To Mia on her 16th Birthday…

(Originally written 4/2015)

To My Daughter on her 16th Birthday…

16 years ago my life changed. You were way past your due date and my obstetrician kept telling me it was because you were so comfortable that you didn’t want to leave me…that if you had it your way, you’d stay with me forever. But, after a night of king crab legs at the local Outback Steakhouse and 8 hours of labor, you decided enough was enough and decided it was time to make your appearance.

My doodlebug…I’ve loved you since the day I found out I was carrying you in my tummy. I loved being pregnant. Even through the months of morning sickness, excruciating heart burn, National Geographic nipples and swollen ankles, it was all worth it. I carried around this glowing energy and light that I hoped you’d envelop. I read to you, had conversations with you and constantly told you how excited I was to add you to my already blessed life. I didn’t find out your gender ahead of time (which is so unlike me. I’m usually impatient and not a fan of surprises). But when I heard, “It’s a girl” in the delivery room, I never imagined how much it would impact my life in so many ways.

Having you made me see the world so differently. I was always pretty responsible, but now it was a different type of responsibility. I was responsible for you…your life. I was your protector and provider. I was there for hugs and kisses. And I was there to maim and kill anyone who would dare lay a finger on you. I had the best job anyone could have…I was a mom.

I look at you turning 16 and I could not be more proud of the young woman you’re becoming: confident, smart and full of love and life! Your dad and I know that we’re pretty lucky to have a kid like you. Unconditionally, we love you for who you are, and the amazing human being that you continually evolve into.  I am so excited for what awaits you in this world and because of that, here is what I hope…..

I hope that:

• The friends you made during elementary school are the same ones standing next to you on your wedding day.
• You understand that happiness comes from within and not another person.
• You befriend and empower other women. Secure women have no reason for drama, jealousy or unhealthy competition.
• You celebrate the uniqueness of others.
• You realize that your sister will always be your best friend and you are both each other’s keeper
• Continue to believe in a higher power and that all things are possible through Him.
• You know that you can never be overeducated or overdressed.
• You travel and experience different people and cultures.
• You trust your heart and not live in fear.
• You advise not criticize.
• You avoid drugs and experience the high of being independent, powerful and in charge of your own life.
• You listen without judgement.
• You embrace your struggles.
• You realize, instead of running, a strong woman looks a challenge dead in the eye and gives it a wink.
• A patient heart that listens can be worth more than words spoken.
• You realize that it is sometimes better to be kind than right.
• You understand that the hand you hold should never hold you down.
• You learn to forgive yourself.
• You celebrate growing older and wiser.
• You celebrate being single.
• You refuse to be any man’s half time, spare time, down time or sometimes.
• You understand that the only person who is going to give you security and the life you want is you.
• You express the level of sexual confidence of an independent women (without ever being heartless or slutty or out of control).
• You refuse to be a bystander. Use your voice and stand your ground
• You forgive others. Everyone makes mistakes. Forgiveness is the most powerful force in the universe
• You become the hero of your own dreams: marine biologist, doctor, lawyer, world leader…ambition and hard work really do make dreams come true.

Recognize your worth and don’t dumb yourself down to be cute. You have more to offer than to be weighed down by beautiful or pretty. Refuse to let your soul be defined by its shell. You have a whole word within you that is full of beauty, brains, ideas and a lovely, kind, spirit—embrace those things! The right person will come along in your journey who will love you for those very things. Just don’t forget to fall in love with yourself first. Learn to love yourself before you commit to loving someone else. You are so worthy of your own love.

Oh, and remember… you are not a princess.

You:

• Are a Warrior
• Are a Gladiator
• Are a Leader
• Are Brave
• Are Curious
• Are Generous
• Are Strong
• Are Smart
• Are Tough
• Have Heart
• Have Guts

Life isn’t always going to be picture perfect and it won’t always be fair. And there are going to be people out there that really suck. Really, really suck. But you have the power of choice. Choose to avoid them and give it to God. Allow only positive, uplifting people in your circle; people that make you want to become a better person.  There isn’t any space for toxic relationships. But always keep in mind that everyone is fighting their own battle and give it to God. It’s not about you. No need for revenge. The best revenge is living a good life.

There are going to be times when you feel like you can’t go on.  And that’s ok. You’re allowed to scream and you’re allowed to cry. But Mia, never, ever give up.  Mistakes are going to be made and choices reconsidered. Hindsight is always 20/20. Try and look at challenges from a different perspective:  problems are just “pre-cursors” to solutions. But…no regrets; only lessons learned. The most beautiful things we have in life come from mistakes. And then there’s hope. Once you choose hope…anything is possible.

You have a whole life ahead of you, doodlebug. Be brave and beautiful. Because although having your shit together is a good idea, it’s not as much fun as living a joyous, wonderfully messy, passionate and complicated life. Not that there won’t be shit storms and struggle—but still…it’s pretty awesome.

You are perfect…. Imperfect…and amazing.

And I love that about you.

My obstetrician had it wrong… It’s not you, but ME…who doesn’t ever want you to leave me…and if I had it my way, you’d stay with me..forever.

Happy 16^th Birthday, Mia.

To the moon & back….remember?

Mom

Happy Birthday, Dad!

To the man, who from the very beginning…held me, uplifted me, protected me and loved me unconditionally. Today, I celebrate you!

Our house was always filled with laughter and the warmth that only you and mom could create. I had a childhood  with such great vivid memories, I can’t help but share them repeatedly with my girls.

I was always told how over-protective you were of me. Grandma said that you’d carry me everywhere because you didn’t want me to scuff my shoes (And people wonder where my shoe obsession came from. Little do they know that mom had a shoe collection that would put Imelda Marcos to shame). If you could surround me with bubble wrap, I know you still would.

There was a certain energy that emanated from our house on 1411 Wake Road in Coronado. It was one of love, light and warmth. Riding my purple bike up and down the driveway with Jeff following me with his Big Wheel while you washed your Camaro is a memory that stays with me. Images of my childhood were pretty close to images you see in magazines or movies:  our family watching the fireworks on the beach from our rooftop, riding bikes to the school fair, picnics on the beach, catching tadpoles with mom’s spaghetti strainer (sorry mom) and every night going to bed with the perfume of the ocean air dancing in my room.  It was a time in my life when everything was perfect. But those days became fewer and far between as we approached your WESTPAC deployment; an event every Navy kid is forced to endure.

I have to admit, those were probably the most stressful parts of my childhood…the continuous revolving door of the Navy life. Having a father on active duty was never easy. Six months to a year without you was hard on all of us. Our ritual was bittersweet: The night before you’d leave we’d drive around Imperial Beach at sunset and end up at Pancho’s taco stand for an ice cream cone before we made our trek back up the Strand.  I could feel my heart weighing heavier as the night would draw to a close. It would be a restless night, anxious for the all- too-common ride  to the base that would put my world on pause… again. I can still remember the Navy hanger where all the families were gathered to say goodbye. I wasn’t even outside the car when tears would start streaming down my face. We passed other families coming out sniffling and trying to hold back tears as they prepared for life without dad..hoping he’d come back safely. We were all a part of the same club. The club that no one really wants to be a part of, but you’re kind of forced into.The Iran hostage crisis was going on and I knew things were getting ugly when President Jimmy Carter was constantly part of the breaking news; it made letting go, so much harder. I remember you in your uniform, first picking up and hugging Jeff, then embracing mom with arms that seemed to go on forever…and then there was me. It was hard to even look at you. I remember your hug and your kiss on my head as you’d turn around to walk towards the helicopter to carry you off to another life..without us…hoping that this wasn’t the last memory I had of you.

But your homecoming… it was the best feeling in the world. Watching as every Navy man hopped off that helicopter until there was you. The normalcy of my life could resume. I could press “play” on my life again…you were back. I could exhale. The laughter from mom was back….the smell of your aftershave and the freshly cut grass from your morning of yard work….the giggling and screaming that came from the living room from you and Jeff wrestling and the sounds of Little Joe y Familia blaring from your stereo. I remember your housecleaning routine always included the music of Freddy Fender. As soon as I’d walk in the room, you’d give me a cloth to dust. But before anything, we’d dance. You’d let me stand on your feet and you’d hold me as we twirled around to “Wasted Days and Wasted Nights” and then you’d get even sillier trying to make me fall. And then Jeff would come in and push me so he could join in on the fun.

And then the teen years rolled in and I know I drove you nuts.  Thank you, dad for your patience and unconditional love.  I know it wasn’t easy. But you let me make mistakes and you were continually there to pick me back up. The endless weekends staying up late waiting for me to come home. Even though I had a key, I knew you’d be waiting for me right behind the door…every time. And then we’d have a snack and chat before I went back to my teen “cave”. It was your way of staying connected. I cherished those moments.

And life continued to happen. There was college…moving out…marriage…kids….

And there you stood…still by my side.

Thank you for my life. Thank you for building me into a fearless female. Thank you for helping me to see my worth and believing I could do anything in this world that I wanted. Thank you for helping me grow into the gladiator of a woman I’ve become. Thank you for giving me the gift of kindness, compassion and hard work. Thank you for raising a lady….a lady that doesn’t take shit from anyone.

And at 43, (ok 43 ½)….I’ll always need you…waiting for me right behind the door….every time.

Dad..my hero. My first love.

I love you. Happy Birthday!

What feels like The End…is often The Beginning….

(This blog has been in the works for awhile. I started it the day she quit and couldn’t quite muster up the emotional energy to finish it until today).

Competing in gymnastics since she was six and struggling through all the sweat, tears, rips and sprains advancing level after level and winning medals in every event….it broke my heart today…that she hung up her leotard & placed her grips away for the very last time.

After almost seven years, she ended her career as a gymnast.

This has been a huge part of my family’s life: four practices a week, training all year for the upcoming season, traveling to various meets, not to mention all the friendships that she had made as well as the friendships with all the other gym moms that I had formed.

When she first started talking about leaving gymnastics months ago, I really didn’t put too much into it. I thought it was just a phase, schoolwork was overwhelming her, or maybe it was the frustration over not getting a move on the bars; something that we could help her cope with like we always did.

But this time it was different.

The sound of her voice had a more serious tone, more thought out and rehearsed.

We were driving home from practice and she turns to me and says, “Mom, remember when you told me that the day I lose passion in what I’m doing, I should re-think about where I am and where I’m going?”

My heart started to sink.

“Yes, Sofia, I remember.”

“Well, I’m not happy going to gymnastics anymore. I used to look forward to all the practices, new leotards, competition season…I just don’t have it in me anymore. I feel empty”

As tears rolled down her face, I could see how hard this was for her, but at the same time I felt this sense of relief come over her…like this enormous weight had just been lifted off her chest.

But I was speechless. I had this lump in my throat and I was fighting back tears. All I could say was, “ok… let’s talk through this.”

In MY mind, I was going to exhaust every effort and dig deeper to “save” her from making this decision. Maybe she’d feel better now that summer break was here and she didn’t have schoolwork to worry about…maybe with some added encouragement from her coach, it would bring her spark back…maybe if I bought her a whole new wardrobe of leotards… maybe if I moved her to a new gym… Maybe, maybe, maybe.

But there were no more maybe’s;  her mind was made up.

Sofia didn’t want to compete anymore. She didn’t want the stress. She was tired of the aches and pains. She also spoke about the added pressure of being put on a pedestal and disappointing everyone that was there for her from day one. She spoke about the fear of one less “connection” with her dad since she knew how proud he always was of her and always front and center cheering her on. Sofia was articulate and very matter-of-fact when expressing her feelings to me.

I felt an overwhelming sense of guilt come over me. I wanted this more than she did. I had aspirations of her getting a scholarship and competing at the collegiate level and cheering her on waving a “Go Sofia” banner as I sat in the Wells Fargo arena at ASU in my “gymnastics mom” t-shirt.

But this wasn’t her dream any longer… It was mine.

As the mother of an athlete, you feel it’s your job to push them to the next level and to not let them give up so quickly. You’ve made this investment of time and money…and for it to end with a few simple words of, “I quit” is hard to comprehend. The fact that she was no longercompeting, but enduring gymnastics was heartbreaking.

Sports are supposed to fun, not a trial by fire. I know that sports in general, teach our kids how to push past their efforts, find their motivation, teach them about leadership and how to work well with others. This all leads up to a sense of self, security and good self-esteem, yadda, yadda, yadda…. All this stuff I know. And it made it even harder for me to accept.

So…fast forward three months…she went from being a gymnast to being a cross country runner. It came straight out of left field, this love for running. To see her back in the saddle pushing herself and actually looking forward to practice is something I hadn’t seen in a long time. That’s my kid. That’s my happy kid.

The most important lesson that I’ve learned in all this is that Sofia needed to know that I was her advocate; that she could count on me to be in her court, right or wrong. I will continue to support her decisions, and be there for her. She knows that whatever she chooses to pursue to find her gift, I will be there, cheering her on.

As for me, I’m still coping. It’s hard for me to see pics of her gymnast teammates at competitions posted on social media. I’m sincerely happy for them, just hard for me to erase the thought of “what could’ve been…”

I have yet to take all her colorful leotards off their hangers or put away her grips, chalk and ankle weights. Her gymnastics bag with her name embroidered on the outside still sits in the corner of her room with the remnants of her very last competition still sitting inside. All her medals still hang on her wall along with a large picture of a gymnast on a beam ready to dismount…..

One day…I’ll dismount.

Just, not yet……

My Grandma’s Kitchen

 

If you ever wonder why there’s a deficit of candles at your local T.J. Maxx, it’s because of me. I will sit in the candle aisle for a good hour opening every candle to find the perfect smell. I’m a baked-vanilla-cookie-pumpkin-waffle-with-frosting type of candle gal.

But it was this one candle that i fell in love with recently that has opened the floodgate of memories…

I have this thing about smell. I associate every smell with a memory: Oil of Olay- my mom, Old Spice- my dad, wet dog- ex boyfriend, etc. As I was stocking up on candles this weekend, I was in line waiting to pay and of course they always tease you with all the last minute junk you think you need. And it never fails…they always seem to conveniently place the candles as your last minute “must have” at the end of the row (along with the cell phone accessories and random snacks from Czechoslovakia). And so, i peruse the many selections of smells from clean laundry and fresh cut grass to orange blossom and jasmine. But I come across this round tin with Black Coffee emblazoned across the front. So, of course, I sniff. It was an indescribable smell. A smell that started to trigger some type of emotion. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

So I sniffed it again and again and again, like the scene out of Scarface when Tony Montana inhales his mountain of cocaine, I get lost in this mesmerizing fragrance.

I was soon sucked back into reality with a loud automated obnoxious, voice, “Register #9 is  now available”.

I pay and hurry back home with my purchases. I couldn’t get the black coffee candle out  of the bag fast enough.

I light it.

The three wicks flicker incandescently; dancing like they knew I was watching and inhaling their magnificence.

it was intoxicating, the smell. The scent evolved into an even more magnetic fragrance….a mixture of coffee and… cigars.

Yes, cigars.

It may sound crazy…but it was the most wonderful aroma ever!

And that floodgate re-opened…and those memories reappeared…..

I was transported back to my grandmother’s kitchen in San Antonio,Texas. My grandfather was a cigar smoker and there always seemed to be a pot of fresh coffee and pan dulce (Mexican pastries) every time I walked into her kitchen.

This smell encapsulated all the goodness that came from my grandmother’s kitchen. And it was the table in her kitchen that was the center of our family gatherings. It’s where we laughed, loved, and cried.

It’s where things started. It’s where things ended.

It was where we played Mexican Bingo with dry pinto beans as our markers. If my dad was calling out the cards, he’d always make special emphasis on the card with the picture of the mermaid, La Sirena. Instead of just saying, “La Sirena”, he’d say, “The lady with the boobies”…and we’d laugh every time. As silly as it sounds… It never got old.

It was where my cousin Tracy would pour half a container of creamer and sugar into her coffee, while my other cousin Andrea would polish off bottles of wine. And then my Uncle Larry, on his third cup of joe,  would loudly tease Tracy about her sugar- ladened, overly-creamed coffee.

It was where my aunt Janet and I would sit and sift through old pictures of the family and laugh about our outfits and our retro Barbies.

It was where my brother, Jeff would play with all his Matchbook cars and create little roads and tunnels out of different objects sitting on the table. And when my brother outgrew those cars, my little cousin Dennis was next in line.

It’s where my mother, grandma and Aunt Linda and Aunt Susan would chit chat about recipes, who died, who got married and who divorced.

It where my grandpa sat when he was fixing something. He’d borrow my grandmother’s reading glasses, puff on his cigar and perform miracles. He always had this smile on his face with these wrinkles that creased at the end of his eyes every time he laughed. And you always knew where he was just by following the sweet scent of those King Edward cigars.

My grandmother’s kitchen.

The gathering place of celebrations.

…and where we all gathered to mourn my grandfather’s passing.

It’s never been quite the same without his presence. Although gone, his energy still envelops that room and still brings a sense of warmth and happiness when I’m there.

My grandmother’s kitchen will always be the epicenter of everything good in my life.

And to think a simple candle could evoke so much emotion and love.

I close my eyes and inhale deeply as the cigar scent intensifies.

I turn to blow out the candle…..and  there is nothing to blow.

The candle had been absent of flames, as though extinguishing pretty quick when first lit. The candle wax was hardly melted… this fragrance gifted to me from the other side.

I exhale slowly with tears of gratefulness.

I feel his presence.

He brought grandma’s kitchen…to me.

Dropping Your Jam

It’s been happening from the beginning of time and it never seems to get any better. We go from generation to generation with new and improved products, suggestions from nutritionists on what to eat to improve cramps and bloating, and even birth control that will stop it completely….your period.

Menses. Menstruation. Aunt Flo. The Red Tide. Shark Week. Red Dot Special. Riding the Cotton Pony. On the Rag. A Visit from Captain Bloodsnatch. Riding the Red River. Strawberry Salad. On the Rag. Dropping Your Jam.

And with all that has changed throughout the years, one thing remains constant, we are all still bitches during that time of the month. I don’t care how old you are. You are still the raving, hormonal troll everyone wants to avoid.

And men will never understand why you’re keeled over writhing in pain. “What’s it feel like?” They ask.

You might think there are no words to describe your horror, but oh, there is:

Imagine someone..like an evil clown, stabbing you in the stomach and twisting the machete. Those would be cramps. And how about sore boobs, backaches, headaches, and being constantly tired and hot and the reoccurring chills from shit cramps? It might sink in even more if you tell your guy to imagine his butt hole bleeding non-stop and shoving cotton up it so he doesn’t ruin his cargo shorts.

All you want to do is sleep and eat and not talk to anyone because no one at that point is worthy of conversation. Your  back is killing you, like a cast member from Little Women: LA is practicing roundhouse kicks on your tailbone.

You feel like a walrus: bloated, shiny-faced, fat and you just want to roll around all day eating chocolate and carne asada fries with a diet Coke. And the cramps? Sorta like an Oompa Loompa crawled up your vag and started ice skating inside your uterine walls.

It feels like your crotch is throwing up 24/7 while the Chinese massage guy you see in the mall is kneading your abdomen 24/7 with his boney little fingers.

Oh, and the best part of having your period?

The fun of choosing your weapon of mass destruction: Pad? Tampon? Cup? Period Panties?

As I perused the feminine product aisle in the store recently, I couldn’t help but become overwhelmed with all the offerings available and the colorful packaging that went along with it.

I picked up a black and purple, sparkly, glitter box with a reflective pink logo that would make Elton John jealous. It contained pads for Tweens. Obviously, bleeding is fun like unicorns dancing over rainbows and farting cotton candy. Even the plastic wrapping the pads came in looked like something out of a Japanese anime film. And wait…I’m not done… wait for it….. It also came with feminine wipes  attached to every pad for your stank. Now you can enhance your fishy smell with mango scented wipes. Mmmmm.

Back in the early 80’s we didn’t have fun labels or graphics (or mango wipes).

You know what we had?

We had a Marcia Brady look-a-like running barefoot on the beach in her white pajama gown, hair blowing in the wind, flying a kite. That’s what we had. It was printed on a huge ass, cardboard box that could hold a flat screen TV.

And the pads? There weren’t a variety of sizes to pick from. No “ulta-thin, super-absorbent” maxi pads, mini pads or pantyliners according to vagina size. There were two sizes: mattress or pillow. And they would reach all the way from your ass crack to your belly button (a la sumo wrestler). It didn’t matter though, you were going to wake up to a bloody mess that would make the horse head scene in The Godfather look amateur.

Tampons? Forget about it. I wasn’t allowed to use those because I was a “virgin”. God forbid i inserted anything into my pure, Catholic body. I would for sure get Toxic Shock Syndrome and die a horrible, grisly death with a tampon lodged inside my birth canal. God would just not be cool with that. Enter: confession and the rosary.

But now, there are a few new additions to the feminine protection market:

The Period Cup. Don’t even talk to me about this contraption- a reusable silicone cup, worn internally to collect menstrual flow. Could anything be more gross? I apologize to any of my friends who love this technique of blood collection, but it creeps me out. I hate to do my own dishes. Why would I want to constantly clean out a cup o’ blood every few hours?

Period panties? Still trying to figure this one out. They tote these as “period panties for the modern woman”. I think I’m as modern as they come and I have no interest in wearing an extra thick panty to work for a week. Although, I did get a chuckle out of their Halloween line of period panties with such interesting names: Cunt Dracula, Red Rum, Rainbo: First Blood and Dawn of the Red to name a few….

Regardless of the constant crime scene in my pants, I remind myself how amazing it is to be a woman. I love the power and wondrous things my body can endure.  Although a monthly inconvenience, I know that Aunt Flo is what made my babies possible. It made my dream of being a mom a reality.

I’m blessed.

Period.

My Love/Hate Relationship with Bathing Suits

Bathing suit shopping. I’d have to rank that on the enjoyment level right next to sliding down a hill of razor blades. Even walking into the bathing suit section at the department store gives me anxiety. Every spring, the stores …

Be Your Own Best Friend

We’re at the end of the school  year and we close another chapter of life and get ready for the next. As a parent of two girls, I find myself always learning new things about the trials and tribulations of teen/tween girls. Things are ever-changing in today’s world with social media and the internet, but the one thing that does remain constant is the drama.

My girls are different. Mia is the easy-going cheerleader, does well in school, has lots of friends and goes with the flow. Sofia…well, she’s my firecracker. She’s artsy, creative, smart and stands her ground when she firmly believes in something. She has friends but this year it seemed like there was a little more transition from friendship to friendship. It didn’t concern me at first, because, well…it’s junior high.

I remember junior high. It sucked. The popular girls were mean and the boys were cruel. Everyone was always gossiping and cliques were strong. I blame it on the hormonal roller coaster that creeps in during that stage. It’s funny how those experiences stay with you and how they can still bring up the same raw emotions once felt when you were 13. Even as an adult, I can’t help but still feel salty about certain junior high bullies; some have even tried to friend me on Facebook and I have refused to accept them. Petty? Probably. But I choose to leave them in the past where they belong.

Times have changed, but those mean girls still exist. And to be witness to your own child go through it, sucks. I’m a mom who doesn’t dismiss things like this. My kids and their feelings matter. Conversations happen every day to talk about what’s going on. I don’t judge, but I also don’t tell her what she wants to hear. I tell her what she needs to hear. It’s not easy, as it can be misconstrued as not understanding or not having her back. Do I think my kid is innocent in all this? Absolutely not. I’m sure there have been times when she’s been an asshole because she stands her ground and as a result has lost friends. I’ve told her that sometimes it’s more important to be nice than to always be right. But what I can’t accept are girls that are intentionally mean, leaving her out and making her feel lonely and sad. The same girls who will talk crap about her one day and then turn around and fake being nice to her when they need something the next day. And Sofia, not wanting to lose friends, will continue to accept their friendship until it bites her in the ass again.

Everyone that knows me knows that I am very protective of my girls. I’m mama bear. And there have been times when I’ve listened to Sofia’s stories and my inner “mom gangster” wants to come out and walk up to each one of those little bitches, grab them by the hair and give them a piece of my mind. But the “role model parent” takes over and talks about taking the high road. I discuss with her why she feels a need to be friends with girls who aren’t so nice? Or that talk about her? Or that leave her out? We talk about keeping her circle of friends small and surrounding herself with sincere people who truly care about her and that to have good friends, you need to be a good friend. She must understand that there are going to be people who are mean and will treat her poorly, but not to take it personally. It says nothing about her and a lot about them.

After awhile, I feel like I’ve become a recording. And then…I come across a snippet from a life class with Oprah and Dr.Phil about Becoming Your Own Best Friend. It was very eye-opening as he spoke about the level of tolerance we all carry and that we need to set boundaries with people. We’ve all been taught the Golden Rule: Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. You can practice this (which I encourage) but do NOT expect it. The toxic nature that causes people to act the way they do has nothing to do with you. You need to learn to be your own best friend. What does a best friend do? A best friend is the one that stands up for you, protects you and refuses to let you get hurt when other people are coming at you. A best friendship is when you aggressively believe in each other, defend each other and think the other deserves the world!  BE YOUR OWN BEST FRIEND. Refuse to accept anything but the best.

I played this Dr.Phil snippet in the car for Sofia and as she listened intently, I could see the wheels in her head starting to move. She looks over at me and says, “It’s not that easy, mom. But I get it…” I wasn’t expecting an Oprah “Ah-Ha” moment, but I think it made a mark in that smart little brain of hers.

I know that it’s a part of life that she’s going to have to deal with and find her own resolutions. Dealing with mean girls is a rite of passage in every woman’s life. All I can do is encourage her to be a good person and do the right thing. Eventually, everything falls into place.

Will the mean girl culture ever change?

No, but there are ways that we, as mothers, can heal it:

• We include
• We love
• We empower
• We regard our girls

And we model this in how we treat other women.

Your children will become who you are; so be who you want them to be.

“Don’t ever fucking bully anyone and just so you know, karma has everybody’s address and a mother fucking stamp…” —Lady Gaga