Yesterday morning, I awoke to breakfast in bed… served by my sweet, loving six-year-old daughter.

She had tried to wake me up earlier but I wasn’t havin’ it. I mumbled something about how I would get up in a few minutes and make breakfast. Isabella disappeared, and I returned to dreamland. The next time I woke, Isabella was entering the room carrying a “tray” (my cutting board) topped with a bowl of cereal, two slices of toast, a bowl of kiwi slices and a glass of apple juice.

After I gave Isabella about a million kisses, she sat on the bed with me, relishing in the fact that she’d just made her mommy very happy.

What floored me about the whole thing was that she thought of it all on her own. She identified which foods she was capable of making, which of these foods I would like, and then she prepared what ended up being a very balanced meal! I’m also impressed that she thought to use all of our best dishware (none of that plastic kids’ stuff!), and she was resourceful enough to improvise… using the cutting board as a means of getting the food to me.

And, most importantly, she knew that such a surprise would delight the heck out of me.

I was humbled by my daughter’s selflessness. She easily could have sat on the couch and watched TV until I woke up. Or bugged me incessantly until I woke up (which is what she usually does on sleepy weekend mornings).

But on this day, for some reason, she put on her servant’s heart and subsequently made my day.

The following video has been going around on Facebook. It’s a real eye-opener about the ugly reality of the beauty industry, and a reminder that not every beautiful face you see in magazines is the real deal.

Take a look at the video:

I know my daughter is only six years old, but I’m already worried about the things she might do as a tween/teen to make herself look beautiful. I’m nervous about the extremes she might take to get a guy’s attention. I’m concerned that she’ll have low self-esteem and that she’ll never feel pretty ‘enough.’

The video above is encouraging because it shows that any ‘ordinary’ woman can be made beautiful, whether via makeup, hair extensions or Photoshop. Young women should not feel like they will never measure up to the high standard of beauty that our culture has held, because it turns out that—underneath all that makeup—most models are just like the rest of us.

But while this video is a great tool, it is OUR responsibility as parents to give our daughters all of the love, support and encouragement we can give them, so that they never have to feel validated by their looks alone. We mothers and fathers need to be vocal about our appreciation for our daughters, even (nay, especially) during their early childhood years. We need to tell them over and over again how smart and talented and funny they are… THEN we tell them how pretty they are. Only when a young woman receives this kind of affirmation will she learn that good looks are not the end-all be-all, but simply a nice little bonus.

Isabella’s friend Allison came over after school the other day. At one point I caught the two girls playing in my room. I told them that my room was off limits. I said, with a smile, “If you’re going to make a mess, you’ll have to do so in YOUR room, not mine.”

I should have known better. I should have recognized that, after I made the above statement, the glint I saw in Isabella’s eyes was a mischievous one. I should have known what was going on when she and Allison raced out of my room and into her own. And shut the door.

But, no. Instead, I naively returned to the kitchen to prepare dinner. I regret that now.

Because when I entered Isabella’s room, not five minutes later, I entered a disaster zone.

Not a single inch of carpet remained to be seen. The floor was covered with toys, papers, books, crayons, you name it. I looked at Isabella’s toy drawers and realized what had happened… she and Allison had removed each drawer, dumped its contents on the floor and then spread the contents all over the place. The two girls were dancing atop the mess, singing and giggling in complete, utter delight.

I broke up that party real quick. “What did you DO?!?” I asked, fuming.

Isabella stopped dancing and looked up at me. “You said we could make a mess in my room.”

Dangit, I had said that. I mean, that wasn’t what I meant but technically, that’s what I’d said.

My anger instantly faded and I laughed a little before telling the girls to clean up the mess. Thankfully, they got right to work, and the room was spotless within a half hour.

What struck me about this incident is the absolute glee the girls felt—evidenced by the light in their eyes and the joy in their step—at being able to make a mess. A real, hard-core, messy mess. And a mess that they were permitted to make! (Or so they thought.)

Why do kids like making messes, and adults hate it? When does that switch take place? Why do we grown-ups labor so intently to keep our homes neat and tidy, our lives without conflict, our appearance trim and put-together?

Of course, it’s not good to live in chaos. We do need to keep our lives and our homes in order. But seeing the jubilation in my daughter’s eyes at just having gone all-out to make a mess (which, in the grand scheme of things was not that big of a deal) made me jealous for those spontaneous, carefree moments in life when you don’t have to worry about playing by the rules.

I don’t remember the last time I had a moment like that. Now that I’m aware, though, I’ll definitely be on the lookout…

I can’t keep up.

I consider myself a fairly balanced person. When it comes to scheduling my life, I’m good about balancing work, exercise, family time, my social life and my spiritual life. I devote a little bit of time to each. But sometimes (lately, often) even doing what I consider “a little” of everything can completely overwhelm me. Because usually, I end up sacrificing my household. Dishes remain unwashed, the carpet unvacuumed, checkbook unbalanced…

I was raised in a house that was virtually spotless at all times, so to have an environment that is the exact opposite of spotless is tough for me to swallow.

I’m spending quality time with my daughter, my family and friends, so that’s good. And some people would say that’s enough. But it’s simply not enough for me. And lately, I can’t truly enjoy my quality time with loved ones when, in the back of my mind, I’m so ashamed of the state of my household. I feel I’m being irresponsible. But what am I supposed to do: stay home and clean all the livelong day?

I know I’m not unique in this problem. It’s the age-old conflict among twenty-first-century Americans. We are urged to be both selfless and selfish at the same time. Bookstores are loaded with self-help books preaching that we need to spend more time on ourselves, while the parenting magazines on the next shelf over are filled with colorful pages about all of the crafts and activities we should be doing with our kids.

It’s as if our culture is in denial that we have only about 16 hours a day to get things done. According to the messages we’ve been given—primarily via talk shows and health magazines—our daily lives are supposed to consist of the following: Go to work, play with our kids, make slow-cooked meals (which we have to chew slowly so we don’t gain weight), spend quality time with our spouse, exercise, get eight to nine hours of sleep, pay our bills on time, clean our house, go on Facebook, hang out with our girlfriends, take our dog for a walk… it’s too much. How can anyone possibly expect us to do all of these things in one day?

I don’t know what the answer is, nor what the order of importance should be. All I know is, I feel like I’m drowning in a sea of responsibilities left untouched. And it’s getting hard to breathe.

What do you do when you’re overwhelmed? And is anyone else confused by our society’s mixed messages?

So, Isabella still keeps asking me for a dog and I still keep saying “Someday…” But I was beginning to feel bad that I kept turning down her passionate pleas. This isn’t just a phase. The girl reeeaaallly wants a puppy.

But, baby steps. I decided get her a hamster first, so that she could learn how to take care of a pet—one that isn’t as high-maintenance as a dog.

In the days leading up to the Great Hamster Purchase, Isabella chatted excitedly about all the fun she would have with her hamster and what she would name it (Honey), all while knots in my stomach formed at the thought of a rodent living inside our home.

When we arrived at the pet store, there wasn’t a single honey-colored hamster to be found—only black ones. We picked the cutest one, and Isabella still insisted we call it Honey, even though it looks nothing like the light brown gooey stuff. Just another reminder that, in a child’s mind, things don’t have to make sense. Makes me wonder how often I try to make sense of things that I don’t need to.

I digress.

Honey is a girl, but for some reason, Isabella and I have troubles wrapping our minds around that. We often refer to her as a “he”—or occasionally an “it.” Sometimes I’ll correct Isabella for misidentifying Honey’s gender, and other times she corrects me. There is no rhyme or reason. It’s just been ingrained in my head that all pets should be boys, and Isabella must have inherited that same mindset.

I don’t know what most hamsters are like, but Honey is kind of lazy. We got this bright, colorful, highly entertaining cage for her, but all she does is sleep, really. When she wakes up, it’s to move to a different spot and sleep. She rarely spins in her wheel; instead, she makes a bed inside of it and—you guessed it—sleeps. Somehow, though, in the midst of all of that sleeping, she’s still managed to escape four times. You can tell when this happens because Isabella and I have to turn our house upside down trying to find her.

Maybe a puppy’s not so bad after all.

Oh, and Honey definitely does not smell like honey. Rather, she smells like pee and just that general animal smell. I never thought I’d have a house that smells like animals.

But as much as I detest the thing, Isabella loves her with all of her heart. As soon as she comes home from school, she makes a beeline for Honey’s cage, wakes her up, and carries her around the house. (”Look, Honey, this is a toothbrush. And THIS is a computer…”) When Isabella is sad, she cuddles up with Honey until she feels better. She even brings Honey with her on the long car ride to her dad’s in Michigan.

It’s definitely something when you see the person you love more than anything in the world, the person you are devoted to nurturing, show her own love and nurturing toward another creature. I never knew Isabella was capable of such love—especially for an animal, of all things.

The funny thing is, no matter how much I wish I could go back to having a sweet-smelling, pet-free home, Honey and I have a unique bond, formed because of the person who comes between us. We share in common Isabella’s unconditional love. And for that reason, I suppose I’ll let Honey stay a while.

Last year I attended a leadership conference, and one of the sessions was about “office culture.” Basically, the concept is that every workplace has its own unique culture and you should figure out what it is at your workplace so that you can better understand and therefore lead your co-workers.

In the session, the instructor illustrated the concept by telling us the culture of her family. (She referred to the family in which she grew up.) It was fascinating to hear where she came from and it caused me to evaluate my own family’s culture.

I made a list and would like to share that here. (So you know, I grew up with my mom, dad, a brother who’s two years older than me, and a sister 17 months younger than me.)

* We love love LOVE to eat. Food is typically at the center of our minds all day. Seriously.
* We aren’t Catholic, but we tend to be victims of “Catholic Guilt.”
* We do things to the extreme. Especially when it comes to business, religion and love.
* We never argue.
* We like our physical space; we’re not particularly physically affectionate people.
* We’re all up in each other’s bizness. When something happens to one of us (a job interview, a first date, you name it), the rest of us know within hours, sometimes minutes.
* We are motivated by praise and recognition; therefore we are constantly praising and recognizing each other.

Those are just some of the characteristics of my family’s culture. Now that I’m a parent, and Isabella and I are our own little family, I’m curious to see how our culture develops. I’m positive that the cultural elements listed above have made their way into it, of course. But what new items can I add to that list?

And I go back to the purpose of the leadership session, about how understanding your workplace culture can make you a better leader. In the same way, understanding the culture of your family can surely make you a better parent. I think it’s also important for us to know the culture of our friend’s families, and of our spouse’s family, so that we can understand why they do the things they do—things that might seem inconceivable to us but at least are happening for a reason.

What’s your original family’s culture? And how do you use that to better lead your own family now?

Today is a sad day.

In the past 24 hours, tragedy has been happening all over the place. First there was the death of Farrah Fawcett, then Michael Jackson. While the nation has been reeling from all of that, Northwest Indiana has been hit with two incredibly tragic deaths too: the gruesome murder of a two-year-old girl and the death of an entire family of five in a car accident. One of my friends is giving a eulogy at her grandmother’s funeral as I write this. Another friend just announced that his father (whose girlfriend died in an accident a week ago) overdosed on pills. Unfortunately, I’m sure there are hundreds of other similar stories to tell…

Times like this can be so overwhelming. Times like this make me ask a lot of questions: What did they do to deserve that? How can some people be so evil? WHEN IS THE BAD NEWS GOING TO END?

I can’t answer any of those questions. No one can. But there are some things I CAN do…

I can hug my beautiful, healthy daughter a little more tightly today.
I can call my mother and tell her I love her.
I can hold my friend’s hand when she cries.
I can pray for those who are hurting right now, as well as for those who have done wrong.
I can be grateful for the life I’ve been given, no matter how mundane it may seem sometimes.

Sometimes I think we need to experience death and tragedy so that we can be reminded of just how good we’ve got it. I may not have a lot of money, and I may be stressed about the busyness of life, but those “problems” seem like such petty things to worry about in the context of what’s happened in the past 24 hours.

Let’s take this opportunity to step away from our own individual pity parties, and start truly, humbly appreciating life again.

I never, ever thought I would say this, but…

I’m a soccer mom.

I don’t have the minivan yet (and I hope that day never comes…) but in every other way I am the epitome of the Soccer Mom Stereotype: competitive, shouting on the sidelines, secretly thinking my kid is the best. I’m ashamed of myself, I’ll admit. Why is it that we parents view our children’s athletic and academic accomplishments as a reflection of our own greatness? It’s so self-centered, if you think about it, but we all do it to some extent. I think it has something to do with our desire for immortality. But I will spare you the psychobabble.

Isabella’s last game of the season was last Saturday. Her team consisted of nine kids in the 4-6 age group. They actually played very well, considering their easily distractible minds. Technically, we’re not supposed to keep score (which is RIDONKULOUS) but—me being the soccer mom I am—I did anyway. They won 6 out of 8 games, which is pretty good, right? And I was surprised at how well Isabella played too. She’s always been shy and sensitive and uber-girly, so I expected her to be the same way on the soccer field. Turns out, uber-girl has an aggressive side! It was something I hadn’t really seen in her previously, and I hope I continue to see it, on and off the soccer field.

I didn’t play on many sports teams growing up. My parents emphasized music, travel and student government more so than sports. (And no, I was not a geek… Well, maybe a little.) So I did learn a lot of lessons from being involved in extracurricular activities, but not necessarily the same lessons acquired by my athletic peers.

Now that my own daughter is in sports I TOTALLY get why parents encourage their kids to do this. Sports teach children how to share, how to play as a team while also challenging themselves individually. It teaches them to listen to and respect authority (coaches, referees) and to celebrate their own accomplishments as well as those of their teammates. It teaches them the bittersweet but necessary balance of victory and failure: the victory boosts their confidence, the failure keeps them humble.

It’s going to be a challenge, schedule-wise, to keep Isabella in sports as she grows up, because her dad lives five hours away and she goes there on weekends. But I really hope we find a way to make it work, so that she continues to gain work ethic and team building and self-confidence.

And at the end of the season? They get bobble-head trophies. Sweet.

Today we celebrated another milestone in Isabella’s life: her graduation from kindergarten. It honestly feels like just yesterday I was blogging about the difficulties of signing her up for school , and about her first day of school .

The school year can’t be over already, can it?

This morning, parents were invited to a school-wide awards ceremony, which was considered the kindergarten graduation ceremony, and afterward, Isabella’s class performed a little recital for us parents.

(I’d like to say something about the concept of kindergarten graduation… I didn’t have such a thing when I was a kid, nor did I have an eighth grade graduation; just high school and college, like it should be. Schools and childcare experts are so big on building children’s self-esteem these days. And that’s important, but in my opinion, it doesn’t mean anything if everyone gets the same special treatment. One of my favorite lines in the film The Incredibles is, "Saying everyone is special is just like saying no one is." Giving a bunch of 6-year-olds a diploma for doing what they’re supposed to do—going to school every day—makes them feel good, sure, but it might not be sending the right message. I fear we are promoting mediocrity. Okay, I’m done.)

After the (absolutely adorable) recital, all of the parents stayed for refreshments in the kids’ classroom. I looked around that room, thinking back to the parents’ orientation on the first day of school, when I sat in the same exact seat as today, actually. I remember on that first day imagining that, throughout the year, I’d make friends with all of the other moms and that I’d get super involved in Isabella’s school activities. Turns out, I did neither. (I never even saw the other moms, and she didn’t really have any school activities.)

But a lot has definitely happened since that day—changes I hadn’t expected…

1. Isabella has become this independent little thing. When your child goes to school, you have to let go and trust the fact that they’re going to figure out what they’re doing. You have to trust that they’ll be the liaison between teacher and parent, that they’ll know when to get on and off the bus and how to pay for their lunch and turn in their homework. Nine months ago, I thought Isabella was too young to do these things by herself, but she’s doing them just fine because she has to in order to survive the school environment.

2. Isabella is not nearly as shy as she used to be. From being called on in class, to establishing a solid network of friends, to the aforementioned independence, my little girl has certainly broken out of her shell.

3. Isabella’s interests have changed, and for the better. She used to be obsessed with anything pink and princess. Now she likes sports and animals and music and monkey bars. She’s become less of a girly-girl (although that’s still there, believe me) and more just a regular kid whose eyes are wide open to the many fascinating possibilities in front of her. She’s not locked down to the stereotype of what all little girls are supposed to be, what they’re supposed to like and not like.

These are just some of the many changes that have occurred in a mind-bogglingly short period of time. I look ahead 12 years from now, when she’ll be graduating from high school (a REAL graduation). I can only imagine the long list of life lessons she will have learned at that point. I hope her development continues in the path that has already begun, preparing Isabella for a life full of challenges and accomplishments, failures and triumphs, mysteries and celebrations.

Happy Last Day of Kindergarten, Isabella.

Isabella absolutely loves being in the kitchen. Not because she can eat there, but because she can COOK there. I don’t know where she gets it from. I can cook some decent meals, but mostly it feels like a chore to me. My mother and sister are practically gourmet chefs, but for me, cooking takes too much time out of my busy schedule, and it just doesn’t bring me any enjoyment. I do it out of necessity and nothing else.

A few weeks ago, on Mother’s Day, Isabella presented me with a typical Mother’s Day coupon book. Each page offered a promise of something she would do for me, and she wrote the number of times she would fulfill said promises. It looked a little something like this:

“I will give you a hug 10 times.”

“I will give you a kiss 5 times.”

“I will clean my room 2 times.”

And then…

“I will help you in the kitchen 100 times.”

You can see where this child’s priorities lie.

So the other night, she begged to help me cook a meal of shrimp, potatoes and cabbage (which sounds worse than it tastes, BTW). But it involved sharp knives and hot flames, and that just made me nervous. So, desperate for something to do, she started to wash dishes.

My mouth dropped. Six-year-olds are not supposed to like washing dishes. Forty-six-year-olds don’t even like washing dishes. How did I get so lucky?

I kept adding to the pile of dishes as I prepared more of the food, frequently stating, “Bella, you can stop now. I’ll finish these later.”

“No, mama, I want to wash ALL of the dishes so that you can go to bed early tonight.”

Pinch me.

Sure enough, she washed all of them; she even went back to the sink after dinner to wash our dirty plates. And I did get to bed early that night—9:30, to be exact.

When you’re so used to doing everything by yourself, it’s extra special when someone offers to pitch in. And  when that someone is the precious child you adore more than life itself? Super-duper-quadruple special.