You people. When you give, you give all the way. I asked you to help me compile some awesome Chick Rock for the Mini-Pirate, and the results were tremendous. You covered the 80s, you covered the 90s, you acknowledged some most excellent tunage from the 70s, as well as music from the current decade that makes me feel better about steering my daughter away from Ke$ha and Katy Perry as she grows older. And that was just limited it to one gender. Clearly, I'm going to have make this a multi-volume project -- Music for Mini-P. After I burn the CDs for her, I'll post a list of the songs that made the cut. Which is just about all of them, frankly.
Meanwhile. The wheels keep turning and my latest post over at DadCentric is up today. A letter to this same daughter, who recent abandoned her parents to attend a a two-night sleepaway at Girl Scout.
And apparently survived without her mother and I for the entire trip.
Here's the kick-off:
Dear Daughter,I’d like to congratulate you on your recent achievement. You and your Junior Girl Scout troop completed a weekend away from home, staying two nights at a mountain camp three hours away. All 14 of you packed up your pink sleeping bags, loaded your backpacks up with Skittles, SillyBandz and stuffed pandas, and you headed up to the high timber, away from your mother and me.
Since you’re nine, I think we can agree that this is impressive.
Sure, you were reticent the week prior to the getaway. You approached your mother and me with what I’ll call “certainty,” explaining to us that you did not wish to make the trip. It was far, you explained. And away. And two whole nights. Not just one, like a regular sleepover at a friend’s house.
Your mother and I explained to you that the trip would be fun. Fun? you said incredulously. You did not agree. I know this because of your dextrous, well-placed air quotes around the word. (Kudos to you, future sarcastic pundit. And kudos again.)
The trip would not be “fun,” you said. You continued making your case for staying home with what I’ll call “tenacity.” (Between you and me, your mother used the word “whiny.” She’s so mean to you. I don’t know how you put up with it.)
You said that perhaps such a journey might be fun, if your mother or myself were to accompany you on the trip.
“But Sweetheart,” I said, “we are not Girl Scouts, you see.”
You explained to us that several other parents were going on the trip. Therefore, we could too. Chaperones, we explained. They are chaperones, and we are not.
“So just be a Sharpertone,” you said plaintively. I will concede this was where I too detected the slightest hint of whininess, which I attributed to a justifiable Fear of the Unknown.
Click here to read the rest.