It’s Elf on the Shelf Season … Not in my house.  Not now, not ever.  It’s a holiday tradition that I like to put under the parenting column of “Good for you, not for me.”

It’s hard enough to be a parent. And social media has a way of sending your parental inadequacies into over drive.  Elf on a Shelf is a perfect example.  You get 24 days of how awesome Jennifer*  is as a parent.  Every day her kids wake up to see what creative new things their elf name, Espharanzetu (it has to have a creative name too, it can’t just be Frank) has been up to.  And I have to wake up to a social media post of her mom-creativity.  Her Elf on the Shelf is really her trying to win the “Good Mom Gold Ribbon.”  Here I am just trying to put breakfast together —FRUIT!  I need to add some fruit in there!

That’s why I use Elf on the Shelf as an example of “Good for you, not for me.”  You are going on a weekend camping trip “Good for you, not for my family”. Your kid is a grandmaster Judo star.  “Good for him, not for my kid.”

You have the time and energy to play along with the ELF - every - single -  F—ing - night?!  Good for you, my goal for the evening is making sure the kids have clean underpants when they wake up.

I have managed to use disdain for the Elf as a moral platform.  “No, we do not need an Elf in our house.  We already know we are a nice, kind family.  We do not need a third party judging our behavior.”   If I am feeling more hooligany,  “I don’t want a narc in our house.”
I once met a mother who worked in social services.  She said she hated the “be good or Santa won’t bring you toys” narrative.  She was trying to teach her girls to be considerate of those less fortunate.  I’m sure there is a lot of kids who are trying their best to be good.  But no amount of niceness will give their parents the means to make Santa keep his half of the bargain.

Be good = get stuff.

How about just be good.  Not just for 24 days, but year round.

And for the parents.  How about just be good enough.
                 And no narcs allowed. ​

* Jennifer is not a real person — but a composite of individuals. 

One of my stupid mom tricks is making balloons animals. I can’t say I’m very good, but if you use your imagination- sure it’s a koala!  It was a handy trick to keep two toddlers entertained at stores or waiting at a doctor's office. It was also an easy way for my boys to make friends at the park. Nothing sparks a conversation between little kids like a balloon animal. “Hey where did you get that. Can I have it ?” 
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My sis-in-law found out about this secret talent at a recent birthday party.  How did you learn yo do that? “Oh, there’s a book." But you do it so quick?

Her interest in my balloon trick made me become introspective about my balloon animal-ing journey.  How did I manage to learn this skill? It wasn’t determination.  I could have easy given up and learned the harmonica.  It wasn’t inherent. I actually did have to follow the book’s instructions. But it also wasn’t practice. Balloons were one of the many activities I had on rotation. So how did I get so good at this skill? 
“You can’ be afraid to pop the balloon.”

​That was it.  Once you get over your fear of a balloon popping, you are set.  See, inherently balloons will pop.  You will over inflate.  It will go pop.  It will startle you and the dog and the kids.  But you do it anyway.

It’s akin to asking yourself the question “What could you do, if you knew you wouldn’t fail?”

Failure is a heavy anchor.  It keeps you grounded in counterfeit safety where you don’t grow or change or challenge yourself to make little winner dog balloon animals.

Advice for life #378 - Don’t be afraid to pop the balloon

Advice for life #379 - Spend the extra 2 cents to buy the better quality balloons

Advice for life #380 - Also get the little pumping device, don’t try to pump the balloons yourself

It’s  Saturday Morning and the “old radio” is on.  It’s made to look like it’s from 1934, but it has a tape deck. I don’t believe it’s an actual antique. 

Don’t tell my oldest that.  He’s proud that his radio is older than his Abuelita.  It was a yard sale “splurge” a while a go.  A little overly priced, but the seller threw in a free M&M dispenser playing a saxophone — geez thanks. 

Look, some people are just born “old souls” and right now my oldest fits in that category.  You can blame it on the pandemic lockdown, but he has picked up some weird hobbies.  It’s possible he would have pick up these hobbies regardless of the inability to travel or go to the gym.

He started rock collecting. And somehow found his was to the periodic table, which lead him to metals, which lead him to silver and gold.  “Hey, we have some of Grandpa Green’s old coins” somehow turned into having a book to hold said coins.  Not all coins are valuable but all coins have value.  They also have different dates and designs.  We now own a jeweler’s loop to look at the intricacies of each coin.  Hey mom do you see this penny it has XYZ because its from year whatever and this penny has ABC because it’s from this other decade.

Good thing I have perfected my “smile, nod and look interested” after years hearing his father rattle statistics about baseball players.

So back to the radio. “Hey who turned out the radio?”

“I did” he said.

“It’s nice, it gives the house more of a weekend feel to it.”  And it does.  After more than a year of living at work I have tried hard to delineate when the work week ends and when the weekend begins.  Saturday: a day when I do not have to juggle 4 schedules and 3 meals.  Not have to be on this meeting/class/zoom/call at precisely X o’clock.   And I usually outsource meals to whatever fast food chain is within a 10 minute drive.

My son then makes a profound statement “The radio is nice because you never know what song they are going to play next.  It’s a surprise, but they also have news.”  I think the act of not knowing in a world of “on-demand song/movie/tv playing” is an interesting characteristic for a 7 year old to consider.  I also appreciate his thoughtfulness in creating a win-win scenario by plugging in the fact they do little news breaks and traffic/weather alerts on top of the hour.  Poor kid was stuck with NPR until he had the vocabulary and sense to ask for music instead of KJZZ.  They have the “All Things Considered” tune memorized by heart.   (I wonder if it will trigger some sort of odd memory in their adult future.)

Yes the radio is nice.  PSA — there is still terrestrial radio broadcasting for FREE available for the masses.  Donated to your local NPR station ….

Now back to to this Chamillionaire song…

There's high school friends, college buddies, work acquaintances, sports league gads, and, at a certain point in your life, you pick up friendships called "Mommy friends.” Mommy friends are very precarious.  They are interesting relationships in that your kids have to get along with her kids and you and the other mommy have to have some semblance of agreeableness with each other.

There's been times my kids want to buddy up so badly to another child, but the mom only wants to sell me Herbalife.  There's been times the mom and I get into deep discussions about neuroscience, but my kids come back from the playdate saying I'm bored.

So, I treasure the "mommy friends” I currently have, because magically the kids get a long and I can do more than just "stand the mom.”  We actually became friends outside of playdates.  For example, we all get together for a girls night out about once a month in an alternate universe where COVID does not exist.

One of those friendships happens to be with a family here only temporarily from Japan.  The husband is on a work visa.  The boys bonded immediately over legos and fart jokes.  Who would have known, little boys and fart jokes are universal across cultures!  But they also enjoy baseball and swimming and Godzilla.   

We've even had a Zoom playdate where we did a "show and tell " for Godzillas, explaining what each one is and does and whatever.  (Apparently, there are very different Godzillas and its very important to know those differences.  This is the moments where I smile and nod and try to figure out what’s for dinner.)

I learned that the US has some quirky rules when it comes to visas. The family needs to leave the country in order to comply with visa requirements.  They don’t have to go back to Japan; they just have to leave the country - Mexico, Spain, South African, anywhere. They just need a stamp on their passport to prove they left and came back.  Of course, they are going to go back to Japan for the summer.  Good for them, I hear summers in Arizona can be unbearable.

When my youngest got wind of their summer plans, he got very concerned. Godzilla comes from Japan.  His friend is going to Japan.  His friend is in danger of a Godzilla attack when he goes to Japan.  (I love Faulkner-style logic, my mother is a fish and all.) My spouse had to console him.  No, Godzilla won’t be there during the that time; his friend will be safe.  
I asked the mom to make sure her child explains to my child that Godzilla is fictional. The friend will be a more reliable witness since he is actually from Japan. 
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So in conclusion, I am blessed to have a handful of mommy friendships that actually work....Godzilla is just fiction… fart jokes are universally funny to little boys.  

As I think back on my youth, I like to brand myself a smart, plucky go-getter.  My family had always encouraged me to strive for a college education and reach for a middle-class lifestyle.  I could see so clearly where I wanted to be.  The problem was, I didn’t have the road map to get from Yuma, Ariz. to [insert place where my potential could be realized, maybe Los Angeles? My world was pretty small back then.]

That’s why so many of my early mentors and advocates were teachers.  Mrs. Manifold stands head and shoulders above the rest.  I’ve tried to think back to the made-for-tv moment where Mrs. Manifold changes the projection of my life.  But there is no ‘Stand and Deliver’ moment, there is no lighting in a bottle, no one specific ‘A-ha” story that I can remember.  Instead what Mrs. Manifold did, through various years, activities and experiences is help me build a roadmap to my success.

‘Go get a job’ is good advice.  You know what’s even better, ‘here’s how to write a resume.’  Platitudes about a college education are motivational.  But they were no match for Mrs. Manifold’s correction pen helping me craft my admissions essay, edit after edit.

‘You can be anything you want to be’ is too broad.  Mrs. Manifold brining in a radio journalist as a guest speaker made me say ‘I want to do that.*’

I first met Mrs. Manifold my sophomore year in English Honors II.  That’s also the year I got a special waiver to take a Journalism elective even though it was only offered to Juniors & Seniors.  I took that Journalism elective until I left for Northern Arizona University to study… journalism.  The foundation Mrs. Manifold provided (along with a little pile of clips) opened the door to a job at The Lumberjack (which was, at the time, an independent student newspaper, so yes there was a paycheck involved, not class credit.) 

An extended family of engineers, and more engineers, expected me to study something commiserate with my talents, like Law.  Mrs. Manifold gave me the encouragement to stick with Journalism.   It created the foundation allowing me to springboard into a successful communications career.  

It’s strange to think of an alternate universe where Mrs. Manifold doesn’t teach at Cibola High School, and somehow I become some sort of disaffected lawyer. 

It breaks my heart when teachers get villainized, because they do so much to mold our future.  They get to see the raw potential and aspiration in students.  And, like Mrs. Manifold, they are able to create the action plan, the execution allowing a child’s dream to become reality.  

Thank you Mrs. Manifold for helping me write the first chapter in my success story, and for the the countless success stories you continue to help write. 




* My first career goal was radio, but I need up studying Print journalism instead.  The reason for the switch is a good story I’ll have to share one of these days.

Teachers are usually on the top of the list when it comes to “life influencers.”
I always think back to my high school theatre teacher for creating one of my vital life lesson, not for what he did for me, but what he didn’t do.

My last semester in high school, the theater’s program play was some obscure Russian performance.  This was no Shakespeare or Grease, but I was still excited for the lead female role.  Over the previous years, I had put in the hard work (grunt work) with the theater club.  Playing roles like servant number 2, working the sound board, striking the set.  Now as a Senior, it was “my turn” to play the lead.  I was nervous at the audition, like anyone should, but confident being my only competition was a freshman.  I was also asked to stand in for the supporting female role to help the other boys audition.

The teacher/director liked my performance better in the supporting role instead of the lead.  Well you can image the shock - the utter shock to see Ms. Freshman as a lead, and me as the supporting female role (This is where we would get into the discrepancy of male-to-female roles in theatre productions, but remember this is high school, so I hadn’t been introduced the feminist literary theory yet.)

Well of course, the only sensible thing to do, in my still-developing-teenage brain, is to walk up to Mr. Andy Penn, and tell him that if I couldn’t play the lead, then I just wouldn’t be in the play at all.  “There, that will show him”​

Mr. Penn didn’t talk me out of it.  He said he liked what I had done with the character in the supporting role.  He understood my disappointed and hoped I would choose to stay in the performance.  

Stay I did.  Still enjoying my friends, the theatre atmosphere and the ensemble work, which was critical to my future understanding of teamwork.  (I bring up theatre as an example whenever there is talk of my kids joining a sport. ‘They will never learn teamwork!’  ‘They’ll join a theatre troop.’)

Beyond teamwork, Mr. Penn thought some heavier life lessons in his department.  ‘It’s my turn’  or ‘I’ve put in the work, give me the job.’ Don’t always hold up in the real world. Sometimes the chips don’t land in your favor.  You get to adulthood and don’t land a promotion, you can’t really walk into your bosses office with a ‘give it to me or I quit’ soliloquy. (I mean, I guess you could, but you better have a good cushion, because the boss is likely to say, ‘there’s the door.’)

And sometimes you can want a role desperately, but what your are truly skilled in another area.

As I look a back at my professional career, the missed opportunities hurt, but ultimately they wouldn’t have lead me in the best direction.  

The “supporting role” turned out to be more than just a backdrop.  I got my emotional redemption during a particular sluggish dress rehearsal.  After the performance, we would all gather on stage to get the director’s note.  (It’s a little like kneeling on the field during half time and listening to the coach - see just like sports.)  In the chronological order notes came negative comment, after corrections, after negative comment.  A teacher frustrated that the team was so close to playoffs - I mean, opening day - and they still struggled with the pass -  I mean, get their lines down.

My turn was up “Zoe, thank you!” Mr. Penn said.  “But one great performance alone cannot carry the whole show….” The criticism kept coming, but I stood in a beam of praise.  

Loosing the lead may have been the first time I didn’t get what I wanted, and yet ended up where I needed to be. 

Thank Mr. Penn for teaching us that “there are no small roles, just small actors.”  And for the various life lessons you taught along the way. 

The COVID quarantine has forced us to rethink annual traditions. The pomp and circumstance of graduations have become community parades. Birthdays have become private affairs. Weddings guests celebrate the bride and groom via Facebook Live comments.

But what about the brands that were interwoven into those traditions?

My daily routine includes Pantene products to maintain my hair healthy and smooth. My triennial tradition included chopping said hair and sending it to Pantene’s foundation “Beautiful Lengths.” I came across Pantene’s foundation when researching non-profits to donate my hair and found some lacking . 

The first time I donated my hair, it seemed very poetic - my hair was sent off to the company who helped nurture it during its growth. Then, I was shocked to learn you cannot write off a hair donation on your taxes (can’t do it for kidney donations either.)

More recently, every Spring my family would donate to Phoenix Children’s Hospital. Our donation would entitle the boys to get their heads buzzed, and my pony tail lopped off.  Except this year, our annual tradition was canceled. Furthermore, Pantene decided to wind down the Beautiful Lengths program. “Synthetic-hair technology has vastly improved … This change in patient need has resulted in decreased demand for real-hair wigs at the American and Canadian Cancer Societies.” (Panente is continuing it’s philanthropic efforts by providing support to Feeding America. )

It’s time to research new non-profits where I can hand off my hair. And begin a new tradition.

Saturday, June 27 at 10 a.m.(AZ time), it will be my turn to get my quarantine haircut on Facebook Live. Our family will make its donation online and we encourage everyone to continue to donate and support the non-profit organizations they are passionate about.

While national attention continues to be on the COVID crisis, let’s not forget the patients and families facing off against cancer. 
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And with so much uncertainty, it’s comforting to know I can count on Pantene for a great hair day, be it long or short.

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It finally happened. We have nothing to talk about. The quarantine continues, and we have run out of topics for discussion.  Yes, there’s always the infection charts, world events and politics. But we have found that the only thing we can have on the TV while the kids are up is the Food Network’s Guy Fieri. 

I’m talking about the daily, lively chit-chat. The ‘shooting the breeze’ and ‘talking about sports over a beer.’ The ‘I stumbled upon the most interesting thing on my way to…' wherever we used to go before we were on house arrest.

The other night an unnamed spouse ask me “What did you do today?”

“What are you talking about! You’ve been three feet from me ALL DAY LONG."
Of Irish stock, with the self proclaimed gift of gab, he has been reliant on texting his buddies.

I call the usual rotation of friends, including my mother.  On one occasion, I talked with my mom for an HOUR about how the new neighbor was redoing their floors before moving in.... and hour.  Once my mom talked to me for FORTY minutes about her AC tune-up. 
When I got off the phone Tim asked “what did your mom have to say?”

“She just got her AC tuned up, the price went up from $65 to $75 dollars, the guy said that blah blah blah,” he got a complete download for the NEXT 20 minutes.


This is me now.

I guess it’s good to know that this crisis hasn’t affected my awesome ability to chitchat!

It’s important to use this power for good instead of evil (evil means giving Tim a blow-by-blow account of a friends decision to get a new kitchen gadget.)

This is where my handy Rolodex and Facebook come in.  You pop on my Facebook feed - mental note. Call so and so.

Kid's toy train is broken.... I’ll call Ken, I haven’t seen Ken since last year.  But the kid’s train is broken, Ken knows about toy trains, ‘Ken let’s talk for an hour.’
'I know we haven’t worked together in five years work acquaintance, what fascinating projects are you working on now?'

Junior high friend, remember that time we saw La Vida Loca? Let’s recite our favorite lines “Meet me at the longs …”


Doing my part

So if you need a break from the mundane, please let me know.  I am happy to talk you for an extend period of time about nothing at all.  My backyard  finally did get fixed! Did you hear I have an InstaPot now, let me tell you about how I cook hard boiled eggs.

We all have to pull together and do what we can.  I stand ready to do my part and give you a verbal reprieve, I promise no COVID or political talk. 

I am not a “Star Wars mommy.”  Not into the Star Wars franchise. I’ve seen the movies playing on the TV. I remember kids playing  action figures.

But I never got into buying a Star Wars branded merch or wearing T-shirts stating my kids belong to the Darkside (although they do, they really do.) That all changed when my spouse started introducing the kids to the Star Wars. Apparently, it’s a very important part of a child’s development. When anyone makes a Star Wars reference around the house, the joke is “I  am not a Star Wars mommy” so I don’t get the reference.

I am not an Insta pot mom either.  When the Internet started getting excited about Insta pots, I clung tightly to my crockpot and declared the Insta pot was just a short-lived fad bound to fail. My logic with the Insta pot follows other cooking technology promising quicker, healthier meals. Remember the microwave? Do you still own a George Foreman grill? 

“Now I can cook for my family every night, we’ll sit around the table and my teenager won’t scowl at me anymore.”
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Most often it fails and then I can just buy it from your garage sale.
It’s a little like a home exercise bike. If you don’t usually work out, buying an elliptical machine alone won’t do much.  

The Insta Pot alone is not going to feed your family.  You come home tired after a long day of work. Yes, Insta pot is sitting there, but did you realize you had to go grocery shopping to put some sort of food in there? It doesn’t just magically appear!  There is some level of prepping- shopping, washing, chopping.  And at the end of the day, the Insta Pot still takes some time and coordination.  Sure,  instead of being in the crock pot all day, your roast can be done in an hour.  But then again, your family hates roast.   My advice to people with Insta Pot is skip it and just resign yourself to the McDonald’s drive-through.

Interesting turn of events

As COVID stretches on, there’s been a need for more cooking, more shopping, more prepping more dirty dishes to clean up afterwards. 

“I’m doing the dishes again why are we using so many dishes,” said an unidentified spouse.

“Breakfast, lunch, dinner times four,” I said.  “Plus snacks.”

[Overheard during an especially frustrating Saturday morning steaming veggies for the week]
“Why is it so hot in here.”
“I’m hot”
“Why do you have to cook and heat up the whole house?”
“BECAUSE I can’t serve my family RAW MEAT!” I said, [thinking, maybe I should, you filthy animals.]

But, I was also pretty hot and tired and frustrated. At the end of the day, I announce to the family that on Mother’s Day I will close my eyes and when I open them I will be presented with an Insta Pot. I knew Tim probably had it on his list of potential gifts for me; he would never dared purchase one without my sign-off. Yes, I’m throwing in the towel.  The amount of broccoli I have to steam on a weekly basis .... maybe this will keep the house from getting so hot.

When Mother’s Day arrived, I was presented with a beautiful large Insta Pot.  No regular Insta Pot - oh, no.  My boys did not stop there.  They got the Chewbacca model. It gets better… Timothy also decided I needed a Darth Vader toaster.

“It comes with a dark side and a light side for your toast,” he said eagerly.  It also stamps Star Wars on the bread.​

With the COVID crisis,  everybody has to do what they can to stay healthy and sane.  My strategy continues to be to steer into the skid.   OK, you got me Mr. Wang, I have an Insta Pot now.  And, apparently, I have become a Star Wars mommy too.