My Daughter, the Quitter

Never give up!

Try hard until the end!

If you want more sweet potato fries, you better finish that organic corndog!  

I was taught, and also impress upon my kids, that it’s important to finish. Quitters never win, and winners get all the full-ride scholarships. Or something like that. But the other night, during our sacred lights-out-she’ll-tell-me-anything-time my daughter and I share at bedtime, she made me reconsider.

Apparently, my daughter and a handful of school friends had recently formed a small, um, "band" called The Specials. Maybe you’ve heard of them? (Kidding! I promise you haven’t.) They practiced on sporadic bus rides home and at second recess. My daughter was Lead Guitarist, which she informed me with a level of sincerity normally reserved for Supreme Court nominations.

Two important notes: 1) My daughter doesn’t play the guitar and 2) the guitar was a rubber band attached to a pencil.

But if there’s one thing parenting teaches you, it’s how to play along.

The reason she was telling me about The Band was because she was quitting The Band. Not because she didn’t get to be the part she wanted. Or because they weren’t playing the right songs. Or that all of their instruments were made from half-used school supplies, which you’d think would have messed with the vibe a little.

Nope, she was quitting because they had failed to include another girl who my daughter was friends with. She felt bad for her other friend, who also really wanted to be part of the band.

If my daughter is ever in a band, I hope this is her album cover.

She was quitting based on kindness. Because in her heart, she empathized with how her friend felt, being left out. She understood how bad it would feel if the tables were turned.

My kids don’t roll their eyes or blatantly ignore me (yet), but after a long, heartfelt soliloquy on the importance of being kind above all else, it’s not uncommon for them to say something profound like, “Does this shadow look like a camel to you?” or “I wanna add Space Batman to my birthday list!”

So while it sounds small, her act of kindness and compassion and bravery even, (4th grade girls can be little biotches, let’s face it) made me so proud. It showed me that my husband and I are getting through, even if it doesn’t always seem like it.

We may not be cultivating a rock star, (or maybe we are?) but we’re definitely helping form little people who will spread joy in so many other ways. Sure, music is important. But I think the world could use a lot more kindness and a few less lead guitarists.

The Specials, as it turned out, quickly disbanded altogether. I think the remaining members lost the microphone (a pencil) and the drums (an eraser you hit with a pencil.)

My daughter is still friends with all her former band mates, and is currently exploring a solo career in fashion design. Which also involves lots of pencils.

Bodily Liquids

Recently, another far more cerebral copywriter than I am asked me, “What kind of a writer are you?” 

I stared at her blankly, not knowing how to answer. I’ve never been a copywriter with a secret screenplay, collection of comical Haikus or coming-of-age zombie novel in the works. Since I primarily write ads, my words come in short sentences and 30-second time blocks.

And unlike a lot of writers I know who are voracious readers, I don’t pour over Hemingway or even the #1 reco on Oprah’s book list. Nope, I read, “Don’t Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus!” and “Geronimo Stilton, Mouse Detective.” Out loud.  I also enjoy Allure and Food & Wine magazine, in luxurious three to four minute bouts of solitude, while sitting on the toilet.

Don’t be jealous. 

Just some of the Important Books I do not own.

But then a very astute, inspired answer came to me:

“I want my writing to make people cry or pee.” 

Actually, my first answer was “I want to make liquid come out of other people’s bodies.” But I had to quickly rephrase that, for obvious reasons. That’s E.L. James' territory. And nobody’s reading that stuff for the amazing literary quality. 

(Okay, yes, I did read the entire Shades of Grey series. But as an approaching middle-aged suburban mom, I had to read them so I’m up on popular culture. Had to.)

My intellectual writer friend was super impressed, as you can imagine.

I’m kidding. She wasn’t.

But that’s okay. Because by answering her question, I have become more aware of what I'm putting down on paper. The best kinds of writing elicit emotions from the reader (or listener or watcher.) They connect on a visceral level. Otherwise, it’s just words bouncing off your brain. So if I’m always shooting for emotional extremes, to hit someone’s funny bone or yank at their heartstrings, I’ll occasionally get there. Because, let’s be honest - tears and pee aren’t easy to achieve. Unless we’re talking babies, weddings or jumping on a trampoline after giving birth to two 10-pounders. Or so I’ve heard.

So even if my writing doesn’t always reach bodily liquid territory, I’m at least hopefully creating a chuckle. Or a knowing sigh. Or a smirk. I can live with a smirk.

But to me, tears and pee mean ultimate success. 

Pretty sure that’s a Hemingway quote.

Have Hobbies

I strongly believe everyone should have a passion they can completely pour themselves into that’s separate from work and parenting and everyday life. Doesn’t have to be fancy. Could be running or playing clarinet or nude crazy quilting. Just something that’s all your own. Something that brings you joy and keeps you sane, when everything else seems crazy-nutso. And, this is important; you shouldn’t feel one tiny bit guilty about it.
 
I think it’s hard for most of us to justify doing something simply for ourselves. Work and kids and spouses and friends and gutter cleaning always seem to come first. But being selfish, in small doses, is vital. Because it helps you get your “you” back.  It allows you to win tiny victories. It gives the big, heavy things in life less power, because while still important, they aren’t your everything.
 
My passion is horses. It began with an unrequited love at age 4, but then kicked into hyper drive when I got a pony for my 10th birthday. Now, so you don’t hate me, you should also know I had open-heart surgery shortly after my 9th birthday to correct a heart murmur I was born with. So it kinda makes sense on the karmic pendulum.
 
I also fell off a lot at first. In the mud.  If that helps.

Yep, he's sticking his tongue out at me.

 
For me, my horse hobby is not just a passing fancy, but a definitive part of my life. It taught me responsibility and dedication and empathy and teamwork from a very young age. Because you cannot convince a 1000 plus pound animal to do what you want if he’s not on your side. So while other teenagers were learning how to French kiss and fake their IDs, I was spending hours in the saddle, conditioning my horse’s tail with Infusium 23 and learning how to clean a sheath. (Google that if you want. I once cleared a room of male co-workers explaining it. Super proud moment.)
 
But while I love horses in general, (Morgan horses and dressage, specifically) as an inherently competitive person I love showing horses even more. I love it so much that the actual event of a horse show is like air and food and water to me. In fact, I need very little else to exist the entire day/weekend/week I am doing it. 
 
I can easily get up at the crack of the crack, have a donut and coffee on the way to the show, and then go all day on just the anticipation of competing and a room-temperature Fresca.
 
This single-minded focus makes me passionate! And driven! And a really horrible horse show parent. The worst. Because children, being small and motivated by annoying things like low blood sugar and the need for love and attention, can really cramp my style.
 
Son:     “Mama, I’m hungry!”
Me:       (To Dave, sighing like I’m an impatient teenager.)  “Why are they being so needy?”
Dave:    “I dunno. Maybe ‘cause it’s 3:15 and we haven’t had lunch yet?”
Me:        “Oh. Well, there’s yogurt pretzels and a Costco bag of horse carrots in the cooler...”
Dave:     “If I don’t eat real food soon I will chew my own hand off.”
Me:         (More pubescent eye-rolling.) “Fine.  But I need to be back in 25 minutes so I can (insert time-sensitive horse related activity      here) before I show tonight.”
 
Now, the realization that I was doing neither showing or parenting well when both kids were small forced me to take a break for a couple years. Instead of bringing me joy, my passion was causing me stress. And that’s just dumb. Cause showing horses is expensive and I can get stress for free from work or by hearing the words “Mama, my leg is stuck.”
 
So during my hiatus from showing, I have had a chance to reflect on how important my horse hobby is to me. How my accomplishments on horseback, both in the competitive arena and out, have led to successes in the rest of my life. I have a deep well of incredibly proud moments to draw from when I’m feeling less than kick-ass. I have an amazing network of “horsey” friends from around the country. And my kids have grown up surrounded by this village of people who watched me win, lose, fall off, get back on, mature, succeed and have a family of my own. It’s pretty special.

 
I’m thrilled to say that my daughter now loves riding and competing as much as I do. My husband is as patient and supportive as ever. And both kids are old enough to carry their own snacks.
 
So this year I plan to be back out there, pouring myself into my hobby with selfish gusto. Getting up before dawn, feeling the butterflies, giddy with potential.
 
It’s a feeling everyone deserves. So if you don’t have a hobby, get selfish and find one. If you’ve got a passion that’s been on hold, reignite it. Give yourself permission to do something just for the joy of it. (And give yourself permission to take a break if joy is not what you’re finding.) You’ll have more to offer the world when you do.
 
Here’s to hobbies. I’m raising a room-temperature Fresca to them right now.