Here’s my philosophy with Girl Scout cookies: If it’s not there, you can’t eat it. (Plus, then you don’t have to run an extra twenty minutes to get them to let go of your thighs.)
But the ghosts of Girl Scout cookies past haunt me every spring, making me fill the house with tangible, tasty reminders of those that have gone before them.
Delightful Do-si-dos. Sweet little Samoas. Trusty Tagalongs. Lovely Lemonades. And of course, my dear friend bought by the case – Thin Mints.
I like to think it’s my philanthropic tendencies that get the best of me, unable to say “no” to an adorable little girl in uniform just doing her civic duty.
But let’s face it, I’d probably buy them from a mangy, toothless crack addict selling them from the trunk of his car if it meant I would otherwise never see my precious Thin Mints again.
? ? ?
There’s a long running list of things I’ll do for my kids.
Things like volunteering in their classrooms and driving on field trips; Shuttling them to and from practices and camps that fill every season. Sitting through movie gems like Beverly Hills Chihuahua; Responding with a smile and clap of approval to endless calls of “Watch this Mom!” Rising from a deep sleep to accompany a frightened son to the bathroom at 2:30 in the morning; Taking a cold shower so my kids will have hot ones.
But the call of Girl Scouts is something I just cannot do.
I know, I know, it’s a rewarding and positive experience for both daughter and mother. I don’t knock the people who get enjoyment out of it. Great. Good for you. I get it.
It’s just not my thing. And I’m relieved like a mother who hears that her buck-tooth kid isn’t going to need braces after all that my daughter isn’t into it either. I have small guilt (eating the last brownie type guilt – easy to live with), that back in kindergarten when Whitney wanted to try it, I nudged her in another direction and deftly dodged all the moms trying to peer pressure us into it.
Why the GS aversion? Maybe it’s because I don’t do girlie. I didn’t play with Barbies, I never wanted to play My Little Pony or Rainbow Bright, I wasn’t a cheerleader, and I had no interest in growing up to marry anyone in Duran Duran.
I was always too busy trying to keep up with my brother and embarrassing boys who thought their gender made them better than me. So, I guess my problem is after a lifetime of effort trying to blur the line between genders, the thought of serving my daughter up to a “girls club” rubs me the wrong way.
Not that it’s not a great experience for thousands of American girls. I don’t begrudge any of them the enjoyment, camaraderie and leadership skills they develop. Yay, team.
I just don’t want to join it. I’m pretty happy over here on the sidelines eating their cookies. Isn’t it enough that my taste buds are their biggest cheerleaders with my expanding waistline the president of their booster club?