The Girl and The Chocolate Pig

There once was a little girl. She wore a perfect pink dress with a perfect pink bow in her perfectly curled hair. She lived with her perfect family in a perfect home and loved her perfect life.

On her 8th birthday she had the most amazing party. There were pony rides, a magician, cake and balloons. All of the little girls wore their best dresses and bows. But of course, hers was the most beautiful of all.

This is where the story gets a bit foggy for me. I know there’s something about a little girl at the party that had a plain dress and no bow. Prompted by a Veruca Salt-style tantrum, the “plain dress” girl selflessly hands over a chocolate pig to the wailing “perfect” girl. The moral??? Something about don’t be a brat or be careful what you wish for because you might get chocolate all over your perfect pink dress.

Hmmm… that doesn’t feel quite right. Of course, after years of retelling and reshaping who’s to say? This is one of many stories handed down through the generations in my family. First told by my grandfather to my mom and aunt when they were little, the tales were then shared with us. A Methodist Preacher, my grandfather was known to deliver powerful sermons to his congregation and provide guidance and counseling to many. Knowing it’s origins, I have to believe that “The Girl and the Chocolate Pig” must hold some larger truth other than “Don’t be a brat.”

Determined to get it right, I quickly fired off a FaceBook message to my sister. Maybe she’ll remember the details.

Jen Hoffman:   Hey. Do you remember that story about the chocolate pig? I’ve got dresses and chocolate and that’s about it.

Kara Davis:    Holy crap... I’d have to really think to come up with the chocolate pig story! LOL Something about a girl in a pink dress and she ate the whole chocolate pig. But I have no idea what the lesson learned was. :-) 

Jen Hoffman: Uh, OK. Thanks??? That was no help. LOL.

Time for Plan B. I tried to get Mom on the phone without success. So I gave my Aunt Jeannie a ring.

Aunt Jeannie: “Hello?” 

Me: “Hey it’s me.” 

Aunt Jeannie: “Oh hi! I’m at your mother’s. Wanna say hi?” 

Me: Laughing “Oh my God I just tried to call her. But while I have you, I’m trying to remember the ‘Girl and the Chocolate Pig’ story. Kara was no help."

Aunt Jeannie: Laughing. “OK I’ll give it a try. You ready? Your mother can listen to make sure I get it right.”

 Aunt Jeannie's Story

There was a little girl who was very poor.  She was invited to a birthday party by a very rich girl. The poor girl didn’t have a big fancy dress to wear. So her mother tried to make her a dress, but it wasn’t fancy. Her mother combed her hair nice and neat and sent her to the party, in a big fancy house.

When it was time for cake and ice cream the kids sat down at the table. They were given ice cream in the shape of animals. There was a white sheep, a strawberry cow and a chocolate pig.  The rich girl got the white sheep and the poor girl got the chocolate pig. The rich girl yelled, “I want the chocolate pig! I want the chocolate pig!”  And the poor girl said she would give her the chocolate pig. 

The moral of the story is "pretty is as pretty does."

Me: “Wow. OK I guess I was way off. The part I remembered was when the rich girl got chocolate on her dress.”

Aunt Jeannie: “Hey Bet! Did the rich girl get chocolate on her dress? She doesn’t remember that part.”

Me: “Alright well thanks anyway. I have to go pick up the kids from school. Tell mom I’ll call her tomorrow.” 

Aunt Jeannie: “OK Bye honey!”

Clearly each of us seemed to have taken what we wanted from the story and left the rest.  My sister’s version seemed a product of life as a younger sibling whose big sister took everything and left nothing for her (I have no idea where she got that.) For Aunt Jeannie, the story is straight forward and matter of fact. The poor, plain girl was beautiful on the inside, even if she wasn’t on the outside.  And I’m still left with an unexplained, chocolate stained dress. I needed Mom’s version if I was to get to the bottom of this.  So the next day, I gave her a ring. And here’s what she said.

Mom’s Story

Alright, so… Once upon a time there was a little girl who was not very rich. In fact, her family was quite poor. But her mother tried very hard to make things as nice as possible for her. So even though she didn’t have fancy clothes, they were always clean and ironed.  And she was very happy with her family at home.

One day she got invited to a birthday party. The party was for a rich little girl who had beautiful clothes and lived in a big house. The poor girl said to her mother, “Oh what should I wear! I don’t have a beautiful dress.” And her mother said, “That’s alright, I’ll wash and iron your nicest dress and you’ll look fine honey.”

So she went to the party in her plain, but clean, little dress.

The children had a good time at the party until it was time for ice cream. They sat down at the table, the birthday girl sat at the head. She wore the most beautiful, pink, ruffled party dress that you’ve ever seen. She had long, curly hair and looked just beautiful. The birthday girl’s mom had made ice cream treats in the shape of animals.  There were strawberry chickens, vanilla kitty cats and chocolate pigs.

Mom finished the rest of the story the same as Aunt Jeannie, citing the same moral, “pretty is as pretty does.”  But after further discussions with Mom, some noticeable differences became clear.

Me:  “It sounds like you and Jeannie got the moral the same.  But Jeannie didn’t go into any detail describing the differences between the dresses. You talked a lot about the poor girl’s plain but clean, ironed dress and the rich girl’s beautiful, frilly, pink dress.  I was such a messy kid. I must have created the ruined dress part myself. You know, kind of an Aesop’s Fable kind of thing?”

Mom:  Laughing “Well you know, my father always told us that story when we got dressed up to go anywhere as a family. It was all about, ‘You look beautiful, but you have to act nice too. It’s not just about how you look.’ So that was the moral of the story for me.”

You would think that with all of this information I should be able to finally piece this story together. But the details haven’t quite come into focus. I’m not sure they ever will with so many versions floating around.  As a girl, the feelings I had about the poor girl and her place in the story stood out the most.  It went something like this.

My Story

Back in my childhood bedroom, I’m warm and snug. I’m lulled by my mother’s soft whispery voice, doused in empathy and importance. I feel deeply sad for the poor girl, knowing she is scared to go to the party. But I also know that she’s happy to have been invited. Filled with the shame of her plain dress and the guilt of knowing how hard her mother worked to make it look presentable, she musters up the strength to go to the party.

As the rich girl screeched and squealed about wanting the chocolate pig, the poor girl shrank with embarrassment. The whole table stared in her direction as the poor girl meekly offered the chocolate pig. She didn’t really care what flavor or shape the ice cream was. She loved ice cream and was thrilled to have any one of the tasty treats. So giving up the pig, while coveted by the rich girl, was easy for her. And she knew the offering would give her back the peace and anonymity she so desperately desired.

The adults at the party would see the poor girl as a sweet child who didn’t care about material possessions. But her true character is revealed, as this version of the story ends with a chocolate smeared pink dress. “Not so perfect any more is it?”

I was always jealous of the girls who knew who they were.  They fell easily into typical girl roles. They braided each other’s hair, played with Barbie’s shopping mall and married her off to Ken. I was determined to run with the neighborhood boys and torture my mother with proclamations like, “I’m going to wear jeans to my wedding.”  Then in the evenings, I’d sob in my mother’s arms, “How will I know who I am supposed to marry? How will I find him?”  I was a hot mess. I bumbled along, letting myself be pulled in any direction that grabbed me. I wished I knew which way I wanted to go.  And that if I ever did figure it out, I’d have the courage to say it out loud and proudly march after my dreams. 

Just like the perfect girl, who knew she wanted the chocolate pig. She wasn’t ashamed to fight for it, no matter what anyone thought of her. Guaranteed that girl is now running a multimillion-dollar worldwide conglomerate and traveling the world sipping champagne on her yacht.  Looking back, that chocolate smeared dress was my way of expressing feelings of jealousy towards all those “perfect” girls. 

Despite retelling the same story over and over, each of us seem to have created our own versions based on who we are. Or who we were at the time. My sister’s confidence and contentment in her life highlighted by barely being able to resurrect the tale from the depths of her childhood memory. Aunt Jeannie’s straightforward, matter of fact, “Let’s get down to business” attitude shined bright in her no frills version.  And mom’s details about the loved and happy poor girl revealed her sympathetic, nurturing nature and her belief that the girl was proud of who she was, despite her lack of riches.

It’s taken me a while to embrace who I am and to have the courage to lay it out for the world to see. Looking back I realize that mom’s message, “Be proud of who you are no matter what others think of you,” stayed with me through the years. I’d internalized it and carried with me without really knowing it. But it would kick in just when I needed it. Like when I would go for the jobs I was under qualified to hold on paper, but knew in my heart I could do. Or when I taught my first group fitness class and was convinced I’d screw it up. As the doubt crept up, mom’s mantra would run through my head, squashing it back down. “Just be yourself. Just be yourself.” It allowed me tap into the parts of those experiences I loved and focus on enjoying the ride. And yes, mistakes were made. But I learned from them, grew and continued on. And in the end, isn’t that what life’s all about?

I’ve since edited my childhood version of the story. And the one I will tell my boys will sound something like this.

My New Story

The poor girl goes to the party with her plain dress and is happy to be invited. She’s happy to give up her ice cream without incident and feels sorry for the rich girl who is clearly unhappy and distressed no matter what anyone does for her. She sits back, enjoys her treat, and barely notices the chocolate smeared dress drama as her mom picks her up and takes her home where she is loved, nurtured and inspired to go for what she wants in life. Rich or poor, strawberry or chocolate, chicken or pig, this girl knows who she is and where she wants to go.

Happy Birthday Mom.  My gift to you is to share “The Girl and The Chocolate Pig” with the world. I am so grateful for your love, guidance and support through the years.  Thank you for inspiring me to reach for my dreams. 

I love you.

Jen

Winter 2015 - Story #1 The Slim Jim Moments

It’s February 6^th.  For most New Englanders, this date rolls around right about the same time as our tough “Show me what yah got, winter!” facade starts to wear off. One groundhog even bit the mayor’s ear to show his disappointment in the weeks and weeks of winter looming ahead.  With record snowfalls, too many school cancellations and single digit temps, this winter feels especially harsh.  

As I bundle up and brace for the final push to spring, I realize how much I miss my friends and family. Of course, we chat and text and occasionally talk on the phone.  But that’s no replacement for sitting down, face-to-face, in an over crowded Panera sharing our stories, good, bad or otherwise.

So until I can actually get to that mani/pedi that we’ve been planning since November, I thought putting some stories out there in the blogosphere would help me pretend that instead of being trapped in this ice castle of boredom, I’m soaking my toes in a warm, bubbly, lavender scented tub with coffee in hand and flanked by my friends; My happy place.

Story #1:  Don't Miss The Slim Jim Moments

Friday mornings are often filled with excitement. The kids are anxious to get the weekend started, hoping for extra screen time, sleeping in and going with the flow. I look forward to several, uninterrupted hours of “me time” with the added benefit of no afternoon car pool pick up. Wanting in on the game, our new puppy, Remy, runs frantically from room to room, in search of anything that will prove he is a worthy participant, even if he’s not entirely sure what the rules are.

Inevitably the Friday frenzy interferes with our regular routine and time gets away from us. This is usually when I start yelling to the boys things like, “Did you brush your teeth?” and “Max you forgot your glasses!” The intensity builds as I see the bus rumbling down the street and more and more orders are barked; by the dog and me. Needless to say, it can be a stressful way to start the day.

This morning, as I prompted the 12 year old to “Please brush your teeth!” for the 15^th time, I noticed a flash of copper swoosh by me. It suddenly occurred to me that the pup had been awfully quiet for the past 10 minutes. And as much as I appreciate a quiet dog, it’s often a sign of mischief in our house. So I stop barking too and follow the flash into the living room. Sure enough, Remy had found himself a mini Slim Jim. Proudly chewing and wagging, clearly very excited about his new toy. Knowing the boys would appreciate the humor of the situation I laughingly called them in to bear witness. After a successful trade, approved dog treat for contraband, we resumed our frantic routine just in time to make the bus.

Remy and I waved goodbye to the boys, Remy using his tail of course, as the bus drove away and I sauntered into the kitchen to pour a much-needed cup of coffee.  As I settled into a little work it hit me. 

It’s too quiet. 

I called for Remy and heard romping upstairs followed by a thundering descent and finally, that all too familiar flash of fur blurring across my vision. Having done this once already this morning I had a feeling I knew what this was about. Sure enough, Remy greeted me with a wagging tail, proudly chewing on yet another Slim Jim. We made the trade and I decided I should probably figure out where his supply was stashed.  I took a quick look around upstairs and came up with nothing. “Hmmmm…. Maybe that’s it. Maybe there just happened to be two random Slim Jims lying around on the floor in the upstairs hallway. Yah, that’s gotta be it. Right?”

Moments later, after finally getting to work, it happened again. Rumble. Flash. Chew. “Alright that’s it.” I think. Back upstairs I go. And this time, I do a far more thorough investigation. Ah ha! I find a CVS bag buried under a pile of clean but not yet folded clothes on my bedroom floor. Strewn around the bag were several, individually wrapped Slim Jims. Intended for car pool snacks, doubling as dog chew toys.

I probably spent 30 minutes chasing Remy, trading for treats and trying to find the source. Before Remy joined our family I probably would’ve considered those 30 minutes as time lost; time taken away from getting the kids out the door, getting work done and getting on with my day. But now it feels like something different. Something better. I find Remy’s antics to be a much-appreciated break in the monotony of our snow-filled, house bound morning routine.

I’m grateful for these moments. The need to be present in our days has never been greater. Distractions in life are ubiquitous. And while looking for gloves, or homework before the bus comes or responding to that critical text may seem important at the time, it pales in comparison to taking time out for a game of chase with an adorable, loving, soft, 5 month old puppy who wants nothing more than a few minutes of my time and attention.  

When we brought Remy home on November 1^st he was 2 months old and weighed 4 pounds. He couldn’t climb stairs. He cried when anyone left the room and had several accidents in the house daily.  

Remy 2 months old

Now, only two months later, he’s 10+ pounds, runs and jumps wherever he pleases and is perfectly happy to chill by himself or sleep at the front door waiting for the boys to come home from school. 

In the grand scheme of things, 2 months is a blip in time. But when I think of how much Remy has grown and matured since November, I realize the importance of paying attention to life’s interruptions, the precious “Slim Jim” moments. They deepen our connections with the people (and pets) we love the most. 

Waiting for the boys - 4 months old

Choosing to ignore them, releasing them untethered into the universe, will only accelerate the passing of time, compressing the years into nothing more than rolling dates, lists of achievements and failures, record snowfalls and plummeting temperatures. I’ll take those crazy moments with my barking, jumping, furry little spaz-ball any day. Now, if I could just get to a real mani-pedi….

More Remy pics:

Playing in the leaves - 3 months old

Snow puppy 2015

  

Anniversary Goggles: The Opposite of Beer Goggles

Fourteen years of marriage is usually celebrated quietly between couples. It warrants a mention from friends, maybe a call from close family members. 

“How many years has it been? 14? Next year’s a big one, huh?” 

That’s usually how the conversation goes. It doesn’t bother me. I’ve always felt anniversaries were meant for the couples themselves, with a few exceptions of course. A first year or major milestones like 25 years, 40, 50, etc…  can certainly justify a party or at least a small family gathering. But for me, each year brings it’s own unique perspective on all the years that came before. And let’s face it, as magical and wonderful as it can be, it can also be challenging. And I believe that making it work year after year deserves whatever acknowledgement each couple sees fit each time it rolls around.

For some reason that I can’t explain, this anniversary feels more worthy of reflection than others. Maybe our 25^th anniversary will breeze by with little significance other than the accumulation of years. Or year 32 will overwhelm me with sentiment and nostalgia for the many years behind us. But this one feels more momentous, more significant, more worthy of mention. 

Inspired to think back on past anniversary celebrations, I started to write them all down, chronicling each year with details of where we were and how we lived our lives at the time.  And as I wrote I began to understand something that I never had before. Looking back can only be viewed through the glasses we wear today, the lenses aged and worn. The details muted and blurred over time. But the wear and tear gives us a much deeper, rich and layered perspective of the life we've created than we could ever see in each given moment. 

So I started over. And now, the story goes a little something like this.

We spent our first year as a married couple lonely in the Lone Star State. We roamed the land for a decent cup of Dunks, regulah of course, and overindulged in Krispy Kreme’s. It was a confusing mix of exciting days and homesick nights. The year was 2001. The bubble burst, the towers fell and somehow, almost 1 year to the day of arriving, we made our way back to New England. Before leaving we celebrated our first anniversary with a memorable dinner filled with mystery (what was that appetizer pretending to be? calamari?) and adventure (no frantic pregnant woman should be in charge of looking for the nearest emergency room for her food poisoned husband in an unfamiliar city. NOTE: See mystery calamari.)  It was clearly time to go.

Back in New England, we filled the early years of our marriage with lots of firsts; first baby, first steps, first words, first parenting mishaps. The adventures were endless. While Jeff traveled the world growing his new business; Australia, Paris, London… I explored the world of motherhood; playgroups, volunteering, speed diapering... I mastered the art of perfectly timing naps with Starbucks drive through expeditions. They were busy days, much of them now a blur. I remember business and babies and that’s about it. Our youthful spirit, passionate pursuits and lots of caffeine propelled us forward.

As we negotiated the rocky shoreline of parenthood we tried to find time to escape to calmer waters. For year 5 we rewarded ourselves with a trip to Puerto Rico. Just the two of us. There was golf, spa, pool, beach, cocktails and days of catching up on collective years of lost sleep. Years later we flew half way around the world to the land down under. As we walked the streets of Sydney we fantasized about bringing the kids some day and spending our winters in the friendly, sunny city. We shared prosciutto pizza at Hugo’s on Manly beach. We discovered the lively Daimon Brunton Quartet at The Basement Jazz Club.  We walked the Bondi trail and I even tried to surf. 

The years between the big sabbaticals were sprinkled with mini getaways up and down the Northeast from Maine to Manhattan. And if we got really clever, we’d finagle a winter boondoggle to warmer climates. Miami (#NoMoreConch), San Francisco, Napa…  No matter how hard it was to coordinate kid coverage, these trips have always given us the time to recharge, refresh and reconnect. They are like little energy pills that give us the boost we need to keep this crazy train moving forward. 

There have been a lot of moments over the past 14 years; too many to remember them all. Replaying them in my mind is like re-watching a movie that you saw when you were a kid. At the time, you didn't quite catch all of the subtle, adult humored jokes or innuendo. Too sophisticated for your kid brain to get. You enjoyed it though. You knew there was something hidden, some deeper meaning. Even though you didn't know what it was, you were satisfied just knowing that it was there. 

Each passing year brings a deeper understanding of the plot. Connections missed the first time around are slowly revealed, illuminating the big picture. And future years bring comfort, knowing that while you may not recognize significant moments as they happen, one day you'll be able to look back and see a beautiful, multicolored, intricately woven tapestry of all the years past.

Happy Anniversary to my best friend, my inspiration, my rock, my love.

Jen and Jeff Hoffman

September 23, 2000

Finn And Jake Go To The Food Court

WARNING: Rant alert. Proceed with caution.

I try to avoid rants because they tend to spiral out of control quickly. But a few weeks ago I got the green light to let loose.  Our writing class homework was to write about the thing we hated the most. And I had the perfect story. It went a little something like this.

Of all the things I hate the most, the mall food court is at the top of my list.  Just saying the words out loud, “food court” makes my stomach turn. The noise, the chaos and the smells launch an assault on my senses of epic proportions.  Despite my best efforts to avoid it, I inevitably end up there. It's a price I'm willing to pay to indulge my regular retail therapy sessions, but a costly one for sure.

One Saturday I spent the morning helping my sons, Charles and Max, get ready for their soccer games to be played later that day. After much searching for cleats and uniforms, and some pleading with the almighty soccer gods for help, we located enough pieces to assemble two dapper soccer stars.  

Max played first. Then we made our way to Hamilton or Wenham or one of those other small, North Shore towns, where Charles would meet his team. It wasn't long before I realized I had no idea where we were, meandering through heavily wooded roads. Focused on finding the playing field, I was suddenly startled when Charles hollered, “Mom I’m gonna miss my game!” Then Max, timing his contribution perfectly, “Mom, I'm hungry. Can I have a juice box and a snack?” Charles fired back, “Max this is serious!” The fighting continued.

Feeling the mood rapidly devolve I resorted to an age-old parenting technique that I hoped would bring some sanity back into the car. That's right, bribery.

"Please guys I'm begging you. If you can both chill for the rest of the ride I'll take you to Newbury Comics after the game." Suddenly it dawned on me. I had spoken too soon. Newbury Comics used to be conveniently located in a strip mall just off route 114. We'd pass it on the way home from school every day. With a Starbucks two doors down it was a win win. But those days were gone. I sank into my seat remembering it's new home, inside the North Shore Mall.

Even worse, the chaos of going from game to game left little time for lunch. I fed the boys snacks along the way but in the back of my mind I started to accept my fate. I was going to have to take them to the food court.

We shook off the loss to Hamilton-Wenham and drove to the mall. As soon as we entered, the boys bolted to Newbury Comics, almost knocking over a lovely woman who was casually strolling along. “Boys!” I screamed to disappearing flashes. “Stop running!” and then a meek, “I’m so sorry.” to the startled woman. She smiled and said, “Not at all.” Clearly, a fellow mother of boys.

30 minutes later we emerged with two Adventure Time DVD sets, each with “complimentary” Finn and Jake hoods. Having donned their alter egos, Finn the Human (Charles) and Jake the Dog (Max) slayed evil doers and saved princesses all the way to the food court.

Finn (Charles) and Jake (Max) take the North Shore Mall by storm!

As we neared the end of the mall, I felt the pulsing heart beat of the beast. We rounded the corner and there it was. A throbbing, menacing creature waiting to chew me up and spit me out, leaving nothing but a pile of quivering, frazzled nerves. I readied myself for battle.

Echoes of metal chairs scraped the tile floor. I commanded Finn and Jake to find a table suitable for two brave knights and one damsel in distress. Heading for McDonalds, I dodged the minefield of strollers filled with screaming children along the way. I grabbed the "un-Happy Meals" and found the boys, their eyes gazing at the ceiling. What are they looking at?

The North Shore Mall has the added horror, I mean pleasure, of big screen TV’s placed high above, broadcasting the latest videos at 10,000 decibels, to combat the screeching chairs and children of course. The effect makes it impossible for the boys to focus on eating their fried cholesterol fingers and E-coli burgers, further prolonging our stay in the belly of the beast.

My stomach growling, I scour the perimeter for an establishment that might offer something sort of healthy. I settle on Au Bon Pain. At least they assemble your sandwich in front of you instead of hiding behind a bank of microwaves and fryolators. God knows what really happens back there.

After 30 minutes I’ve had enough. Senses frayed, I pry Finn and Jake from the latest Robin Thicke video and prepare to take on the final battle before breaking free. Buzzing and humming with kids who seemingly communicate telepathically, Game Stop is a parent's worst nightmare. Fearful of provoking an attack, we huddle in the corner, none of us daring to poke the hive. The swarm systematically collects games and pelts parents with pleas one by one. Ultimately, they wear us down and emerge victorious, prizes in hand. 

Knowing my fate, I pull Finn and Jake aside and lay down the law. “You have 5 minutes. We are NOT buying anything today. Your time starts…. Now.”

Flash forward 20 minutes later to me arguing with Finn about why he is not buying a new Pokemon DS game to replace the one he lost even IF he uses his own allowance money. So much for the rules. My only saving grace is knowing there’s a Starbucks on the way out where I can get my daily fix of salted chocolate covered almonds and a grande non fat chai chaser. It makes everything better.

Spilling out into the parking lot, we pour our weary bodies into the car. Charles and Max plug into their iPods, listening to The Beach Boys and Macklemore respectively. I launch the latest Terry Gross "Fresh Air" podcast, and her silky, soothing voice eases me home.

With our adventure behind us, I thought back on the day. My little knights fought valiantly, with a heavy dose of fun and excitement. And while I'll never be a fan of the mall food court, it was worth every second.  Because I got to spend the day with my boys.  

Paths

This is a story about two South Shore girls who lived in two different towns and attended two separate high schools. They shared one friend.  The two girls became friends and spent the mid 80’s hanging out.

After graduation both girls attended the same college. They lived in separate dorms and had different friends, but maintained their connection throughout the four-year journey. They graduated together in 1990.

After college the girls met from time to time for drinks or movies or chats. Their busy lives took over and sent them in separate directions. The girls lost touch.

10 years passed. In March of 2002, two pregnant women, formerly South Shore girls, recognized each other in a North Shore supermarket.  They had new last names, new lives and new families. They lived in separate towns, 15 minutes apart.

One shared a birthday with the other’s sister. One was a Scorpio, just like the other’s son, their birthdays only one day apart. 

Both have 11-year-old sons.

Both have sons named Charlie.

Both have names that start with the letter “J.”

They have been friends for many years.  And will be for many more.