My Friday Is Not Black

hohohum
I don’t get it.

Amidst the post-holiday haze, I nearly forgot that it’s Frabjous Friday time. What do I find joy in today? That I did not participate in the ridiculousness that is now infamously termed “Black Friday.”

The irony of the “event” was not lost on my 10yo son, who made the connection between having a day set aside for giving thanks immediately suffocated followed by a day where people clamor to buy buy buy!

In my lifetime, this phenomenon has grown from having stores open at a normal time on Friday…to having them open at 4 a.m….and eventually to some that are opened at 6 p.m. on Thanksgiving Day.

I don’t get it.

I know some people have made it a part of their holiday tradition and they love it and life is awesome because they got the $12 big screen TV…but that’s not me.

I’m sorry for the people who are forced to work these goofy hours and miss out on their own family holiday. There is no joy in that to me.

Nor is there joy in hearing all the stories in the news about people behaving like bulls or worse. Hello, Common Sense? Clean up on aisle 4!

But…since this is Frabjous Friday, the joy for me is in hanging out today and getting creamed by my son in the game of Life. And finishing a beautiful book that he and I were reading together (Wonder, by R.J. Palacio–I highly recommend it). And eating leftovers. And watching my absolute very favorite episode of The Andy Griffith Show (the one where Opie accidentally kills the mama bird and then takes care of the babies…LOVE).

THAT, my friends, is Frabjous Friday.

Hope you, too, were able to spend some time with those you love and make some simple, loving memories. That’s the one “buy” that’s truly priceless.

undone

You Can See It in the Wagons

old radio flyerCan you hear it?

Pft-pft-pft-pft-pft-pft-pft-pft-pft-pft-pft-pft…It’s the sound of a helicopter parent…Better duck!

We hear a lot of “when I was your age” lamenting, but parents—myself included—need to see that we are a big part of the change in how kids’ lives are these days. Let’s face it, parents: we’re a bit nuts.

It dawned on me that you can see it in the wagons of “then” and “now.”

The wagon I had when I was a child was a slick red metal Radio Flyer. It was maybe five inches deep, and there were no bells or whistles to it. It was simple…the rest was up to you.

My friends and I pulled each other in it. We pushed each other in it. We loaded it up and went on numerous adventures. We tied a rope to the handle and then tied the other end to a bike for extra speed. We found hills to see just how fast we could go and how badly the steering would be by holding the handle while riding. That wagon was a springboard to our imagination.

When I was 8 or 9, I took my wagon and loaded it up with books I no longer wanted. I then—without my parents’ knowledge (which was not typical in my household)—went around the neighborhood trying to hawk the books. I sold one for 60¢ and was delighted…Until my wagon and I got home to a toe-tapping, arms-folded mother. I then had to have my dad accompany me back to the house where I made the sale and apologize and explain that I had been in the wrong. I must have looked sadly pathetic because the person gave me back my book AND let me keep the money. A small offset to my shame.

Yes, my wagon and I have many memories together.

Today’s wagons are…a little bit more involved. They are thick plastic with seatbelts. And cupholders. And canopies. And those are just the basic models. Others have coolers…tables…cargo storage…and more. I see them at the zoo, parades, the mall. Parents pull these wagons. After all, the child is belted in safely and passively taking in his surroundings.

Watch out! They're not belted in!
Watch out! They’re not belted in!

They are so specific in design that they grow obsolete quickly. I can’t remember the last time I saw a kid older than 4 or 5 hanging around a wagon. Do we even know how fast these chubby plastic wagons go?

Please don’t hear me as saying none of these differences is good or helpful. I’m all for child safety. But it seems to me that these kinds of wagons illustrate the current climate of parenting. Parents want to make it all good and perfect…but the truth is, it’s not.

Maybe it’s just me, but I worry that so much is already created for our kids that we are stifling their ability to design and create and learn on their own. I almost lost it this summer when I saw some kids selling lemonade in a store-bought stand. I wanted to knock on that parent’s door and say “Really??”

lemonade stand
Seriously?

We have enough judgment in this world without my butting heads with a parent who buys her kid a $40 lemonade stand, but…come on. Do we have to design or facilitate everything for them?

We need to let our kids breathe and explore…and make mistakes…and fail…and learn. We are doing them no favors by giving them trophies for merely blinking their eyes.

I’m sure I fell out of my wagon and skinned my knees many times. But you know what I did? I got back in and tried again.

And I need to do my best to let my kid realize that for himself, too. No, it is not easy to watch them learn “the hard way,” but sometimes it is the most important lesson of all.

PS—Happy Thanksgiving!

Bet You Didn’t Mean to Be…But You Were

It blows my mind that the 26 letters of our alphabet are responsible for all the words we speak or write in the English language. How powerful those little letters are.

They can bring together and tear apart. They can start fights and end wars. With all that muscle, you would think it best that we use them wisely.

But…we’re human. So it’s a pretty safe bet we mess up on this front. A lot.

Sure, there are the boors in life who are really clueless when it comes to having their vocal cords rub together—like the time I was told, “Why don’t you have any kids yet? You better start soon—you’re not getting any younger.” At the time, I was in my early 30s.

I told the guy, who happened to be a teacher colleague of mine, “You know that really isn’t any of your business, right? And you better realize that when you say something like that to a woman, it’s possible that she could be struggling to get pregnant. How do you think that would make her feel?” His eyebrows were pretty much touching his receding hairline at that point, and I like to think that he never made the same kind of mistake again. But I wouldn’t bet on it.

Don't be a boorish boar.
Don’t be a boorish boar.

While most of us have a bit more sensitivity than that particular example, we still have times where even in our subtlety, we might be guilty of being

INsensitive.
ThoughtLESS.
INconsiderate.

I’ve had a couple of friends lose a noticeable amount of weight, but not because of any direct attempt to do so. They were going through significant life challenges that were painful and were indirectly dropping pounds because of it.

Time and again, though, I would see people come up to them and say, “You are looking GREAT! What’s your secret?!” or “I am so ENVIOUS—I wish I could lose weight like that!”

Now these people obviously didn’t know the truth and weren’t trying to be insensitive, but a change in approach would have been a great choice. In the past, while I didn’t necessarily say those kinds of things, my typical remark would have been, “You are looking fit these days…” But after seeing what my friends went through, I now say, “How are things going with you?” Because it really shouldn’t be about the weight, right?

It is a purposeful attempt to be more thoughtful and aware.

Because if that person truly feels like you care about their answer to “how are things going with you?” you just may learn that things aren’t that great after all. In fact, they could be very far from great.

We just don’t know the battles that others may be waging. And not everyone is going to tell us their story. But keeping in mind that there may be an untold story might help us to be more

Sensitive.
ThoughtFUL.
Considerate.

And couldn’t we all use a little more of that?

Get to Know Your Girls

image via Pixabay

This post is about boobs. I think that’s my only shot at humor here.

I’ve had friends live through and die from breast cancer. Continue reading “Get to Know Your Girls”

My Problem with Tolerance

salad 3Please note: this post may have an idea or two that you are not comfortable with, along with an extreme overuse of quotation marks and italics. There may also be some rambling. Proceed at your own risk.

I have an issue with the notion of “tolerance” as a way of coexistence.

When I hear people who are “in favor of tolerance,” I wince a bit. Why?

Here’s my issue: tolerance, by way of definition is a capacity to endure pain or hardship…sympathy or indulgence for differing beliefs…the act of allowing something…the allowable deviation from a standard.

Tolerance implies “permission” from an “authority” or “sympathy” for the different. I find it condescending.

I don’t want tolerance. I need acceptance.

Now, for me, there are times the word tolerance is spot on. For instance, I will use it with my son (“I will not tolerate your using the dog like a wheelbarrow”) because I am an authority figure (most days) for him, trying to set healthy boundaries. Other instances where this word makes perfect sense is in not tolerating abuse of others or the breaking of a law. As the definition goes, these things deviate beyond the standard. I have no issues with not tolerating pedophiles or rapists or anyone else who hurts another.

But it’s not up to me to tolerate another person’s race, religion, age, national origin, marital status, sexual orientation…or any other kind of law-abiding “type.”

It is not mine to offer “sympathy” for what might be different from me. Who am I to tolerate another person’s nationality? And on the flip, who is tolerating mine? Should I breathe a sigh of relief that I don’t hear so many mafia jokes now that The Sopranos is off the air?

To me, it all boils down to Differentism. It’s the one ism that encompasses all the other discriminating isms—because all of them are about being different in one way or another. And what is at the core of Differentism? Fear. Fearing that which is different from you. (Or that you at least think is different from you.)

To me, it is fear that causes so much pain.

Cultures that oppress women and deny girls an education…what on God’s green earth would be a legitimate reason for wanting to keep someone uneducated? Why wouldn’t we be cheering for the support of raising up more women like the young Malala Yousafzai? The more we educate everyone, the better our overall world will be. Why would anyone want to keep another in the dark if not for fear?

Of course, the answer might also be “hatred,” but that is rooted in fear, too, isn’t it?

We fear what we don’t know or understand.

The one thing I see that helps overcome this is…learning. Talking. Connecting. Striving to understand. Realizing we are more alike than different. And while that which is different may not be our cup of tea, it’s not ours to throw stones at, either. Or to “put up with.”

As an American, I am blessed to be a part of a country that reflects the faces of many nations. Unless you are a Native American, your ancestry will cross at least one border. It’s a huge part of what makes us who we are. Our country is not a pedigree but a mutt (and if you’re a dog fan, you know that pedigrees can be sickly and quirky due to keeping the blood so “pure,” but mutts are strong and full of personality). Why are there those of us who see it as “us vs them”? We are both!

But I don’t want America to be a melting pot. You know why? Because it takes and makes everything into one thing—it boils it all down and blends it all up. I want America to be a delicious salad with all sorts of ingredients tossed together that enhance the whole dish. Together better than apart. But not all homogenized–still with the qualities that make us who we are. That shouldn’t just be the American Way, but the way of the world…at least according to me.

We don’t need to tolerate one another. We need to understand, love, support, help, and even celebrate one another.

If you’re still reading this rambling manifesto, go pour yourself a glass of wine (or beer. or vodka. or one of each. or more). You deserve it. But I hope that my tossed salad offers some food for thought about the nuances of the words we use when we talk about one another.

I don’t want you to tolerate me. I hope that you can accept me as I am: a goofy, flawed, work-in-progess.

And I’ll do the same for you.

What Have We Done?

Me at 11. Note McD's t-shirt (Also check out the nifty satin jacket behind me.)
Me at 11. Note McD’s t-shirt.*
(Also check out the nifty satin jacket behind me.)

“When I was your age…” is the start of a sentence that will almost certainly bring an eye roll from the intended audience. And, I must admit, as I get older, I hear myself say it more and more often. I mean…there have been leaps and bounds in day to day life from the time I was a kid till today, and they are amazing to note.

Indulge me for a minute or two, will you? Because while I will begin by pointing out some things that readers around my age will nod at with perhaps an “Amen, Sister,” I do have a little bit of a soapbox point I want to get to.

When I was a kid

I didn’t ask my mom or dad to “play on their phone.” (Though I did play on the phone, technically, if you count prank calls), and I’m pretty sure we all knew the length of the kitchen phone cord for our “safe zone” when Mom was on the phone.

We had Pong and thought we were pretty cutting edge until the neighbors got an Atari. Living large, they were.

At the start of my schooling, if I had to type an assignment, I had to use a line paper gauge…remember those? And God forbid there were footnotes involved. Then you had to calculate how many notes would be on the page and how many lines you’d need left at the bottom. And if you were wrong? Holy cry. Do it all over again. It was totally exciting when the “element” typewriter came along where you could just backspace and type over your error without having to use the little white-out strip. And word processing? Well, the heavens opened up on that one.

We remember, yes? Now to get to a question I feel worth asking…

I remember when it was big news that we got a McDonald’s in our town. It was a BIG DEAL. And if my mom and dad said we could eat there, we were drunk with excitement. A burger and fries! Woohoo! Life is good!

So…how did the need arise to give kids TOYS to eat junk food? At what point was the food itself not enough? I mean, it’s not like you’re taking your kids to McBrusselSprouts or McLiver. Why the bribe? Why the reward for eating something that the average kid would be happy to eat all by itself? Wasn’t it a “happy meal” already?

What did it sound like around the conference table when that corporate decision was made? “Well, Ronald, I think that in order to convince the kids to eat the French fries, we should give them toys. This way, they can get something for getting something! And then they’ll scream and whine for their parents to get them a Happy Meal for the latest toy, and the parents will cave in in order to get them to shut up and then they will come to McDonald’s more often! Make sense? Let’s vote!”

Oh, joy...another piece of crap.  Exactly what we needed!
Oh, joy…another piece of crap.
Exactly what we needed!

I look at the toys they give today (YES, I have purchased many a Happy Meal for my kid), and I think of all the plastic waste generated from these ridiculous payoffs for eating what should already be a treat in and of itself. (And NO, I’m not looking for an argument on whether or not a child should even eat fast food. I live in the real world. My kid eats fast food here and there. If yours doesn’t, that’s great, but I don’t really want to hear about it.)

After about 30 seconds, the average meal toy has used up its entertainment value. I’m sure that landfills are stuffed with these unnecessary prizes, as well as many a kid’s bedroom. All of this just adds to the sense of exaggerated entitlement that “these kids today” are being raised with.

But along with their über sense of entitlement…is the flip of this issue our lowered expectations? Maybe we should start expecting more of our kids so that we don’t continue to foster the belief that the world owes them something. Because you and I both know it doesn’t. It doesn’t owe anyone a damn thing. In fact, we owe it. We owe each other. And that can be a challenging principle to uphold in a world where a treat deserves a treat.

Whew. Okay. I have dismounted my soapbox. If you’re still here, thank you for listening. Now let’s go through the drive-thru…

*The McDonald’s shirt was something I received for participating in a basketball tournament. At least I had to sweat for it.