brandishing the whipped cream

Dear Sugar Shells,

Happy mid-May Wednesday!  Around here, the wind has been biblical, Emma the Brave is curled up unaware of her imminent vet visit, and I'm so pleased to be writing to you. 

Without sounding melodramatic, I generally loathe holidays.  Including the pseudo-holidays like Mother's Day.  I'm not incurably Grinchy (I swear!) but it's just that in my family I've never won the games of Saying The Right Things or Looking Picture-Perfect...so opting out has simply made more sense.

Can't lose if I don't play, right? 

Hmm. 

Tempting as it is to stay home and do nothing, opting out 100% does not qualify as an effective life strategy when it comes to family celebrations.  Especially since I genuinely love those precious people.


(It's worth noting that I've built the skills and muscles for doing family events such that I actively participate, don't feel locked up, and usually enjoy myself.  No Xanax required.  But I save this practical stuff for my beloved coaching clients, not this light little letter.)

Now, with endless thanks to my generous sister, family celebrations RULE because I have little sugar monkeys to play with and they couldn't possibly be more adorable and have I mentioned how much I love being an Aunty???!!!!!   (Ok. Breathing.)

This is all to say that when I woke up last Sunday morning I felt uncharacteristically psyched for Mother's Day events.  I could hardly wait to snuggle the monkeys, referee their sharing disputes, and run around in the sunshine. 

What I didn't know was that my dear sweet innocent mother would hugely up the ante by bringing a can of whipped cream expressly for the purpose of teaching my niece and nephew how to spray it on people. (!!!) 

In my opinion, this was totally excellent. 

And, you can scroll down to see the
Fun Family Photo:  Attack Edition

I sincerely hope your family includes someone like my mom who takes her role as the CEO of Mischief very, very seriously.  If not, perhaps it's you? 

Because brandishing a can of whipped cream goes a long way toward forgetting about Saying The Right Things - even if just for a moment.  Because we snort with laughter even when we know the whipped cream attack is coming.  Because silliness feels impossibly delicious.  And because Mom always brings a giant box of wet wipes, too.  

I'm kinda sorry to report that I enjoy torturing the fun-starved, including my sweet husband.  Well, not really.  (Again, scroll down for evidence.) 

I fervently hope to take over as the CEO of Mischief someday.  In the meantime, I'll happily continue learning from the best and relishing this opportunity to re-direct my perfectionist tendencies toward something truly important!  

Savoring,
Julie


P.S.  For the first time in my life, I'm contemplating a Costco membership:  probably one might purchase whipped cream cans by the box, yes?  As well as massive containers of wet wipes?