Solicitation, Cha Cha Cha

Solicitation, cha cha cha
Solicitation, cha cha cha
Some people think it's funny
But it's really brown and runny
Solicitation, cha cha cha

If I have catapulted you back to days on the playground, peppered by snacks, naps and ABCs, I've accomplished my purpose. I was hoping you could understand how I was feeling.

When I answered the phone this morning, some person starting belching information about "such and such party" in the state that "needs my $100 support" to "fight the good fight". Only a five-year-old could stand such a call. My children might counteract the ridiculousness with the diarrhea song. Being an adult, though, I had to suppress the urge to bust a move whilst screaming these lyrics into the phone.

Hey! News flash! The person who does my massage once a year needs my $100 support, too. But she doesn't call me at home and interrupt my day to spew massage rhetoric and ask for my support. And, by golly, she KNOWS I need a good massage, most definitely more often than I currently receive one, to fight the good fight I deal with on a daily basis as a Mother.

Let's just get one thing straight in this election year: The Temptations weren't talking about political candidates when they wrote "Ain't Too Proud to Beg".

And, since I don't have caller ID, I'll be picking up the phone next time you call. Please use your manners and ASK if I want to hear your little speech. I'll tell you "no", we can mutually agree to part ways like civil folk, and you'll save yourself larynx exhaustion. And I won't come one step closer to committing hari-kari.

I think that's a policy we can ALL agree upon.

Toothbrushing = Torture

In our house, "toothbrush" is considered a curse word by the under sixty-inch set. Literally, the words "Please go brush your teeth" are tantamount to asking some smallish village to set fire to a large perimeter and then go into their houses and wait to be consumed. It causes THAT MUCH anguish.

I knew this was going to be a problem early. My oldest, at the end of an extraordinary day at Kindergarten, was talking at cheetah speed, trying to tell me about the play date he wanted to go on, the snack he needed, asking where his younger brother was, blah, blah. His mouth was moving at warp speed but, somehow*, I was able to isolate his mouth in my vision, laser in on his upper teeth, and look at the petri dish of grossness that his lack of brushing had left where his teeth and gums met.

I about barfed.

When he finally stopped speaking, I said "We are going home to brush your teeth." Small villagers response emanated. Play date was moved to another day. And torture with a Thomas the Tank Engine toothbrush ensued.

I don't know how long his teeth were like that, but, good golly. I think I owe anyone who had to talk to him a very heartfelt apology.

Today, after he was safely in carpool buddy's car, probably rubbing his hands together going "MWAH HA HA HA", I figured out he hadn't brushed his teeth. The brush was completely dry, as was the wash basin in his bathroom.

The evil "I'll teach you a lesson you won't soon forget" part of me wants to get in the car, drive 80 to his school, interrupt his teacher, and brush his teeth in front of the entire class.

The sane, less evil part of me, says "Somebody will point out that his breath smells like a garbage disposal." I just hope that somebody is a girl and that it embarrasses him SO MUCH that he gets the award for "Best Flosser" and "Best Brusher" next time we see the dentist.

But, I'm not counting on it. I'm counting my blessings that we have dental insurance.

And, this afternoon, when I pick him up from school? I'm wearing my sunglasses and not staring him straight in the face.

It's the only way I think I'll be able to keep myself from hurling in the carpool line.





*Magical Mommy Powers. MMP for sure.

Parental Helicoptering

Driving home from lunch, on the Northwest corner close to 15th Street and 75 in Plano, I spot a billboard. It has a cute picture of a smallish-looking girl and the phrase "One Smart Cookie". Below the phrase is a website address.

As I'm looking at this billboard, I'm thinking "How cute! What a darling little girl."

Then it dawns on me. This darling little girl has parents. And those parents are beyond psycho.

Why? They actually spent money to buy their daughter a BILLBOARD so she could sell Girl Scout Cookies.

I think I just choked on a Thin Mint.

I really thought, being a sideline sport's parent in everything from soccer to lacrosse, that I had seen every lame trick in the book. From buying over-expensive shoes, to purchasing "special" sport's drinks, to holiday camps to "bolster skills", sport's parents go to extremes.

But, in all the time I've been on the sidelines, I've never seen a parent bring a "special team's coach" to the game to help out their child.

This billboard? The biggest, baddest, priciest coach next to Phil Jackson.*

Seriously, I'm thinking "How many boxes of cookies is she going to have to sell to recoup the cost of that thing?"

Then I think "Somehow I don't think price or recouping cost is the issue here. I think WINNING is the issue."

Then I wonder "Is Mom or Dad driving this insanity?" And "Who is going to deliver all those cookies?"

Somehow this just seems so against the Girl Scout Fairness Code.**

I mean, if I'm the kid whose parents accompany me to every house on the street and sell 1,000 boxes with sweat equity and no billboard, I'm getting pretty hot under the sash when Mom is driving me down 75 and I spot this pint-size primadonna.

Maybe it's just me, but when did parenting reach a new low where we aren't only expected to hover like helicopters around everything that our kids do, but also drive their every move and assure that every outcome is a WIN?

How are the kids of this generation going to learn to persevere if they never FAIL? Isn't defeat the ultimate teacher?

I'm all for helping your kids. But some parents in this generation have completely forgetten the lessons they learned from The School of Hard Knocks.

Then Mike pointed out to me that this was the billboard for the NATIONAL GIRL SCOUTS.*** Not some random cutie. To which I wanted to reply: "Dude! I've written an entire rant, er post, on this subject! Don't bust my bubble like that."

So, here's where I admit that I have a little trouble with jumping from A to Z without checking my head or my butt. This isn't some random, freak occurence. No, I've perfected this personality imperfection with YEARS of experience.

From what I understand, admitting I have this "problem" is half the battle of conquering it. If it's good for the over-eaters and over-drinkers of the world, it should be good enough for those of us who are over-concluders. Right?

Now. I'm going to sulk in the corner and eat my box of Do-Si-Dos.



*Yes, it isn't cheap living in L.A. But $10.3 mil a year?

**I don't think one of those exists, but, maybe it should.

***Go "meet the cookies" (I kid you not) at www.girlscoutcookies.org. I figured providing the address is the least I can do now that I've stuck my head up my rear.....