Locally supplied by Susanne’s Bakery & Deli , which has been in Gig Harbor for 15 years, the cupcakes are better than ever! Same small size, but with even bigger flavor!

My problem is that I’m a person who likes sending cards with hand-written notes. The whole process takes me back to being a kid and sitting at the dining room table with my mother’s stack of cards, seeing her beautiful handwriting as I peeked at the messages while I addressed the envelopes for her. I imagined all those letters reaching their destination and would visualize them being opened and read, bringing smiles to the people who received them.

But, every year, just before December 1st, the little lazybones on my shoulder starts at me. Pestering me to avoid the process altogether. Because, over the years, my Christmas card list has grown quite long. Though I certainly don’t see all the people I send cards too, I always feel like it’s important to let them know they are being thought of.

“Maybe, maybe not,” Mr.Lazybones argued.

So I find myself contemplating my options. I think of the Christmas letter and marvel at the people who can detail their amazing adventures and thoughts about the year. My year never seems quite interesting enough to go this route, so I usually pass on this idea, but I hope that once in my life I’ll have a year I consider worthy of a Christmas letter.

Then there’s the picture card. This seems to be a popular option. I receive beautiful pictures of the families I know, with their name and a printed Christmas greeting. I tried this one year, but quickly folded at the envelope stuffing stage. Lucky for me the pictures weren’t sealed in the envelope, because I proceeded to pull them all out and write notes on the back of the picture. Of course you could see the ink of my message through the other side of the picture, so this option is not my top choice.

One of my picture cards, from 2008.

Of course there’s always the traditional card. I remember the one year I spent an inordinate amount of time doing my inordinate amount of Christmas cards, all personalized, only to be asked by a few people why there wasn’t a picture inside the card. And I understand this. There’s something poignant and heartwarming to see a picture of the kids or family, year after year, tracking their growth and changes; especially when I don’t see most of the people on my Christmas card list.

“Then why send them?” pipes up Mr. Lazybones lounging on my shoulder.

Which leads me to my current situation and how I do Christmas cards: Not able to decide between picture cards or traditional, over the years I have chosen to do both. Way more work, but it’s the least guilt ridden option for me. I feel I am appeasing myself by writing a short note and satisfying the recipient by providing a picture tracking my family’s development and changes.

One year, the only thing that propelled me through my indecisiveness towards the Christmas card experience was that I had two awesome pictures of my boys. To me, the pictures summed up who they are and how much they enjoyed themselves. I printed the pictures up and proceeded to write my notes in all the cards. After they were all sealed, addressed and stamped, I felt a sense of satisfaction that I had finished the task.

Then the calls started coming.

“Why aren’t you guys in the picture?”

“I like seeing all of you.”

“Nice to see the kids, but it would have been nice to see a picture of you too.”

I promised people that we would be in next year’s picture, but I felt like a popped bubble. All the satisfaction I had felt from accomplishing my cards dissipated in a flash. That day I opened my email and received an e-card and thought I might try that route next. No arm cramp from writing. No hours spent trying to find just the right picture. No running to Costco to pick up the photos. No envelope taste in my mouth. No cost of stamps. It’s a technological, busy, age and people didn’t have time to read a handwritten card anyway. I was convinced. My plan for the following year was going to be email cards. What a relief!

As Christmas approached last year, I looked for email cards to send. I was slightly uneasy choosing such a simple option but I kept reminding myself that it was the wave of the future. I happened to speak to my friend and stockbroker and I asked him if he was around the office so I could drop by with my yearly chocolate delivery. “Great! I’m looking forward to the Christmas card too. I just love getting yours.”

What?! I didn’t see that coming. And suddenly I had a surge of energy. With only two weeks to spare, I pulled together a picture and started writing cards. The last of them were sent out on December 23rd. Seeing as it was so late, I emailed my cousin in the Bahamas to tell her I had mailed her card super late and it would never reach her on time so I was sending a quick greeting, but the card was en route. She replied, “Good. I’m glad. Every year, I love receiving it, even late, and knowing you are thinking of me.”

As I sit here with December 1st looming, as it does for me every year, I need to get my Christmas card efforts organized. There Mr. Lazybones sits, trying to sway me from doing the cards. But, this year I know I’ll do them, having just organized a whole pile of cards my Dad has given me through the year towards my Christmas card project. He accumulated a pile for me from various charitable organizations he supports. When I got the last pile from him he assured me, “Now you won’t have to buy any cards.” Hate to break it to him, but I still need more. The list keeps growing, which adds to the stress I inflict on myself, and part of me dreads Christmas card season.

“Then why do it?” asks Lazybones again.

As I watched my son find a spot for the treasured “first” Christmas card, I realized that, for me, it’s all about feeling connected. I love the tradition of Christmas cards; handwritten, picture, letter, or email. I love knowing that someone out there, across the miles, and sometimes with no contact through the year, has taken a few minutes thinking of me, even with a phone call or text. And now that my son is reading and writing, maybe I’ll have a helper this year and start our own Christmas card tradition.

With a deep breath and a surge of energy I announced, “We’d better start our Christmas cards, boys.” And with that, my eldest son ran to the table to start. My youngest was quick to scream, “It’s not a competition!” Since mine are never on time, I chuckled and agreed with him. But, it’s true. First or last, it doesn’t matter how you let people know you are thinking of them…just so long as you do.

One of my favorite family photos, taken at Discovery Village, Christmas 2011.

Feeling crafty and want to create a Christmas card tradition with your kids? Check out these great ideas at Kids Craft Weekly. But, if the idea of a handmade card stresses you out (me!), visit Care2 for some email card options.

I stared blankly at the person who asked me, and stuttered, “Um…I forgot to sign them up.” Forcing a laugh in an attempt to diminish my faux-pas, I received a look that I would have reserved for someone forgetting to sign their child up for school. Note to self: soccer is a big deal in the world of parenting.

True to my day-late-dollar-short approach to life, I ran to the computer and tried to find the deadline for the local soccer club. Then I searched the next county, and the next. Turns out I wasn’t just a day late; I was two weeks late.

The panic set in, rooted in my soul and began to grow. My husband tried to reassure me by telling me he didn’t start playing basketball until he was in fifth grade. But it didn’t help. In my heightened state of parenting failure, nothing would appease me.

After school one day I heard my four-year old respond to a kid’s question, “I don’t play soccer anymore. I played last year.” How could I have done this to my poor kids? They were missing a pivotal developmental step in their soccer careers. It didn’t matter that they were busy doing other things. This would dictate their futures! Watching all the kids after school, dressed in their uniforms, off to their games and practices, twice a week and on the weekends, I had to quickly come to terms with the fact that I had dropped the proverbial ball on this one.

One weekend, in an effort to appease my mother guilt, I called my brother, a lifelong soccer player who has kids who play soccer at advanced levels. I confessed my crime, that I had forgotten to sign them up for soccer and was all worried that they would suffer long-term effects from my neglect of their sporting needs. He laughed and said the most important thing was keeping them active and exposed to all sports. He reassured me that my nephew, who is now being recruited at the college level, didn’t play soccer when he was four years old.

Temporarily relieved, I went looking for the kids who, on yet another beautiful fall day, were outside on the beach carrying their buckets back to the shore with their friend. The little explorers were ecstatic with their finds and proceeded to give me a presentation on the inhabitants in the ecosystem they had created.

After the presentation and a quick lunch, they wanted to go back outside. They seemed to be entertaining themselves so I decided to get some things done. Rare to see so much of a day pass without any parental involvement, so I figured it was best not to interfere in their accomplishment of getting along. When I next checked they were setting up a towel, with random items lined up behind them. Stuff they needed on their trip, they replied when I couldn’t help but ask, all the while casting knowing glances at each other.


“Are we there yet?” I heard my four-year old ask his brother.

“Not yet,” he replied. “It’s a long way to the moon.”

After a long stretch of silence I heard him shout, “We’re here!”

I perched inside on a chair and watched as they left their towel spaceship and ran around the yard; planning a strategy, gathering up the necessary items and venturing off together as a team, somehow finding the strength to carry buckets full of eels, flounders and bullhead to release to a “new” ecosystem.

As I watched the kids, entrenched in their pretend journey, I was momentarily transported from caring that I had missed the soccer sign up. Though this beautiful fall day would have been perfect for soccer, came the voice in my head. It has to wait, I answered back to my inner critic, because, today we’re visiting the moon.

For those of you who didn’t forget to sign up for soccer, here is a link to a great article on finding balance and encouraging joy in youth sports.
Also, the Responsible Sports website has some valuable advice on youth sports.

Not ready for the fun to end? Discovery Village is open all day but is offering free admission after the festival, between 4-8 p.m. Perfect day to come by and try the delicious new menu. See you there!

New Fall Hours, Effective September 10th:
Monday – Wednesday: 9am to 5pm
Thursday – Friday: 9am to 8pm
Saturday: 10am to 8pm
Sunday is reserved for Birthday Parties.

Delicious New Menu Options
THURS ~ SAT MENU (after 4pm)
Caprese Salad

Harbor Greens Chips, Guac & Salsa
The Greek Plate
Meat Ball Sub w/ fresh veggies

Soup of the Day w/Salad ~ Thursday, Thai Chicken
Grilled Panini Pesto, Tomato & Mozzarella w/ chicken
Caprese Flatbread

Kids Menu
Meat Ball Sliders w/ fresh veggies
Mac & Cheese
Flatbread Pizzas – new!

All your favorite lunch items available as well!

PROMOTION: Kid’s Eat Free this Thursday Night (after 4 pm)!!!
(1 child eats free with each adult dinner item purchased)

Check the CALENDAR for upcoming events: Family Bingo Night, Bunco, Book Clubs and more!

Over the years, his lack of dietary variety made me so nervous I took him to the doctor. In tears, I would beg, “Tell me what I can do? I’m so worried…he just won’t eat!” The doctor kindly held back her laughter and reassured me that he was fine. “He’s growing, so obviously he’s eating something,” she’d say. Other people would tell me, “He’ll eat when he’s hungry. Just keep presenting the food to him.” But his stubbornness won over mine, and soon we were down to a fairly strict diet. He starts the day with porridge and milk, has macaroni and cheese for lunch and tortellini for dinner. This is interspersed with the occasional hotdog and peanut butter sandwich, along with the typical goldfish and graham crackers. The only fruit he ever ate was banana until I recently forced him to eat an apple slice before he got his porridge. One slice of apple. It was a miracle.

Staring at an empty lunch box and wondering what to send for snacks, I reviewed my son’s limited palette and started packing whatever I could find for him. In went a peanut butter sandwich, banana, graham crackers, goldfish crackers, apple, and a few pieces of cheese. It was basically his whole repertoire apart from the macaroni or tortellini but I decided I’d better save something for dinner. I zipped his Thomas lunch bag up and sent him off to school, wondering if he’d even bother to explore all the tightly sealed tubs I had carefully packed up for him. Mostly I just hoped he’d have enough energy to make it through the day.

During the day I learned of the news that one of his classmates had a peanut allergy. Oh no! Peanut butter sandwiches were no longer an option. I can honestly say my eldest son took a peanut butter and jelly sandwich every day of kindergarten. I just assumed I would coast along and continue the legacy of plain in my youngest son’s school career. My lunch trauma was growing and I seriously contemplated sending him with his tortellini during the day and feeding him a peanut butter sandwich at night. Or he could just stumble through the day, existing on the energy of his oatmeal, and I could feed him an extra bowl of macaroni and cheese for dinner. Could goldfish crackers and water sustain him for a whole day? Time would tell.

Energy didn’t seem to be an issue despite only eating some graham crackers, a banana and, surprisingly, a few pieces of cheese. While he was eating dinner and I was making the lunch for the next day he actually said, “Don’t forget the cheese! I’ll have 8 pieces please.” What? Maybe there is hope for this kid after all. His cousin did get him to eat some watermelon in the summer. And his banana was gone today. Maybe being in the classroom will sort him out and he’ll start trying things out of sheer peer pressure. I congratulated him on eating his banana and, with a big smile, he blurted, “It was brown, so I threw it out.” Or he’ll do that. I guess he’ll be having that second bowl of mac and cheese after all!

I hope your first day back to school went smoothly! If you are as lunch-box challenged as I am, check out these great ideas from the Kraft website (in honor of my son’s obsession with macaroni and cheese or, as he puts it, “The real kind…with the little orange noodles.”)

A new plan soon emerged. We could reserve a spot as a walk-on. Then we knew exactly which ferry we would be taking. The only thing is, without the car, we’d have to pack light. My reputation precedes me though so my Dad was quick to remind me, “Don’t bring a lot. It’s only one night.” “Of course,” I assured him with a bit too much bravado. What did we really need anyway? I psyched myself up for the challenge of traveling light. I could do this.

For some reason the one bag we decided to take filled up very quickly. I’m not exactly sure why I thought the kids needed two extras of everything but I convinced myself their clothes were so small it didn’t really impact anything. After the first pack, I reassessed and removed everything but the essentials. The bag weighed nothing. Throw in a couple of toiletries and we were set! Taking the bag downstairs, the kids asked me what they could bring to Victoria. I decided to allocate them each a backpack to fill with the toys they wanted to bring. “But you have to be able to carry it,” I warned. They happily packed as many treasures as their bags would hold. No worries, I said to myself as I saw the bulging backpacks at the door. They’ll be carrying those.

All that left me was my purse and the car seats. “Easy peazy lemon squeezy,” I chanted like my four-year old. Travel light, enjoy the moment, nothing else mattered. Suddenly I felt like one of those mothers. Flexible, happy, unencumbered by the parameters of planning and details, a go with the flow type, off on an adventure with two excited boys. I was pretty pleased with myself as I packed up a pile of passports, phone cords, and chargers for the kids’ toys. In went some coloring books, word searches and paper and pens. “What do we need those for?” my husband asked. “I’m not bringing the crayons, just a pen” I defended. “These are things for the ferry!” He continued to eye me suspiciously as I added some last-minute extras to the largely empty bag he would be carrying.

That night I marveled at how easy it was to grab a few things, book a ticket and get ready to leave. It didn’t have to be difficult. Life didn’t need constant planning after all. The bubble I fell asleep in was brutally burst when I woke to my husband’s panicked, high-pitched whisper, “THE ALARM DIDN’T GO OFF. I DON’T KNOW WHY. I HAVE NO IDEA. IT SHOULD HAVE GONE OFF. I SET IT FOR 4:30 AM. IT SHOULD HAVE GONE OFF —“I interrupted him with a staccato, “What time is it?” “Ten to five,” was his sheepish response. “We can do this.” I bolted out of bed. “We just need to get ready in ten minutes.” I’ve done it before. Everything was packed. I knew it was possible. But then nothing is quick and easy when kids are involved. Or, when a non-morning person is trying to function before five in the morning. The fleeting thought during my two-minute shower was, “Why did I book the 8:15 a.m. ferry when it takes two-and-a-half hours to get there?” But I shook off the question, made a mental ‘note to self’ that I wouldn’t make that mistake again and forged ahead in getting ready and loading the kids in the car. “They’ll have to travel in their pajamas,” I decided in a random, “this isn’t affecting me at ALL” moment and threw them into their car seats as gently as I could. We were out of the house by 5:20 am. There was still hope.

My panic that we were going to miss the boat came to a screeching halt when we passed a sign at 6:15 am that said, “Port Angeles – 42 miles.” Calmly I reiterated what I had been told when we got into the car; that it would take two-and-a-half hours to get there and that we’d be lucky to be there for eight o’clock. “Umm…doesn’t that sign mean we’ll be there by 7:00?” ‘Note to self’ moment: my husband always includes in his travel estimates time for eating, random stops, illogical traffic incidences, all the while strictly adhering to all posted speed limits. As opposed to me, being known to yell at traffic “It’s MINIMUM 70…PEOPLE!” Rather than be irritated, I saw this as life handing me lemons. In my haste to get out the door after the alarm clock incident, I had completely forgotten to pack any snacks. Pancakes at McDonald’s sounded perfect to everyone.

The 90-minute boat ride was turned into a blink with the good fortune of the boys making a new friend from California. The coloring books and toys weren’t needed, which was pointed out to me by my husband who was responsible for the one bag. The kids started complaining about their backpacks but I stayed on course and insisted they carry their own belongings. I had the car seats and my purse. We navigated the border line without too much trouble, though it did seem that we had slightly more than we did when we left the house in the morning. We were excited to see my Dad waving at the top of the walkway. Our random overnight vacation was officially underway.

It turned out we didn’t need much of what we packed. The kids were pretty tired from the early start so they had some downtime in front of the television. My Dad and his wife have toys because of their many grandchildren, and when we weren’t at the house, we were out walking, visiting the beach and exploring the beauty of Victoria. Another note to self moment: toys aren’t needed on an overnight trip.

The big highlight of the trip for my oldest son was going to the Pacific Undersea Museum. It was the carrot on the end of the stick that I specifically left until the second day, knowing full well I might have to place it on the chopping block if behaviour got out of control. After a leisurely dinner at a fancy restaurant passed without incident, I thought we were home free. They were being so good! We woke up in the morning, raring to go. A plan was in place: walk on the beach, visit Mile O, then the Aquarium, lunch, and more than enough time to make our three o’clock ferry.

Somehow, the implementation of a “plan” threw everything into a tailspin. Mile O was jam-packed with tourists and we had a hard time finding an opening to dart in and get a picture. Then, arriving downtown and looking for a parking place close to the aquarium and the ferry, my oldest son started misbehaving. I thought getting out of the hot car would help, but it didn’t. Before long he was standing by a tree wailing. I begged him, please, please, please, just stop. But anyone with a child knows that these kind of moments subscribe to the Murphy’s Law principle. Even the threat of the aquarium outing being cancelled did nothing to contain him. I was so embarrassed so I started walking. As he trailed behind me, his litany of complaints grew. I heard an elderly lady mutter under her breath as I marched by, “He’s just a little boy.” Lovely how moments like this occur in the blazing glare of public just to make you feel worse, I thought to myself.

Luckily my Dad took charge and arranged the aquarium and we shuffled into the undersea show that was starting within five minutes. As my children settled themselves in the front row, happily chatting to the group of people around them, I sat in the back and, in stunned silence, pondered what had just occurred. Why did my son have a meltdown? It was a mortifying experience that, thankfully, passed as quickly as it began but it sure left me questioning my parenting ability.

Lunch was without incident and then it was time for our good-byes and loading onto the ferry. In the heat of the lineup, it suddenly felt as though we had packed our whole house for the trip. The rocks and driftwood we had picked up at the beach were like trees and boulders. The kids’ backpacks, which they had long since abandoned carrying themselves, felt loaded with lead. The car seats were a cumbersome nuisance and my purse was the straw that broke my back. Having never been good in the heat, the room started to swirl and I felt faint. The front of the line and the open door were steps away, if only the line would move already! My husband asked me what was wrong and I could barely form a sentence. “It’s too hot!” I said accusingly, like somehow he had turned up the temperature gauge in the ferry terminal himself. My level of irritation with the heat was so obvious the lady behind me kindly offered to hold my spot in line if I needed to go to the bathroom and splash water on my face. At that moment the line started to move and my heat crisis was averted as I felt a whoosh of breathable air when I rounded the corner to the border check-in.

Once we loaded onto the ferry, the boys happily ate their Langos; Hungarian bread my Dad had the foresight to purchase for them to eat on the ride home. My sons were eager to explore the ferry. Off they went and I had a quiet moment, surrounded by my thoughts and our mountain of stuff. And it was then that my lightbulb moment occurred.

My son’s meltdown, though inconvenient, was not premeditated. His response to the uncertainty of the moment that preceded it was largely similar to my reaction while standing in the hot lineup, with no idea when we would finally start moving. I became internally frantic; I was overheated, impatient, and felt like lashing out. How often do we feel overwhelmed in life, with all the little things that throw us curveballs along the way? The difference is we have the maturity to cope and breathe through it. In that moment, I realized I was expecting far too much of my son. The lady’s voice reverberated in my head, “He’s just a little boy.”

Traveling light doesn’t just mean what you’re bringing with you, but what you’re prepared to leave behind. In the future, I’m going to try to avoid packing the baggage of expectations I have for my children and, rather, focus on what they can handle with their different natures and maturity levels. With all my visions of having a no planning, go with the flow, vacation, I ignored that my son’s nature requires a certain level of detail. Just as I require a little less heat. Seeing my sons’ happy faces as they returned from exploring the ship, I hoisted the heavy bag out of the way so they could sit next to me, and my youngest asked, “Why is the bag so heavy?” “Our rocks and driftwood are in there,” I reminded him. “Oh yeah. Right.” With my arms around my two treasures, I thought back to the amazing memories from our random weekend and realized every other moment far outweighed my son’s one meltdown. What matters is packing the important stuff and leaving the “rocks and driftwood” on the beach. Next time, my bag will be lighter, in more ways than one.

Looking for an easy getaway before the summer ends? Visit Black Ball Ferry Line to discover the great packages they offer for Victoria.

Do you have a highly spirited child or need some advice on nurturing your child’s innate nature? Here are two books my friend recommended that I plan on checking out from the library.
Raising Your Spirited Child
Nurture By Nature

Enjoy the remaining days of summer!

That day, at pickup, a little girl asked me, “Is it true Emmett broke his arm when he took his training wheels off?” I looked over at my son, saw his panic-stricken face, and felt every ounce of him willing me to have his back on this one. “I just forgot to take the training wheels off. Sorry!” I quickly ushered him to the car to avoid any further interrogation. Tossing the elephant into the back of the car, we sped off, neither of us saying a word.

Finally, to break the silence, I broached the topic. “How was bike day, buddy?” “Fine” came his terse reply. My mind was reeling with guilt. I flashed back to my first bike, at age 5, and remembered my Dad teaching me in the cul-de-sac in front of our home. That’s it! My guilt was assuaged. We had pavement! Of course he didn’t know how to ride a bike yet. How do you learn on a gravel driveway? I was instantly relieved.

Flash forward to a nice evening with friends, watching the kids play. Suddenly this little girl, the interrogator from bike day, is 40-feet up a tree. Unbelievable! My son could never do that, I thought in amazement. Watching her, she shimmied down the tree and stopped to tie her shoelace before running off to ride her training wheel free bike. “She’s so capable!” I said to her Dad, not realizing my six year old son was standing next to me, watching the exact same performance. “I know,” he scowled, and stormed away. There was no denying that he blamed me. I felt horrible.

The biking deficiency gnawed at me slightly over the next week, but I was able to shelve it again in my mind as I watched my sons out on the beach, happily digging for crabs, finding eels and building their ecosystems. They weren’t deprived, I convinced myself; they just had other interests. My bubble of denial was working well. That is, until it was popped by the “intervention.”

My friend brought her sons over for an impromptu afternoon play date that turned into a leisurely dinner, chatting at length while the boys played. When she told me a story of her kids bike riding, it reminded me of the story of the little girl interrogator. I shared it with her, nervously laughing about my son’s elaborate lie to cover the fact that he was still using training wheels. Awkward silence. “Well,” she began, “my son looked at me that day when he saw Emmett’s bike. I asked him what he was thinking.” There was a revelation coming. I hung on every word. “He said to me, I wasn’t going to say anything!” She said she asked him why, and his reply was, “Because he’s my friend.” Of course this cryptic conversation between the two of them was in regards to my son’s training wheels. It was a classic intervention moment when the one in denial has a harsh realization that changes everything. I burst into tears.

Though I felt like a failure as a parent for not getting my kids up to speed physically, I also questioned my susceptibility to peer pressure as I compared myself to other parents, and judged my kids according to others’ abilities. I heard that little girl’s voice in my head, “Haven’t you taken them skiing yet?” No, but we will, I promised without much conviction. I remembered a skating party where the kids all roller-skated confidently while mine clung to the wall. Must get them skating lessons, I thought immediately. Thinking back to a recent pool party where my two were the only kids in life jackets, we quickly signed them up for swimming lessons. Or when my son was nervous at school playing soccer, saying, “My friends said that wasn’t a goal!” We immediately signed him up for soccer. But, I reminded myself he was reluctant to play tennis at first but after practicing he developed a masterful backhand for his age. It was time to practice bike riding.

The other day was my moment. I announced it without a drum roll, not wanting to make a big deal about the event. Knowing my son, the bigger the commotion, the bigger his complaining would be. And it started right away. “I’m busy right now. I’ll do it later. I don’t want to ride my bike without training wheels!” My four year old, on the other hand, seemed all for it. “Come on! We’re riding without training wheels today!”

No more training wheels

I marched them outside, purposefully ignoring the droning commentary from my eldest son, who was busy trying to convince me I had lost my mind. He was making it clear he had no interest in biking. Knowing this was an important precipice, I forged on. Turn, turn, turn, clunk. One training wheel off. His voice got louder. Turn, turn, turn, clunk. The second training wheel was off. His voice reached a fevered pitch. “I don’t want to ride my bike! You’ll let go and I’ll fall!” My voice was remarkably calm. “I won’t let go. I’ll hold on the whole time. You’ll be fine.”

My four year old jumped on his bike for moral support and cheered his brother on as we approached the gravel starting line. Running alongside my son, we were halfway down the driveway when I first let go. My arms were in the air, victorious, relieved, and proud. He was doing it! Then, a close call as he screeched to a halt. “You let go!” He yelled, accusingly. “My back was itchy from the sun,” I said. “Let’s try again. I won’t let go.” Again and again we repeated the sequence and litany of complaints until my son was doing it on his own. No training wheels. No fear. It took all of about fifteen minutes.

Enjoying a popsicle reward after the accomplishment, my son reminded me that his brother, who was happily enjoying his treat as well, hadn’t tried to ride without his training wheels. “I like my training wheels,” he announced without an ounce of shame. “He’s only four,” I said protectively. It was one of those moments of clarity, where I could see the fine line between enabling and disabling our kids; a precarious tightrope we walk as parents. But, in that moment I was also reminded that every child is different and reaches milestones at their individual pace. What was the hurry anyway? I asked myself as I stared at the son I had just pushed out of the nest, eating his popsicle and enjoying the confidence he had gained through mastering this new skill. “His time will come,” I reassured my eldest. Just like yours did.

For tips on helping your child become bike ready, visit Livestrong.com.

When I heard the title of the Academic Challenge in Schools (ACOS) seminar, “Discovering the Gift in Your Child,” I heard music in my head. This was surely the one that would lead me down the path to great parenting. Meeting up with my friends, we arrived at the event where I would have gladly paid triple the fifteen dollar admission fee to anyone who could share a secret of this magnitude. There was an air of anticipation amongst the group of parents in the room, all eager to meet the experts. I watched as the parents swarmed tables lined with books, hoping to find answers before the symposium even began. The intensity level was extremely high. I felt relieved. I was definitely with my people.

Our first breakout session was with Larry Davis, the lead Gifted Coordinator of a K-8 program in the North Kitsap School District, an expert who was going to provide us with solutions to “Understand the Social & Emotional dynamics of your child; take home strategies for dealing with anxiety & stress – no more melt-downs or blow-ups!” He introduced us to a method called Heart Math detailing a very simple approach to helping a child get out of the meltdown by focusing on breathing and positive thoughts.

The Heart Math philosophy utilizes scientific studies that show the importance of mastering socioemotional skills at an early age for improved behaviour at home, school and play. It also measures the physiological state that underlies optimal learning. Powerful! I quickly wrote down the website to review in-depth later. What stuck with me the most was his hands-on solution to a meltdown, to reach the child and bring them to a state of “coherence” or being in the zone, which the Institute of Heart Math says is achievable at any age. You have to encourage their heart to breathe because sensory overload = anxiety = inconvenient behaviour. We were all writing that equation down frantically. This is what I had come for! I had tears in my eyes as I packed up from the first session; the day was off to such a fabulous start.

Next we were introduced to Laura Tucker, a science specialist and parenting expert that had an interesting experiment with a substance called Ooblek (simply 1.5 cups of cornstarch and 1 cup of water) where she tasked each group to discover some interesting properties of the substance. We were given no further information until the end of the experiment. As she explained later, it’s important to provide kids with the activity before the content, allowing them to create a file cabinet in their brain; constructing their own knowledge before hearing about it. The activity encouraged open-ended thinking and she emphasized that struggle creates neurological pathways. My scientific son would love this, I thought, and my youngest would love the tactile nature of the experiment. It was a great idea, I thought, as I surveyed the tables of parents, all calm and fully submersed in the discovery of Ooblek. I would have written it down if my hands weren’t covered with goo.

The last expert was Nathan Levy, an educator and author from New Jersey, who walked us through his Stories with Holes series and challenged us to come up with the answers to his cryptic stories. The exercise required listening and stretching the brain. He constantly checked us for understanding; what he described as the key to good parenting and good teaching. “Tell me what I just told you,” he’d ask us and encouraged us to do the same with our children. Being actively involved in their listening is a key to success, along with working hard and persevering. A good point he had was that if bright kids never learn these keys to success, the minute they encounter a challenge in life they quit. And, they won’t learn to their maximum if they are never uncomfortable. Taking away their struggle enables them. Catch them being good. Be unreasonable about reasonable things. I was writing as fast as I could. One of the last things I took away from his talk was to have your child write lists. Lists about anything. Their focus is then on the list and they don’t even know they’re writing. Down it went onto my pad of paper.

Back home, rejuvenated, I reviewed my notes and tried to prepare myself mentally for the first practical application of my precious tidbits. Maybe this was the time the information would actually work. The morning’s symposium would unlock the key to my parenting challenges and all would be right with my world. I was ready. Bring on the meltdown.

Of course it didn’t take long. It was over something inconsequential, as meltdowns usually are. I crouched down in front of my son and tapped into all I had learned that morning. I went straight to the Heart Math technique and told my son he had to “breathe through his heart.” The meltdown got worse. Before long I was screaming, “BREATHE THROUGH YOUR HEART! YOUR HEART NEEDS TO BREAAAATHHHE!” I sounded like I was at an accident scene, not trying to help my son through a tough moment. Walking away in failure, my son still in full meltdown, I thought, “Well, it sounds good in theory, but the practical application is the problem.” This time I caught myself in mid-excuse. Because of my heightened state of clarity and exposure to the experts, I realized in that moment that it wasn’t the advice not fitting my kids; it was most likely “user error.” I wasn’t executing their advice correctly.

That being said, the meltdown passed and the day continued and finally it was time for bed. I took my youngest up while my eldest was harping on me about doing something with him. Walking up the stairs I decided it was the perfect time to employ another expert tactic. I yelled out, “Make a list!” “About what?” he asked. “About me,” I answered. “Make a list of five things that describe me.”

I hesitated at the top of the stairs, wondering if I should go back and clarify my instructions. It would have been good if I added the word “nice” as my son is nothing if not blunt. Five “nice” things to describe me. My brain pushed down on the fast forward button and raced through snippets of my bad parenting moments. As I looked down from the loft he was furiously writing away, creating the list about me. It was an instant example of expert parenting advice from Nathan Levy in action. I was impressed. But I sure dreaded seeing that list.

Reluctantly I returned to the living room where my son was deep in thought. He approached me with his piece of paper but seemed disappointed. “What’s wrong buddy?” I asked, hoping he hadn’t been able to think of anything, which might be a better outcome than what I envisioned. “I could only think of three things,” he said as he presented me with his list, and I nervously imagined I would soon be reading the words ‘Raving lunatic stress-case.’ Anxiously awaiting the big reveal, I found it a bit hard to breathe. As I said, my son is extremely blunt.

In a day of searching for the answer to perfect parenting, I realized in that moment that, despite my many imperfections, they love me anyway. “Are you okay, Mum?” my son asked as I sat there quietly. “I’m okay, buddy. I’m just breathing through my heart.”

What a difference a year makes!

My sons have been to five parades in their little lifetimes, four of which I’ve avoided, and my eldest has now ridden in three of them. Which is why when my youngest son informed me, “I’m in the parade, too,” I had to quickly figure out a way for him to be on his brother’s float. It wasn’t fair that he had been relegated to spectator status strictly by default of me being a non-participator. Loading them on the float and into the pirate’s chest, I said my good-bye’s and prepared for my departure, ready to find my place in the already huge crowd of people that lined the parade route. “But why aren’t you walking with the other parents?” my son called after me innocently.

Good question.

Feeling very guilty, I slowly turned around to face him. I didn’t quite know how to explain myself without dimming his enthusiasm. I hemmed and hawed, all the while looking around me, taking in the other parents wearing their costumes, armed with their bags of candy to hand out to the spectators. It was a “call to arms” moment when I had no choice but to step up. There was no legitimate excuse. I don’t see the point of all that waving? I don’t like wearing costumes? I’m too tired to walk all that way? I’d like a coffee? You’ll be fine without me? Did I mention I’m not a parade person? Waiting expectantly for me to answer, he watched while I slowly collected my bags of candy and walked towards the back of the float, where I was hoping to blend. I gave my son a brave face and he smiled back at me proudly. There was no backing out now.

Shuffling down towards the start of the parade, it all felt a bit anti-climactic. “Is this it?” I asked the parent next to me. “Is this all we have to do?” But, it was the moment we crossed the start line, and the emcee announced our float, and the kids broke into a full-volume version of their pirate song, that a switch was turned on in all of us and we started marching forward at a brisk pace, waving enthusiastically at the spectators. I went from blending at the back to doling out candy to expectant kids, all the while smiling like I was in the final walk of a pageant! In an instant, I was hooked!

As a novice, I wasn’t without my share of fumbles. In my exuberance, I handed out my candy way too quickly which left me feeling slightly awkward at the one-third point when kids were looking at me wanting their loot. Lagging behind in the heat, we were told to pick up the pace by the Parade Marshall (who even knew there was such a thing!) and, it was only after breaking free of the line to quickly buy a strawberry lemonade beverage that I realized I had committed a terrible parade faux-pas. You don’t leave the procession! Apart from these honest first-time mistakes, it was a truly memorable experience. The kids had a great time, I enjoyed seeing them throughout the parade from my vantage point, and I was left with a great feeling of fanfare.

This celebratory mood stayed with me as we went down to visit the booths in the main area. The kids tried out an obstacle course with their friends, did some arts and crafts and waited in a long line for a 30 second bounce on a trampoline. It was a lot of milling about, but it was fun feeling like I had been dropped into a Norman Rockwell slice of life. So, this is why people love parades!

As we fought our way back to the car through the sea of thousands, hand in hand with my son happily tackling a corn dog, I started running into people I knew in the community, evaporating the security of anonymity I felt as I marched along exuberantly with my first-time pageant veneer. So many people were out celebrating! And it hit me that we were all participants, no matter what side of the procession we were on; with varying degrees of enthusiasm we were all there waving our parade flags. That sense of community, in life and as a parent, is so important. Sometimes we lead the celebration, and sometimes we are on the sidelines, clapping and cheering. But the important thing is that we show up. Life lessons I’ve learned from the Parade…

Driving home after the long day of festivities, my eldest son asked me, “Where are we going now?” I glanced over at his younger brother, slumped over in his car seat, drooling with fatigue, completely done in by the active day, and said, “We’re going home buddy. It’s late.” “Awwww!” he whined. I silently commiserated with his disappointment, feeling slightly anti-climactic after a magical day of being engulfed by enthusiasm. I can admit it. I’ve been converted by the flags and the fanfare. The corn dog phenomenon is one I’ll probably never fully grasp but, remembering my sons’ happy faces, I know there are plenty of parades in my future. I may be watching from the sidelines I thought as I rubbed my wrist, still sore from the intensity of my waving, but, no matter what, I’ll show up.