Sorry readers, I am so confused about something I have been seeing everywhere. I can see both sides, for and against. You get to be my third party as I lay down pros and cons. It is my hope that I’ll have a solid opinion after this post.
My dilemma: The recently-released American Boy doll.
Pro: With all the negative influences young boys have, it would be nice to have a positive one.
Con: I discovered American Girl when I was seven or eight. It was Samantha, who lived in 1904. With the name “American Girl” I felt so special. These were only for girls!
Con: What the boys are wearing. I know that’s the style, but the one I saw looked like a thug, wearing a gray hoodie pulled over his eyes. Wouldn’t you think parents would want him to be better dressed?
Con: It’s part of their “diversity collection.” Code for politically correct.
Pro: The books taught me that anything was possible for a girl. Every kid needs to learn that.
Okay, that didn’t help. I’d love to hear your comments! And can you continue my lists?
It’s day three of Everyday Inspiration. Today I had to pick a word from a list of 5 or 7 and have that be my inspiration. I chose the word “love.”
Even as a kid my favorite flower were pansies. They just look happy. Like they are smiling. Seeing that flower reminds of chilly afternoons with me riding my bike in front of our house watching Mom and Dad plant pansies in the front yard. The mountains visible from our house are snow capped and although the air is nippy, I’m warm in my sweatshirt.
I think it’s the nostalgia I like. Besides it being a pretty flower.
Last year I got a pansy growing kit for Christmas. Mom saw it as one of Oprah’s Favorite Things. It’s kind of creepy, but you can grow flowers in mason jars. The seeds were planted a couple of weeks ago, and now I have my flower children.
As you can see, they have a lot of growing to do, but I already know the pot they’ll go in; it’s high up, away from somebody’s nosy paws, but directly in view from my bedroom. Every time I see my pansies all of those nice childhood memories will come back.
All of these WordPress words, there have been more than a few that I’ve had to Google their definition, I’m afraid, reminding me of a spelling bee.
I remember, barely, representing Mrs. Compton’s fifth grade class in the school bee. I don’t remember what word got me out, but doesn’t mysticalsound like (and look like) one that could? Mystical. It’s tricky for a child. Should be mysticil, I think. Until I see it. Then neither seems right!
I watch the national spelling bee on TV, and it’s definitely not good for the ego. Children (one contestant a first grader, meaning he’s six), are spelling ridiculously long words that someone in their 30s, meaning that I have 27 years of life on them (I had to use a calculator), couldn’t necessarily spell
Here is the youngest contestant from the 2016 bee, spelling the longest word I have ever seen:
I think when I was six, I was using our dog as Barbie’s school bus. In my opinion, this child has too much time on his hands.
I questioned whether or not I should write this post. I didn’t want my readers to feel inferior to a six year old. But misery loves company.
My sister’s boyfriend works for ESPN. Since Disney is their parent company, he gets passes to Disneyland a few times a year. Oh, darn. Mom, Dad, and I used them over the summer. We just went to walk around, though did go on a few rides. I asked to go on Small World. Dad grumbled, but obliged.
I obviously can’t get into a boat. There is one with a lift, but it was being used at the time. It was 4:55. As the clock ticked, I wondered how in the world the employees did it. That thing would drive me crazy. Eight hours!?
Our boat came before five. As we floated along, listening to that song, which I was extremely annoyed to have in my head when I went to sleep hours later, I started noticing things. As all of the dolls sang, their “jaws” would clack, the outfits looked a little tired, and when you looked over the boat’s railing you saw all the mechanics beneath the dolls.
I was a tad disappointed seeing that, as I said, that was my favorite ride as a kid. There was “Disney Magic” at work. But as an adult, you become wise to it. Wouldn’t it be nice to keep that childlike innocence all of our lives?
This post uses the photo challenge title “Now” as inspiration, but I’m obviously not using photography.
At this moment, here I sit in the kitchen, the house in disarray as the Christmas decorations come down. I hear the zipping of the bag containing our tree. Yes, it’s fake, something my 29-year-old sister is horrified at.
This time was always sad as a kid. Christmas was really over. Eleven more months, which was an eternity. Now, it’s kind of like, “The show’s over, back to your lives!” Almost a relief to return to normal.
Time flies at the age of 32. Although it’s dreary and bitter cold, by Southern California standards, it could be May 2015—seven months ago. Or at least it seems like it could be May. Or should be May.
So, with that logic, I guess Christmas will be back next summer, fake tree and all.
Erin the Picnic, Kelley the Hula Girl, and Sarah the Bag of Jelly Belly’s.
Ah, Halloween. It was the one night when bedtimes didn’t matter (within reason), and a sugar rush was acceptable—almost expected. And for one night you could experience being somebody other than yourself.
Then comes the year when you stop trick-or-treating altogether (I was probably in junior high). I felt so grown up—trick-or-treating was so juvenile! But being on candy patrol wasn’t as much fun, as it turned out.
Today, HALLOWEEN, PERIOD, even if I dressed up, just isn’t the same. There are just too many creeps who are ready to “pounce” on unsuspecting children partaking in an innocent pre-November tradition. You see on the news the stupid people hiding razors and things in candy or lacing it with drugs.
I know I sound like an old geezer, but I miss the innocent days. My sisters and I got costume ideas from American Girl magazine, Dad was the designated pumpkin carver, and a fun-size Reese’s Cup made my night.
I’m now 32 and my sisters in their late 20s. I’m positive they would wholeheartedly agree when I say I wish I appreciated those days of trick-or-treating, when my only problem was which candy bar to eat first.
I’ve already told you that my dream would be to a children’s author and that Beverly Cleary is my writing hero. Reading her books is one of my best childhood memories. It was probably my first “chapter book,” and I remember feeling so grown up. At around age seven.
The book I’m going to talk about now was earlier in childhood:The Little House. Mom kept a copy, probably for grandchildren, and I’m looking at it right now. The cover is bent in places and has a large scuff mark, which is a sign of love, as it was passed from me to Sarah, then Kelley.
At the time I was too little young to understand the symbolism, but as the surroundings of this cute cottage were being built up, being surrounded by skyscrapers, I remember feeling a sense of absolute panic. That little house didn’t deserve this! It was such a relief when the sweet house was moved to the country again. It told kids that things would be okay in the end, which is an important lesson to learn at an early age.
Some would call this progress…
It’s simplistic wishing life’s problems could be solved in 40 pages like the little house’s, but hey—aren’t happy endings what childhood should be about?
I had no idea about what, I just felt like writing today. I guess you can call this a post about nothing. Actually I have a point; it’s just not the most important.
What’s your favorite season? I am a warm-weather person. I love summer. Feeling 95+ temperatures on my skin and looking out my French doors and seeing the backyard full of color is my favorite. I have wonderful summertime memories: Playing in the sprinklers (this was obviously before the drought), riding bikes after dinner, and also after dinner visiting with Mary, the elderly woman across the street. So sweet, but as with lots of old people, she could be cranky. Mary would be puffing on her cigarette, while complaining our very uppity next-door neighbors.
About September, though, I was ready for winter. I had grown sick of my summer wardrobe, but would need it for at least another month. I would look at sweaters and long to wear them. I was tired of hearing the air conditioner click on longed for the dead-skin smell of the heater the first time it’s turned on for the season.
I guess you could me fickle. But I guess I shouldn’t complain. It is currently 9:48 a.m. It is 73 degrees, but there’s supposed to be a high of 92. People in other parts of the country would kill for such weather! I am in the backyard, the sky is bright blue, the plants are full of color, and Maggie is taking a nap in the shade.
No sweater needed this morning!
I guess I shouldn’t complain about my wardrobe—maybe sweaters are overrated.
I guess my love of writing started with one author, Beverly Cleary, whose books I have fond memories of reading as a kid. Ellen Tebbits and her woolen underwear at ballet class. Then Henry Huggins and his beloved dog, Ribsy. Actually, my dream would be to be a children’s author, and I thank her. She is my writing hero.
What I liked about those books, looking back, is the innocence about her writing. Who, today, would write a story about a pesky kid sister, like in the Ramona books? Now a story can’t just be entertaining; it has to have some lesson, like anti-bullying. I’m against bullies, but why can’t a kid pick up a book for fun?
It would be so flattering if Beverly Cleary wrote my biography!! You know that I’m disabled; I can’t walk, speak through an iPad, and have very little function in my hands that stemmed from an illness at age fourteen. Yes, my life is often very frustrating but I’m an optimist: I don’t know why this happened, but I am so blessed to have friends and family who love me in my current state. I would trust Mrs. Cleary not to focus on the gobblygook of my life, but instead write about the many silver linings my life has.