Book By Its Cover

Day 354

I try hard to not prejudge or hold stereotypes in my heart.  Sometimes I fail.  It’s in those imperfect moments that Life shows her cards and I realize once again I’ve played the wrong hand.   

Ian and I wait in the green chair lift line at Perfect North.  The chair holds three so as a party of two we shimmy our skis closer to the front of the loading line and wait for a single rider to make us a party of three. 

A black ski mask obscures everything but his eyes.  Bulky headphones cover his ears.  He slides his snowboard towards us and turns away.  Nothing about him invites conversation.  

The chair swings around and the three of us board.  I. grips the side rail.  His face reads TERROR.  WHAT DID MY MOM MAKE ME DO?  WHY AM I ON THIS MOVING CHAIR?  SO HIGH FROM THE GROUND? 

I immediately do what I do in high-pressure situations.   I talk.  I blabble in an effort to comfort but also in an attempt to distract.  It’s working.  I. looks at me oddly as I go on and on about the lunch selections in the lodge and how hot does hot chocolate have to be before it’s deemed undrinkable. 

We’ve halfway to the top when the chair stops.  Our feet hang precariously in the air. 

I.’s on to my tricks.  His grip tightens on the side rail. 

“First time skiing?” the masked snowboarder asks.  “Having a good time?” 

I judged you wrong, I think, and listen as he engages my frightened son in exactly the thing I didn’t think he liked: conversation. 

The chair lurches forward as we chug up the mountain. 

“Tips up, just like last time,” I instruct as we near the top. 

I.’s left ski veers one way and his right ski the other.  By the time I realize what’s happened, gravity pulls me down the ramp and off the lift.  The snowboarder hops over on his board, extends his hand and pulls my child from the ground and out of the way of the next three skiers. 

So what’s my random kindness in all this?  Nothing more than to remember that books can’t always be judged by their covers.  Shame on me for forgetting.  And a heartfelt thanks to that snowboarder for reminding me.     
   

March. March. Jazz Hands.

Day 353

Thin Mints.  Samoas.  Trefoils.  Do-si-dos.

Oh, let me count the ways.  Or to be more accurate, let me count the boxes.

In total, 28 boxes of Girl Scout cookies have lined our shelves over the last two weeks.  Not all at the same time.  They don’t last long to get to know each other. 

“Why so many?” people often ask.  Or, “Were you a Girl Scout?” 

My elementary school didn’t have a Girl Scout troop.  We had Campfire Girls.  And I joined.

At least once a month, or more frequently if requested, I entertain the boys with a song and dance routine I do to When Every Campfire Girl Walks Down the Street.  It goes something like this:  

When every Campfire girl walks down the street (march, march)

She’s just one-hundred per from head-to-feet. (okay sign with my hand, touch head, point to feet)

She’s got that style, that smile, that winning way. (beauty queen pose, cheesy grin, clasped hands shake over one shoulder then the other)

Just one look at her,

You’ll recognize her and you’ll say, (shake finger in a knowing, authoritative way)

“Now there’s a girl I’d like to know.  (more finger-shaking)

She’s got that good old Campfire pep and go. (turn to the side, locomotion dance move)

Just to look at her is quite a treat! (jazz hands)

Oh to be a Campfire girl!” (pull out all the stops and throw in old cheerleading jump)

While different in many ways, I believe these two groups are alike in the ways that matter most.  They create community. They introduce girls to new challenges and adventures. They build girls’ self-esteem and self-confidence. 

These lessons last a lifetime.  Deep down that Campfire Girl still exists in me: a young girl willing to try new things and brave enough to fail.  Is there any better lesson we can teach our girls?  Or a better reason to buy Girl Scout cookies?     

For the record, I also do a mean Camp Tialaka chant.  

A Valentine Life Saver

Day 352

I love a kid with an entrepreneurial spirit. 

That’s why when I receive a flyer created by a neighborhood junior high student toting her babysitting skills I tuck it in my calendar to hire her the next time Chaz and I go out. 

I text the girl two weeks before our Valentine’s weekend dinner and receive a yes reply.

For those who don’t yet text the sitter; oh, honey, get with the program.  Texting makes booking sitters 100-times more efficient.  Gone are the days of leaving a message and biding my time waiting for a reply.  Today’s youth are about now-now-now.  This translates to me having an answer within seconds of hitting send. 

Flash forward to tonight.  We’re ready.  Pizza’s on the table waiting for the kids.  Emergency numbers are neatly written on a piece on notebook paper by the phone along with bedtime instructions and the address of the restaurant where we’ll be.  All we need is the sitter. 

The minutes tick by and I wonder why the sitter isn’t here.  Seven.  Seven-fifteen.  Seven-thirty.  I start to worry.  Our reservations are for eight at a restaurant 20-minutes away. 

I double-check my phone and the message I sent.  Yes, she said she was available.  I scroll back through our exchange.  For March 16^th.  I’ve given her the wrong date.  

Before I go into full-blown panic (and before my husband finishes dressing and walks down the stairs), I call the girl. 

“Hi,” I start, trying to slow my breathing.  “I know I said I needed you to sit on March 16^th but I made a mistake. I meant February 16^th.”  Silence.  I battle on.  “So I was wondering,” my voice turns high and excited like I’m inviting her to a party, “are you available?  Umm,” here’s my closer, “now?” 

“Now?” the girl asks.  “Sure.”  Just like that.   

“Really?  You can come?” I nearly faint from relief. 

“I just have to call my mom for a ride.  She’s at Kroger.” 

“Whenever you can get here is great.  You’re a life saver,” I say and hang up. 

This isn’t how I imagined introducing this new sitter to our family.  On the up side, I now know she’s available for last minute sitting jobs.  Sigh.