw up all night in the bathroom of his friends’ apartment at another time).

But today I am on a plane, with only a Heineken (at least it is in a green can) heading back from Phoenix. I can only assume (and hope) that Andy dressed the kids in their shamrock inspired clothing laid out since Sunday night. I can only assume (and hope) the rest of my family is listening (and dancing) to an Irish band. I was fortunate to have a traditional, homemade Irish dinner last night, compliments of my friend Toni who had a soft spot for me when she learned I would be traveling on such a sacred day. Cheers and a shout out to Toni!

But in one hour I will land (so yes, this is my first post from a plane, as well) and I will see if St. Patty’s day went on without me. I hope it did, but at the same time I hope it didn’t.

Age 10

As you may know, ten is the magic number in our house. It’s the age we throw out for all the things we are trying delay. Some are reasonable: you can’t play tackle football until you are ten, you can’t get your ears pierced until you are ten, you can’t go in a public restroom by yourself until you are ten, you can’t sit in the front seat of the car until you are ten (or 100lbs). While others are more for my benefit: you can’t go to the Beach Water Park, you can’t stop wearing a collared shirt to school, you can’t go to Disney World, you can’t get up earlier than 6:45 am.

And just this past week I was able to add a few more to the list: you can’t download apps from the Android Market and you can’t say “What the (insert dramatic pause)?” until you are ten years old (or maybe even 20). Please, no one tell them otherwise.

Directions

Last night while at the Lucky Dog Café – our dining spot of choice after soccer – I asked Avery to help me find the bathroom to test her memory and for a little girl time with my girl. Instead she barked out: “head toward the pool tables, past the Miller Lite girl, make a left at the Karaoke machine and when you see the door with the dress on it, then you are there.” At that point I am pretty sure she spit to the left, grabbed her crotch and continued to chomp on her gum and play Angry Birds on my phone.

Ok, so some of that may be exaggerated, but if you know Avery, not by much. However, it did make me re-think a few things, like 1) we don’t need to always eat at restaurants that have 20 flat screens and 20 beers on tap, 2) bonding time would be better over books and Barbies, and 3) gum is not a ladylike after dinner treat and it needs to stop now.

The “S” Word

We are not big fans of tattling, but I also like to be in the know. So when Alex decided to share a story of Avery making a bad choice at school, I did not turn him way.

The short version starts with four kids on the playground disagreeing about a game and ends with Avery saying the “S” word. At that point, I thanked Alex for his report and slipped him a quarter to keep the information coming in the future, while planning my approach to rid Avery of this mature language choice that is emerging pre-maturely – soap, scolding or a casual mother-daughter talk based in reason? But Alex was not done, and before I could stand up, he decided he needed to tell me what the “S” word was. Once again curiosity outweighed the appropriate parental response and I quickly learned the word was “stupid.”

At that point, I was so relieved it was not any of the other five options running through my mind, that I wasn’t sure I could even be angry. I opted for a small “talking to” with Avery to settle the matter (as we do try to discourage using “stupid” in certain contexts), and began bracing myself for the real deal, which for Avery could be next week or two years down the road. And that is being optimistic …