The big reveal

It occurred to me the other morning, as I plucked yet another gray hair that just six weeks ago I paid my stylist good money to conceal, that human beings spend the decades between the ages of 10 and 70 perfecting the art of the cover-up.

Consider a young child. If you've never spent time with young children, I recommend you pay a visit to a friend who has one or two running around. Or, keep reading this blog. Kids are refreshingly, sometimes painfully, candid. They gleefully point out the obvious fact that the person ringing up your Target purchases has neon green hair and an earring in her nose and very loudly inquire about the activities of the person in the bathroom stall next to you.

Now consider someone in the over-70 set. After spending 60ish years holding your tongue and putting on a happy face for the outside world, you earn a pass to say exactly what you please at the precise moment it enters your mind. Things like, "If I didn't have shorts any longer than those I don't guess I'd leave the house" and "If I were you, I'd take two weeks off, and then retire."

It's the years in between, the so-called "best of our lives", that are rife with covering up everything from gray hairs and post-pregnancy abs to true feelings and dark thoughts.

Think about the last time you asked someone how they were. Did you really expect an honest response? More importantly, did you really want an honest response? If you're like me, the answer to both questions is no.

Most of the time, the person doing the asking doesn't have the time or inclination to take the next step in the conversation that would be required if the other person said, "Actually, I'm having a terrible day. I woke up dreading coming to work because what I do is mind-numbingly unfulfilling and out-of-step with my skills and passions." Fortunately for people like me, most of us don't give honest answers. Instead, we smile and reply, "I'm great!" Or fine. Or doing well. Or whatever your own pat response is.

But as I waged my futile battle against the wiry white hairs that persist in populating the hairline around my forehead, I realized that I wasn't just wasting money on semi-permanent hair color but that I was also wasting a lot of energy trying to cover up my myriad flaws, from my mushy abs to my short temper.

So, on this, the eve of 2012, I am resolving to shift my energy and focus from covering up to shaping up.

Rather than buying yet another poncho-cut top (because, let's face it, that trend has got to be headed out soon anyway), I'm going to exercise and cut back on sweets. Rather than modeling patience in public but indulging my temper in the privacy of my home, I'm going to remind myself that "A fool gives full vent to his anger, but a wise man keeps himself under control." (Proverbs 29:11) 

Instead of pretending that I'm eager to climb a corporate ladder that, in truth, repulses me, I'm resolving to be a good contributor to the employer who provides me with bill-paying money and family-raising flexibility while also practicing the craft of writing with the hope that it will some day feed my bank account as much as it feeds my soul.

And every now and then, just for kicks, I may even indulge myself a little pre-geriatric frankness when someone asks, "How are you today?"

I really have seen it all

Having just celebrated the greatest birthday of all time, as well as my own 35th, last weekend, and being fully entrenched in the season of parenthood where you spend at least 1/4 of each month shopping for and shuttling your kids to birthday parties, the subject has been top of mind for me as of late.

Over the course of the past 15 months, we have either attended or hosted birthday soirees at:
Build a Bear Workshop, two different inflatable places, the local fire station, a Tae Kwon Do dojo, an indoor soccer club, a pony farm and a Victorian house that had been renovated to include a fashion runway and tea party salon. For our eldest daughter's fifth birthday this past August, my husband and I, in a moment of weakness, rented a 15' inflatable water slide to make her dream of a backyard "hula princess party" a reality.

Having entered the world on the very inconvenient day of December 24th, all of my childhood parties consisted of chili, cake and ice cream with my family, who actually did an amazing job of making my birthday a special event considering the time of year they were up against. I vaguely remember having one "friend" party in elementary school, but even that was hosted in my parents' living room. And there were definitely no inflatables.

But the landscape is different these days, and the manner in which kids mark the passing of another year is quite symbolic of the very manner in which they are growing up. Despite an alleged economic recession, parents, myself included, are more than willing to pony up cash to make their kids special day as special - and, perhaps just as importantly, low-maintenance - as possible.

The reason many parents can afford lavish birthday parties is because they're pulling in two incomes. Bringing home twice the bacon means they have at least half the time to devote to cleaning the house, fixing the snacks and baking the cake that were requisite to birthday parties of yesteryear.

More cash + less time = Full-service party venue, where forking over a few hundred dollars buys you everything from soup to nuts. Or, in the case of preschool parties, invites to party favors.

Until Wednesday, I thought I'd seen it all in the course of our party circuit, but then a friend of mine mentioned that she'd taken her five-year old to a "yoga themed" birthday party at Shine on Market. Trying to envision what might go on at a yoga party for preschoolers, I asked her if the tots shouldered their mats and headed to Starbucks for lattes post-downward dog. 

According to my pal, the kids did, indeed, engage in the ancient practice, as well as some craft- and merry-making in honor of the occasion. And there were lattes involved, though I doubt the kids were consuming.

Part of me wishes I was a small-business owner who could claim my own piece of the kids' birthday party pie, and the other part hopes our next party invitation will be to a mother-daughter spa retreat. A girl can dream, can't she?

Tales of a gourmet nothing

I spent the first 15 minutes of my ride home from work last night trying to conjure up a dinner plan and the next 15 minutes feeling like a failure because all I could come up with was frozen fish sticks, frozen peas and mac and cheese from a box. While there's nothing inherently wrong with any of those foods (at least the mac and cheese was organic), I expect more from myself. I never wanted to be that working mom who resorted to cereal for dinner, but in my mind assorted frozen foods, warmed up of course, and cheese powder are no better.

Apparently my children's expectations for their evening meal are not quite as lofty as mine. After wolfing down seven fish sticks between the two of them and asking for more, my son cheerfully announced that he loved them "better than ice cream."

At least the money I make from selling all of my cookware on Craig's List will come in handy next month when the Christmas credit card bill comes to town.

Goodbye, Granny.

Our hearts are heavy this morning as we say goodbye to Granny Bates, my husband's beloved grandmother, who took her leave of this world last night around the same time my kids were enjoying reindeer cookies and A Charlie Brown Christmas on TV. Of her 95 years, 90 were amazingly healthy and full of life, and she leaves a legacy that reaches far beyond the Bates family. Everyone within a 60-mile radius, it seems, knew Granny.

I first met Granny 13 years ago this Christmas Eve. Christmas Eve at Granny's house was famous, for both the abundance of family and food that filled her old white farm house. Just as famous as her hospitality (refusing seconds, or thirds, at her dinner table was simply not an option, so if you came for a meal you'd better have worn loose-fitting pants) was her penchant for sizing you up on the spot. And once she'd formed a verdict, you had precious little opportunity to change her mind.

With that in mind, and knowing I was about to meet one entire branch of my husband's very large family tree, I have to count that Christmas Eve as my most nerve-wracking to date. I came bearing a bribe, er, gift of a poinsettia for Granny, which she immediately proclaimed the prettiest she'd ever seen. I don't know if it was the plant or the fact that I had captured the heart of her grandson, but Granny decided she liked me. And I spent that first Christmas Eve, and every Christmas Eve thereafter until the festivities got to be too much for her to engineer, seated in the dining room at a table full of Bates men. This seating assignment was akin to being situated at the right hand of the king at a medieval feast, as all the other women (at least those who were born or married into the family) shuttled dish after dish of food to the table and ate only after the men, children and, in my case, girlfriends had had their fill.

Even before I did change my status from girlfriend to wife, Granny always told me she loved me. I never felt like an in-law with her, and I, having lost both my grandmothers by the time I was a junior in college, came to love her not as a grandmother-in-law but simply as Granny - outspoken, strong-willed, feisty Granny with a heart big enough to love 13 grandchildren (plus spouses), 23 great-grandchildren and anyone else who had the good fortune to meet her.

My husband and I are lucky to have a daughter who reminds us quite a bit of Granny. At this point, we mostly see the outspoken, strong-willed, feisty side, but even at the tender age of five I see Granny in her when she's hosting a tea party. In her opinion, and I think Granny would agree, there's never a bad time for a celebration, and you simply can't celebrate properly without cloth napkins and enough food and drink to feed the 101st Airborne Division.

I learned of Granny's opinion on cloth napkins when we invited her to accompany my in-laws to our new home for dinner shortly after we got married. Thankfully, I, brimming with wide-eyed newlywed enthusiasm, had pressed a set of cloth napkins for the occasion. And during dinner, Granny turned to me and said, "I just can't stand paper napkins, can you?" While I really do prefer cloth, the reality is my laundry load dictates that we primarily use paper, though I'll always think of Granny when I pull out the cloth napkins for a dinner - or tea - party.

The wonderful memories I have of Granny are only a fraction of my husband's, who spent more than a quarter century living 100 yards away from that old white farmhouse in which so many good times were had. He's regaled me with stories of Friday night slumber parties with his gaggle of cousins. Granny would whip up milk shakes with the cream, yes cream, from the milk cooler at the dairy barn that's provided the financial means for their family since Granny was a wide-eyed newlywed herself, for them to sip on while watching The Dukes of Hazzard. There's even a tale about a ghost who walks the halls of her home wearing a fedora and trench coat. If Granny lived in Tuscaloosa, that house would be a museum by now.

It was stories like these that we shared last night when we got the call from my mother-in-law. We were sad and are sad, and I am trying to think of the right words to use when telling our kids that Granny, whose "front house", the living room replete with antiques and breakables that would she let them have free reign over when we visited, has gone to heaven to be with her husband whom none of us ever met. We will always miss Granny, but we, and so many others, are blessed to have had her for the time we did.

Where there's a will, there's a turkey sandwich

Against my better judgment and completely out of dire necessity, I took all three kids on a Christmas shopping expedition yesterday. In an effort to keep the outing from dissolving into complete chaos, I dedicated quite a bit of time and energy to making mental and logistic preparations, including but not limited to conducting online research to make sure the items I was targeting would be available at the stores I planned to hit and stuffing extra snacks and my accordion coupon folder into the diaper bag, on Tuesday evening.

I woke up resolved to a) actually execute my strategy, as many similarly well-intentioned outings have gone awry in the past, and b) maintain a good sense of humor in the process. To my delight, the kids seemed to have made the same resolution, as the early morning went as smoothly as it can when you're trying to feed, clothe and groom three kids, one of whom can't yet do any of the above independently. To my absolute shock, we actually backed out of our driveway a mere 30 minutes later than I had planned.

Our first stop was Barnes & Noble. My pre-game planning had indicated that the B&N located in the shopping center I had planned to visit didn't have the Tim Tebow book I wanted for my nephew in stock. Naturally. It would have been too easy to get the kids in and out of their car and booster seats only once.

Before we crossed the threshold of the store, I agreed to some playtime if the older two cooperated while I snagged the book. They did, so we spent the next 20 minutes performing on the mini stage that anchors the kids' section and hosts Tales at Twilight, B&N's children's story time series. Both the menagerie of stuffed animals that comprised the audience and I enjoyed the show.

Next, we were off to The Summit with the goal of crossing several outstanding gift needs off my list. Before we could shop, however, we had to eat. It was nearly noon, and I'd coaxed the kids, who spotted a display of Angry Birds paraphernalia on our way to the door, out of B&N with the promise of lunch at our next destination. So lunch it was. At Five Guys Burgers and Fries. If you've never been, I wouldn't recommend going out of your way to do so. The burgers were tasty enough, but the price and the music, which was blaring at a concert decibel level during our visit, soured me on the experience. My son, on the other hand, announced happily while mauling his burger, "This is a good restaurant!" Both daughters, one of whom also ate every last morsel in front of her and the other of whom slept through lunch, seemed to concur.

It was an unusually balmy December day, so the outdoor venue proved a perfect choice for letting the kids burn off their burgers and some energy scampering along the sidewalk and climbing on the benches, statues, other shoppers (just kidding) we passed along the way. Since it was so lovely, I decided we'd make the entire circuit on foot, promising a visit to Build-a-Bear Workshop (BaB) before we left if, once again, they cooperated along the way.

I'll spare you play-by-play on the rest of our outing, but as anyone with kids could surmise it was eventful and exhausting, as any visit to a public venue always is with young children. We made it to almost all the stores I identified in my scouting report, though, disappointingly, we didn't make any of the purchases I'd hope to make at said locations. And since the kids had been as well-behaved as is humanly possible for them to be, we doubled-back for a visit to BaB.

By that time, my mental and physical moxy had worn thin, and so it was that I found myself teetering on the decision to take advantage of the "great deal" BaB was offering in honor of the holidays. For a mere $25, you could stuff and attire with one outfit of your choice any animal in the store. Considering that the cheapest critter I saw goes for $18 and the outfits run somewhere in the neighborhood of what I'd pay for clothing for a human being, it really was a good deal. If you need more stuffed animals. Which we don't.

It took all I had in me not to say, "Hey kids, want to stuff something?" I tried for a few minutes to justify making the purchase, but then reason (or God, who doesn't want me to sacrifice my marriage for a stuffed Hello Kitty in a glittery pink tutu) took over.

The kids, this voice reminded me, are the only ones I've crossed completely off my shopping list, and that "great deal" would end up costing me $50 plus tax. $75 plus tax if I made the even more ridiculous decision to stuff something for my four-month old, which I considered since I didn't want her to be left out.

I clung to that voice and, before it had the chance to slip quietly into the depths of my overtaxed brain, blurted out, "Time to go!" Thankfully, the kids complied with nary a complaint, and I was able to fairly quickly stuff three small people and our stroller back in the truck and peel out of the parking lot before I had the chance to blow my next paycheck on stupid stuff that we definitely don't need.

Cut to this morning. I've been up since 4:30 a.m., when that four-month old who was very nearly the proud owner of a cute brown and black spotted BaB puppy woke up hungry. After it was clear she had no intention of drifting back off to sleep after she finished First Breakfast, I got up, made coffee, threw a batch of green beans in the crockpot (the office potluck lunch is today, after all) and then opened the January issue of Real Simple magazine.

Picking up where I left off last night, I scanned Michelle Slatalla's advice for how to say no to things like making green beans for the office potluck lunch. I then turned the page to find five suggestions for increasing my willpower and was catapulted back to that moment yesterday when I'd almost dropped $79.50 at BaB.

"On average, we spend four hours each day actively resisting things we desire. Every time we refuse to succumb - say . . . by holding our temper - our bodies draw on our store of glucose, which carries energy to the muscles and brain. When our glucose levels are low, our willpower weakens." (Roy F. Baumeister, PH.D, professor at FL State University)

Dr. Baumeister recommends fueling up on healthy meals and snacks that have a good balance of lean protein and healthy carbs (a turkey and cheese sandwich on wheat, to be precise) to prevent a dip in glucose and willpower.

I'd like to suggest not taking three kids ages five and under on a four-hour, three stop shopping expedition so you can avoid spending those four hours resisting the urge to blow a gasket because your kids are dribbling basketballs in and out of towering displays of glassware and ornaments at Fan Outfitters. Failure to comply could result in the expansion of your collection of overpriced stuffed animals.

Sticks and stones . . .

In my campaign to teach my children that the central figure of the Christmas holiday is really Christ, not Santa, I decided to up the ante on our advent calendar (a lovely off-white wooden number from Restoration Hardware that I coveted for two Christmases before finally having the epiphany that I could actually afford it if I waited until after Christmas to make the purchase) this year by tucking a Bible verse in each cubby with the requisite candy. While my kids have made it clear that the primary appeal is still the treat, I'm benefitting tremendously from the exercise.

The first week I focused on basic principles (Love God, love your neighbors, etc.) and Christmas-themed selections (Good news - Jesus is born!) But as the month has unfolded, I've found myself looking for situationally appropriate content like this morning's verse (paraphrased for the five and under crowd): Unkind words hurt people just as much as a sword would hurt them (Proverbs 12:18.)

I figured this might get my son's attention, as he just last night grabbed a butter knife from the drawer and assumed a fencing position, declaring, "This is my sword." But my primary motive for featuring this particular instruction today was born of a comment my daughter had made to her brother earlier in the evening.

After he committed the egregious offense of tearing down the secret hideout she'd constructed from bedsheets, she spat out something along the lines of, "I don't ever want to see you or talk to you or play with you again."

Understandably, my son burst into tears. I dealt with her behavior with a trip to timeout, a conversation about how much unkind words hurt people and the revocation of her nightly pre-bedtime snack and show. Today, I reinforced the concept with the aforementioned advent verse.

As I anticipated, the Tootsie Rolls behind door number 14 trumped my painstakingly selected scripture, but I know my audience so I'm okay with that. I don't expect those verses to magically transform my kids into kind, gentle, loving people who never say or do ugly things. After all, I'm (very nearly) 35, and writing those words made me reflect on all the ugly things I've said and done to the people I love most:

• My parents: Anyone else ever thrown down an "I hate you" because their dad wouldn't let them go to the prom before they were a senior in high school?
• My husband: I distinctly and painfully recall one night when I, in a rage, said something to him that was very much akin to what my daughter spewed last night
• My kids: Am I the only mom who's ever asked her kids to leave her alone for just five minutes? While there are worse things I could say to them, I don't count telling them, in so many words, to take a hike as kind.

Add to the above the general mean-girl complex I recall having in middle and high school and the cutting remarks I still make (or at least consider making) at work, in the check-out line at the grocery store, while driving in rush hour traffic, and it all factors out to this: I have once again seen reflected in my child one of my own ugliest tendencies.

So with that in mind, I'll bid this blog farewell for the day as I resolve to say (and think) only kind things. Wish me luck.

Yep, there's an app for that too

In case you read my first post, you may already suspect that I haven't quite kept my commitment to writing every day. If you fall in that camp, you would be correct. Almost.

While I haven't actually hit the keyboard every day, I have drafted near-daily posts in my head. This internal exercise typically occurs when I'm driving to work or taking a shower, the only two events that afford me a measure of peace in this season of my life. In fact, this post was largely written on my drive into the office today, and somewhere between the Monkey Wrench and the life-sized turquoise triceratops that sits contentedly behind a warehouse on (I believe) 15th St. I realized that I need a dictaphone.

Thank you to the app engineer who developed one for the iPhone! I'm planning to download it today, which, for this Luddite, will mark the milestone of downloading an app for which you have to pay. That's how committed I am to writing this blog. I'm sure my readership of four will be so pleased.

In case your brilliant ideas, like mine, only ask to come out and play when you're not in the position to open the door, check out the variety of dictaphone apps available for the iPhone. (There are versions available for the Droid as well if that's your smart phone of choice.) And be sure to thank your friendly neighborhood tech wizard for making it that much easier to make your brilliance public knowledge.

Dear Santa . . .

On the outside chance you run across this blog between now and December 24th, may I ask you to please disregard my son's previous request for cars, Toy Story figurines and a wind-up warthog? Instead, please bring him a salad spinner, a set of measuring cups, a 9-inch round cake ran and some Tupperware. I'm hoping if he has his own, he'll leave mine in the kitchen where they belong.

p.s. If you have room in your sleigh, my husband would also appreciate you tossing in a few sets of keys so our boy will stop absconding with his, which makes it difficult for him to a) drive to work and b) open his office once he arrives.

Yours Truly,
S.B.

I need to check myself

I spent the better part of the day this past Saturday shuttling my brood from one "fun-filled" holiday activity to the next, kicking off with pancakes with Santa and winding down with a trip to a holiday festival at a local park. With my husband mostly out of pocket (though he did meet us at church for breakfast with the big man), the sheer logistics of the day were almost more than I could handle - physically or mentally. But with my older two kids in the prime season of their lives for getting uber-hyped for Christmas, I was committed to indulging them in all manner of holiday revelry occurring between now and 2012

After Saturday, I started to re-think that approach.

It wasn't for lack of stamina or Christmas spirit that I considered reneging, though both were rigorously tested over the weekend. Rather, it was because at the end of our holly jolly Saturday, my five-year old announced in a huff that I never let her do anything fun. I was dumbstruck.

Breakfast with Santa wasn't fun, I asked? Our mid-day romp with my brother's new puppy wasn't fun? Light-up-the-neighborhood in the park wasn't fun? The day had been filled with pancakes, candy canes, hot chocolate and sugar-dusted cookies. They'd visited with Santa and been rewarded by his elf with a plush toy that we definitely don't need. They'd careened through the park on an unusually mild December afternoon, rolling down leaf-littered hills until they couldn't stand up and petting a menagerie of animals trucked in for the occasion.

I never let her do anything fun? Perhaps the real problem was that I enabled her to have too much fun.

I spent the 10 minutes following her proclamation explaining to her that lots (lots!) of children don't get to do half (or any!) of the things she and her brother had done in that one day and recapping the highlights of our adventures to remind her that she had, in fact, done plenty of fun things in the past nine hours. But it was all for naught. In her mind, the day was derailed when I hurried her out of the petting zoo at the park before she had a chance to hold a rooster.

Realizing that my lecture was getting me nowhere, I stopped wasting my breath and headed to the kitchen to fix dinner. As I plopped frozen ravioli into the pot of water that was boiling almost as rapidly as my blood at that point, I racked my brain for the answer to how to teach her to be grateful.

And then it hit me.

Kids her age see themselves as the center of the universe, so telling her how fortunate she is to have a mommy and daddy who have both the will and the way to give her opportunities and experiences that other parents can't provide for lack of one or both of those provisions was like telling the tide that it was lucky to have a beach to wash over. I needed to show her how to be grateful and appreciative, and, to date, my in-home gratitude model had been largely limited to saying thank you when someone did the chore I asked them to do the first time I asked them to do it.

I had a sinking feeling that her ingratitude wasn't completely a byproduct of her age. A measure of it might be learned from me. Ouch.

My mind flashed back to an incident from earlier in that week. We'd been playing with some friends, and my daughter, a bonafide baby junky, had attempted, despite my admonitions to the contrary, to hoist their 12-month old onto her bed. As you might imagine, he ended up with a tear-inducing, though not serious (thankfully), bump on the head.

I was downstairs at the time it happened, but she promptly came to me and confessed her transgression. Though I didn't scold or punish her, choosing instead to point out that this was precisely why I told her not to try to pick him up, I definitely didn't praise her for having the courage to come tell me the truth about what happened. My friend, the one whose child had suffered the bumped noggin, did that. Double ouch.

If I want her to be appreciative of the things that I do for her, then I need to extend her the same courtesy. I need to thank her and praise her not just when she picks up her brother's tractors from the living room floor but when she treats him with kindness and respect while they're playing. 

It was ironic to me that I had been missing the point all along, as part of what I do at my office job is manage our corporate recognition programs. I train managers on how to identify what motivates their employees and then provide suggestions for developing a plan for expressing meaningful appreciation on a regular basis. As it turns out, I need to apply that philosophy in my own home.

I've missed opportunities aplenty to show gratitude to my husband. (One opportunity in particular, after he'd spent days tiling our kitchen floor, still haunts me.) And what have I been teaching my son to expect from his future wife? Criticism and the expectation of unattainable perfection?

So it is that, in the midst of this season of giving thanks, I find myself convicted of my own need to focus on all the good things my kids and husband do rather than on all the things they do that disappoint me or make my life more "difficult." I need to practice what I've been preaching to my daughter in the hopes that some day the missed chances to pick up a rooster will fade away in the glowing light of the blast she had crunching through golden leaves on her way down the hill.

All time low

Just when I thought I had a handle on managing three kids, a part-time job outside the home and a husband who's coaching high school basketball and finishing his second master's degree, I find myself drying off post-shower with a hand towel because all of our bath towels are either in the washing machine or hamper. God love my husband for blotting himself off without the first complaint . . .

We've come a long way. Or have we?

On the topic of gender stereotypes (see yesterday's post), Halloween was a very eye-opening experience for me this year.

Costume discussions began early in my house. My son locked down Buzz Lightyear right out of the gate and never wavered. That's generally how he makes decisions: swiftly and decisively. I admire that.

My five-year old daughter, on the other hand, entertained multiple possibilities, including Snow White and a bride, before finally settling on a veterinarian. This decision, sparked by a Melissa & Doug veterinarian playset she spotted at Barnes and Noble but couldn't con my husband into buying for her, surprised me for a couple of reasons.

First, she had been talking Snow White since November 1, 2010, the day after she'd romped up and down our street tricked out in a pink Sleeping Beauty costume. Second, a vet didn't seem to present a very exciting dress-up opportunity, and since I couldn't recall ever doling out Fun Sized Snickers to veterinarians in the past, I wasn't sure how many options we'd find for attiring her.

After my initial surprise, though, came pleasure. No disrespect to princesses (I'm personally quite smitten with Kate) or brides (I was one myself once), but I was proud of my girl for choosing a Halloween persona that celebrated a woman's intellect rather than her fashion sense. Though I must admit that she did wear the most darling pink scrubs and accessorized the 'fit with a bright pink headband that sported an oversized bow.

But I digress.

As the sun and temperature started to dip on Halloween, we set out - Buzz, Dr. Bates, my husband and I - on a candy collecting mission. We live in a neighborhood where trick-or-treating is alive and well, so the street was abuzz with activity. Neighbors were parked in lawn chairs, bowls of Tootsie rolls, Nerds and Double Bubble in their laps. Fire pits were aglow. Fairies, pirates and, shockingly, another veterinarian, were already careening through piles of crisp leaves, loot bags clutched tightly in their sugar-injected fists.

Armed with our video camera, I documented a few minutes for posterity and then tucked the camera away so I could better supervise the kids. And it was then, when I really plugged into the experience, that I endured my second costume-related surprise of the season. Only this one was in no way pleasant.

I'd been prepared for my daughter to have to explain her costume since, even though her scrubs bore the words "Critter Clinic" on the breast pocket, most people just don't expect a vet to ring their bell on October 31st. I was not, however, prepared for the blatant gender stereotyping that ensued.

At house after house, as she smiled sweetly and opened her monogrammed jack-o-lantern tote, adults asked, "Are you a nurse?"

Unfazed, my daughter relied, "No, I'm a vet." Then she thanked them and bounded off to the next house, embroiled in the thrill of the hunt.

I, however, was more than fazed. By the end of our outing, I was borderline fuming. A nurse? Every single house - a nurse? Not one person asked if she was a doctor. Or a surgeon. Or a dentist. Or any other medical professional that one would expect to see wearing scrubs. Was it because the scrubs were pink? Or was it because the person in the scrubs was wearing pigtails?

Perhaps I'm being overly sensitive, but I was perturbed to think that, in 2011, people see a little girl in scrubs and assume she's pretending to be a nurse. Not that nursing isn't a noble and intellectually demanding profession, but there are other options for girls these days.

Women have spent the past several decades boldly challenging gender stereotypes by applying to medical, veterinary and dental schools, even when those schools would just as boldly deny them admission based solely on their gender. According to  the Journal of the American Veterinary Medical Association, there were actually more women in the veterinary field than men in 2007.

In truth, no real damage was done that night. It never occurred to my daughter that she should be at all insulted that no one would assume she was masquerading as a vascular surgeon. Those well-meaning neighbors certainly didn't intend to offend me or imply to my daughter that her future career options should be limited to traditional "women's roles." The only lasting negative impact that pervasive gender stereotype had was on my college pal's already-entrenched perception of my hometown as provincial, as she sarcastically quipped in response to my recounting of the story, "I'm shocked." But that's a story for another day.

Want to know who you are? Take a look at your kids.

If you ever experience an identity crisis of your own, I recommend having a child. It took me three tries to realize this, but observing your children in motion is like holding a mirror up to your face. Case in point:

My son is a chicken. The list of things he's scared of is a mile long and includes but is not limited to big dogs, heights, the dark, and water. As I watched this trait emerge in him, I grew increasingly frustrated. Sometimes embarrassed (like the time he was the only one of four kids, including a two-year old, who screamed bloody murder when one of them doused the lights while playing in the basement of a friend's house.)

Not one to perpetuate gender stereotypes, I tried not to let it bother me that my boy was more of a scaredy cat than his big sister and, in fact, the aforementioned two-year old neighbor. But it did bother me. And I was particularly peeved by his fear of the water.

Having grown up in the pool and at the lake, I love to swim and have high hopes of scoring a pool in my own backyard some day. It was troubling to me that my son's comfort level with the water maxed out at dipping his feet in, so when my oldest daughter, who adores the water, requested swimming lessons I decided it would be good for her brother to take them as well.

The hilarity of that experience (like the time my brave soldier clung for dear life to a little boy next to him in an effort not to be coaxed off the steps by Mr. Joe the instructor) is fodder for at least two or three posts alone, so I'll stick to my point here. In six weeks, the main thing my son learned is that the instructors wouldn't let him sink. My main takeaway? I'm a coward too.

I'm not afraid of the water, but I am afraid of horses. And big dogs. And taking risks. Like writing this blog, for example. Where's the risk in keeping what amounts to an on-line diary, you ask? I'm afraid of what people will think. Afraid of being judged. Afraid that once I put my thoughts into words I'll find out that I'm really not a very good writer and that I really don't have anything interesting to say.

So after fretting, bribing and seeking advice from my pal who's a child psychologist in an effort to help my son overcome his fear of the water, I began praying. Specifically, I prayed that God would unlock the spirit of boldness and power in my son that we are told in 2 Timothy 1:7 He has given each of us.

Lo and behold, during my son's second-to-last lesson, he showed flashes of boldness, leaping off the side of the pool onto a noodle with the instructor merely standing nearby rather than clinging desperately to the teacher's neck, crying that he wanted to "get on land." My heart felt like it was going to explode I was so proud.

And now I'm praying for the spirit of boldness and power to be unleashed in me. I think it's starting to work.