FFF Success
Bowls full of crock-pot dinner, facing a 40-minute commute in traffic, I didn't know what to expect as we piled in the car last night without screen time devices. Surely bitching and moaning, touching and arguing would ensue, and not just with my husband. "Boredom is good!" my husband and I agreed. Optimistic, I hoped for the best. Forced Family Fun (#FFF) time together giving back during the holiday season. What could go wrong?
I decided to mix it up this year, volunteering the six of us as a team packing food and fun at the Oregon Food Bank. Donations of allowance to charity and serving pie and turkey at the Salvation Army in years past were too predictable. I prayed my children would step up to the challenge.
"Why don't you tell the brothers about your day?" I asked my 15-year-old daughter trapped in the middle of the car. "Perhaps they can problem solve your dilemma." I was having a hell of a time figuring out the situation myself; saving face for my daughter's friend who confided the truth, while urging my daughter to confront the other friend who betrayed her trust. God forbid they actually talk off social media. Long-gone were the days when I could simply wipe up the spilt milk!
Everyone piped in, from my youngest 8-year-old who said punch her in the face, to my middle 11-year-old who gave a long thoughtful explanation, making me wonder what else he'd been holding inside. My 13-year-old said he didn't care about his sister or her friend.
By the time we arrived at the Oregon Food Bank, we all agreed. She would punch her in the face. Just kidding. We shut that option down immediately!
Just ask her why she did it, and then she would have no choice but to ask who told you, catching her in the lie. "I'm also going to tell her how much she hurt my feelings," my daughter said with confidence. Phew, it can only get better I imagined as we signed in for our shift.
Adorned in hairnets, plastic gloves and aprons, we were energized and ready for food service. My youngest son and husband volunteered to be runners, my 11-year-old son found a friend, and we all gathered around huge tubs chocked full of butt-shaped fruit.
We bagged and tied for two and a half hours, laughing and jamming out to Bon Jovi, Whitesnake and Ozzy Osborne with strangers on a mission to counter the endless 24-hour news cycle of violence with pears and beets, feeding the human spirit. Momentarily transported back to my high school cassette tapes, the backbreaking work became less noticeable. "Mom, everyone knows these songs!" my daughter shook her head at me as I mouthed the words to her, shooting down my attempts at embarrassment.
"We packed over 24,000 meals of pears and beets tonight, I'm so proud of your hard work!" I beamed as we walked across the dark parking lot to our car. "24,006!" my 8-year-old corrected me. Wrapping his arm around me, my 11-year-old called for a celebration at Dairy Queen. "We earned it!" agreed my daughter, pulling out her phone to direct us. "Ah, isn't the reward the satisfaction of doing good and giving back to our community?" Silence. We were all thankful. A resounding win and FFF success!
I decided to mix it up this year, volunteering the six of us as a team packing food and fun at the Oregon Food Bank. Donations of allowance to charity and serving pie and turkey at the Salvation Army in years past were too predictable. I prayed my children would step up to the challenge.
"Why don't you tell the brothers about your day?" I asked my 15-year-old daughter trapped in the middle of the car. "Perhaps they can problem solve your dilemma." I was having a hell of a time figuring out the situation myself; saving face for my daughter's friend who confided the truth, while urging my daughter to confront the other friend who betrayed her trust. God forbid they actually talk off social media. Long-gone were the days when I could simply wipe up the spilt milk!
Everyone piped in, from my youngest 8-year-old who said punch her in the face, to my middle 11-year-old who gave a long thoughtful explanation, making me wonder what else he'd been holding inside. My 13-year-old said he didn't care about his sister or her friend.
By the time we arrived at the Oregon Food Bank, we all agreed. She would punch her in the face. Just kidding. We shut that option down immediately!
Just ask her why she did it, and then she would have no choice but to ask who told you, catching her in the lie. "I'm also going to tell her how much she hurt my feelings," my daughter said with confidence. Phew, it can only get better I imagined as we signed in for our shift.
Adorned in hairnets, plastic gloves and aprons, we were energized and ready for food service. My youngest son and husband volunteered to be runners, my 11-year-old son found a friend, and we all gathered around huge tubs chocked full of butt-shaped fruit.
"We packed over 24,000 meals of pears and beets tonight, I'm so proud of your hard work!" I beamed as we walked across the dark parking lot to our car. "24,006!" my 8-year-old corrected me. Wrapping his arm around me, my 11-year-old called for a celebration at Dairy Queen. "We earned it!" agreed my daughter, pulling out her phone to direct us. "Ah, isn't the reward the satisfaction of doing good and giving back to our community?" Silence. We were all thankful. A resounding win and FFF success!
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