parenting – Wolverine Lily

The Graveyard of Hollywood Dreams

A woman hurried across the street, dodging a man crouched in the corner, talking to himself. His hair was long, his clothes smelled, and his raspy voice mumbled something that made passersby uncomfortable. Most stare at the ground and veer away.

In Los Angeles, this is as normal as a sunny day. We call them homeless, crazy, or addicts raising tents under a freeway. But we don’t see them as what they once were: humans with big dreams.

Not all of them came chasing fame. Some escaped disasters.

Back then, there was courage in their hearts. They packed their cars or boarded a bus with a guitar. Some told their parents they were leaving their small town because there was a world out there—a place where dreams take shape. They arrived in Hollywood, seeking their big break.

It’s brave; it takes confidence. Yet, we won’t admit it, or perhaps, we never think this deeply.

But chasing dreams in Los Angeles has a lethal price tag. Undoubtedly, some made it, while others fell into the throat of this city. LA chews on dreamers, swallowing them piece by piece. Rent first. Then health. Then dignity. While the sun shines bright. And when the time and resources run out, the verdict follows: ‘they didn’t try hard enough.’

This is survivorship bias.

We hear inspiring stories from singers, actors, or entrepreneurs who slept in a car and “never gave up.” Social media is flooded with success biographies of high school dropouts-turned-icons, praising perseverance, resilience, and never quitting.

But what about the other side? The majority: the people who gave it all and still didn’t make it. Life intervened, money ran out, or timing didn’t line up.

Is the effort alone enough?
We love breakthrough tales. They are inspirational and make the world seem fair. But that’s not true; life isn’t fair. Not everyone excels from trying, and not everyone succeeds.

Cemeteries remind us of that. Have you ever walked past rows, reading names, and finding small gaps between birth and death? I ask, what’s their story? What did they dream of?

Los Angeles is a cemetery— except the names are still breathing.
The graveyard of broken dreams lives on sidewalks. In tents. In people we avoid because if we look too closely, we might recognize ourselves.

I think about this because my child wants to sing. Just a girl with a voice and a dream.
She plays guitar, sings, and… believes. I support her, drive her to lessons, and applaud from my couch.
Dreams are beautiful—I don’t want her to stop dreaming! But in LA, dreams without a backup plan are like jumping off a cliff and hoping to land on a mattress. Especially now with social media blaring, “just keep pushing indefinitely, success is inevitable.”

Is it? Really?

Having an alternate plan isn’t a failure. Proposing checkpoints or a deadline doesn’t mean quitting. It’s tracking progress instead of blindly sacrificing years and hoping luck shows up before rent is due.
What’s noble about starving for a dream when there were other ways to survive?

The happiest lives I know run on two tracks: financial stability and passion; one feeds the soul, and one feeds the body. Yet social media favors extremes: Fame or failure. It doesn’t show the middle: the people who built parallel paths. And it certainly doesn’t show the ones who disappeared.

Every soul sleeping on the street has a story. Some are still missed back at home. Some never had a home to begin with.

I want my daughter to believe in herself, knowing that her worth (or her singing) doesn’t depend on applause or validation.

Don’t let a dream kill your life. Feed your mouth before you feed your dreams. LA is full of people who believed—and paid that lethal price.

So work, create, pursue, and dream. Dream boldly— with your head on your shoulders and your feet on the ground.

Broken Wing and the Middle Finger

“Hello,” I answered, shutting the trunk of my car.
“I think Nellie broke her arm. She fell from a structure on a playground, and she can’t stop crying. Where are you?” he asked, urgency spilling through the phone.

In the background, I heard my daughter screaming at full volume. It was the most devastating roar I’d ever heard from her—deep and loud, like a whale, but screechier. I felt a sudden rush of heat, as if someone had poured boiling water over my head.

Damn. She’s hurt, I thought, starting the engine. I gripped the wheel tight and took off.

“I’m in the car. I’ll be there in ten minutes,” I forced the words out through my tightening throat.
“We’re waiting for an ambulance,” he said, his tone mirroring mine. “Hurry,” he added, and hung up.

My heart was pounding. I accelerated, but soon got trapped behind an old lady driving fifteen miles per hour in a thirty-five zone. I followed her while Nellie’s cry echoed in my head, louder than the speakers in the doors. How badly is she injured? What if she fell on her head?

For a few blocks, my thoughts raced at the speed of light, while my car crawled like a turtle. I was tempted to honk, but this lady probably was too old to hear it anyway. My frustration boiled inside until Granny stopped at a red light, nearly rear-ending a white Mercedes. I swerved to the right lane, hoping to pass both cars when the light changed.
A few long seconds later, I finally got the green. I hit the gas like I was auditioning for Fast & Furious—minus the fancy car.

I looked into the mirror to see if I had enough distance to change lanes, but then I saw… a hairy arm and a middle finger coming out of a white Mercedes! Like a reversed palm tree flipping me off from the jungle of traffic. I tried to ignore the gesture. My daughter’s screams still resonated in my head so, surely, I could not care less about an asshole in a Mercedes. Yet, I was pissed. Pissed and frantic.

I wanted to be with my daughter. Shit. I was pushing past fifty! A speeding ticket now would kill me. No way, I couldn’t afford to lose a second.

I stopped at a red light and saw the white Mercedes slide up to my right. No more palm trees waving. He must’ve thought he’d lost the race to a blonde chick in a dusty Subaru, now idling for a rematch. Then the window began to roll down, revealing Mr. Asshole with dark shades and an even darker attitude.

He shook his head, adjusting his flashy glasses (or just showing them off in the most ostentatious way), looked at me, and spoke: “You couldn’t wait, could you?”
Wait for what? I thought. But I hadn’t said anything—not for another three seconds.

Then I took a long breath and said two precise sentences, both of which would’ve made my mother gasp and a pirate proud.

I watched his jaw drop, the black stubble blending into his black T-shirt.

I stared at him for a moment. Still. Then winked.
“Nice talking to you. Drive carefully.” The light changed and I drove off, leaving behind a faint, fading ‘Oh, uh…’

When I finally got there, I saw an ambulance driving off. Red lights flashing, siren wailing. My stomach turned.

I followed them to the hospital. Doctors confirmed: My angel broke her wing.

Author’s Note:
This happened a few years ago, on Max’s birthday. One I’ll never forget. 🙂

‘I Agree’: The Price of Your Child’s Click

Would you let your child sign a contract with a corporation that profits from her/his image, tracks their location, collects their data, and limits your ability to sue in court?

No? Then, you must understand what happens when your child begins to scrolls.

One click = a legally binding contract.

That’s all it takes to hand over their digital rights and, sadly, yours.

My daughter is almost twelve, and she’s been begging for a phone. “Everyone has it,” she says.
But I grew up without one, so one question keeps bugging me: Is my child old enough for what’s coming through that screen? Because, let’s be honest, a phone today isn’t just a device to make a call. It’s an admission ticket to a digital universe! It’s a portal into an adult internet, strangers, cryptic algorithms, and hidden contracts.

What scares me the most is access to the unknown. Even if I forbid certain applications, she will eventually install social media because all kids do! And although platforms like Instagram, TikTok, and Snapchat require users to be at least 13, it’s incredibly easy for children to bypass this rule.
Kids lie about their birthdate. No parental verification nor ID checks exist, so one click—”I agree”—gets them in.

But wait, does anyone ever read what they agree to? Most adults never do, so we can’t expect kids to read the terms.

Yet, this one blind click binds them into a legal contract with the platform, permitting the app to access their phone and track their location. Moreover, it limits the ability to sue the company in court, often forcing you into private arbitration, even for potential privacy violations.

Moreover, this “I agree” click opens the door to instant feeds—the content parents may disapprove of: perverse images, violent or sexually provocative clips, and strangers that may influence your child more than we wish for. Sadly, neither you nor your child have much control over the screen. The platform’s algorithm decides what shows up.

Once the account is live, multiple predators have a direct line to your child through comments, likes, or an instant DM. You might think their profile is private, but most platforms still allow message requests from strangers—and your child might not even know what’s safe to open.

The Children’s Online Privacy Protection Act (COPPA) is a federal law that’s supposed to protect kids under 13 from online data collection. Other laws, like consumer protection rules, unfair practice regulations, and even state-level privacy acts, also apply to kids and social media platforms. Still, most platforms aren’t verifying anything, and much of the responsibility lands in parents’ hands.

So, how old should your child be to get a cell phone?

I don’t have all the answers.
But if they have one, check it regularly. See what apps they’ve installed. Look at who they follow and what’s showing up in their feed. Talk to them, even if they roll their eyes.

Finally, before we hand over the phone, we need to understand the rules and consequences that come with it. Read the terms. Because once they say “I agree,”—it’s a contract.

Note: This post is for informational purposes only and isn’t legal advice.

Little Chalky Feet

Her little feet with chalky dust,
Growing up too fast to last!
Sidewalk art with siblings’ cheer,
A special time my heart holds dear.

Amid each day’s relentless race,
These tiny toes print love I chase,
And memories carved to last forever,
Of joyful days we laughed together.

Author’s Note:
Some moments are just too precious to let fade, right? My youngest daughter’s chalky feet—capturing the fun and colors of a sunny afternoon in the park (before she turned 4.) I stumbled upon this photo and couldn’t let it go. It inspired this short poem and now lives here, safe and treasured. 🙂

Not a ‘Happily Ever After’ for This Cinderella – a Fairy Tale Behind the Scenes

Ever wondered what happens after ‘happily ever after’ in fairy tales?

You know, the ones where the prince kisses the princess, and they ride off into the sunset? Many Disney stories wrap up with “and they lived happily ever after,” right? That dreamy finale is supposed to let our imaginations run wild with visions of an idealized future. But has anyone ever wondered what their “happy” life looked like a few years down the road? Did they have kids? Because if they did, let me tell you—that’s a whole new fairy tale waiting to unfold!

Picture Cinderella, still waking up with a smile and singing birds around her—except now, it’s after a night of zero sleep, dealing with crying babies and dodging diaper disasters. She’d probably chuck things at those birds for waking her up.

Forget those glossy Disney illustrations of her hair; in reality, Cinderella’s hair would be more like a mom’s real-life messy bun, complete with baby spit-up as an accessory. Disney should hire a real mom—those illustrations would be less pretty, but way more authentic!

Remember when Cinderella had to dash from the ball at midnight? Should we really feel sorry for her? That night, she looked stunning! Everyone talked about her beauty—when was the last time someone did that for you? Long before the kids, right? And dancing with a prince for hours? Moms today are lucky if they get a quick shuffle under the shower for one whole song! Let alone dream about parties without someone walking behind you, yelling or needing something every two minutes.

Now, let’s fast-forward a few years. Think Cinderella’s stepsisters’ demands were tough? Try competing with your kids’ non-stop requests for snacks, water (but not in that cup!), and finding their lost toys. Everyone pities Cinderella for sweeping those ashy floors—but sweeping up a mountain of crumbs and spilled cereal three times a day? No one talks about that!

We all felt for Cinderella when she had to pick out lentils from the ashes. Well… that must have been tough, actually. But what about picking up those tiny Lego pieces from every corner of the house? Don’t get me started—I think we all hate that! And stepping on one in the middle of the night on the way to the bathroom? Oh yes, I would love to see our pretty Cinderella losing it at 2 a.m. That’s a pain she couldn’t handle!

Meanwhile, where is Prince Charming in that whole mess? Let me guess, taking his 45-minute bathroom break—with his phone, of course! Or maybe he is dancing with another Cinderella? Life is unpredictable, and for some of us, more demanding.

Don’t think for a second being a rich princess is any easier. Well, maybe a bit; they have the money to afford sitters and cleaning ladies. Nevertheless, nothing releases them from the responsibility of being a mom. That’s universal. We care so much that we forget to care for ourselves. That’s the real magic of our story—life with kids is tough because we love them fiercely, and despite the chaos, we endure the pain and grow stronger every day.

In the end, our ‘happily ever after’ isn’t about idealized perfection or fairy tales. It’s about discovering love and joy amidst the mess. So, take a deep breath, keep sweeping those floors and picking up those Legos, because one day—very soon—it will be our turn to enjoy the Ball! And our kids will make sure those shoes fit so we can dance all night long!!

Can’t Fake Happy Moments

Have you noticed that you can’t fake having a great time? Think about those photos from your happiest moments—genuine joy always shines through, right? You wouldn’t be snapping pictures if you weren’t truly enjoying yourself. Even selfies meant to show off on social media are usually taken in fantastic places or during significant events. This weekend, I experienced something that profoundly clarified this for me. As I looked at some pictures, I perceived more than just sincere smiles. I uncovered something unexpected and deeply revealing about capturing genuine happiness.

On Saturday, I went to a friend’s birthday party. For the first time in a long while, it wasn’t a kid’s party! I mean a real grown-up party! It was a small gathering of a few close friends and their children. The kids played inside a big house while the parents sat outside on the patio, overlooking the beautiful San Fernando Valley. The sun was shining brightly, and a gentle breeze carried the scent of desert flowers, making it a perfect June afternoon.

As we cracked jokes, sipped our drinks, and relaxed, we noticed the sun beginning to set. It seemed like the ideal time to watch it from the surrounding secluded rocky-desert landscape. We decided to go for a short hike around the property. The lone-standing house was at the top of a mountain with no neighbors nearby. The air was crisp, and our giggles echoed in the vast, open space. As we ventured out to watch the beautiful sunset, we climbed some rocks and snapped a lot of amazing photos. There were more jokes and lots of laughter.

Today, I looked at the photos, and surprisingly, almost all of them turned out great! Even the group photos show big smiles, lots of teeth, and glowing eyes! I was amazed by how genuinely happy everyone looked. There was no major posing; the photos captured spontaneous moments of delight. It was exceptionally wonderful! I realized that genuine happiness is unforced and naturally caught in moments of joy. It cannot be fabricated! It is evident in natural, unrehearsed expressions and interactions.

Reflecting on these moments, I recognize their preciousness. In a world where so much can feel staged and superficial, it’s the authentic experiences that truly matter. Our photos are not just images; they are memories of laughter, connection, and real fun—not meant to show off or impress anyone. They remind me that the best moments in life are often the simplest, shared with those we care about most. They allow to appreciate the value of spontaneous joy and genuine connections. Don’t let these moments slip away. Recognize and cherish them, for they serve as luminous lighthouses radiating strong and bright in our ordinary, sometimes dark days—the true highlights of our lives. Sometimes the simplest and ordinary points in time are the most amazing ones!

The Fiery Eyes Piercing the Night

I know why you left me, Mom.
I didn’t understand it then. How could I?
I was so young, a fragile leaf
tossed in a hurricane.

I still remember you standing
in that dim hallway,
determined to leave.
I heard the hollow echo as you opened the door,
but before it slammed shut,
the Beast crept in,
filling the emptiness with shadows.

That night, sleep eluded me.
I imagined you soaring through the sky,
chasing your freedom
like a ravenous bird after its prey.
Trapped in the darkness, I cried,
motionless, a girl clenching her fists.
The Beast watched me;
its big, fiery eyes piercing the night.
I was terrified.
But nobody was there to witness my horror.

For years, I begged you to come back,
but you never did;
and I never tamed the Beast.
It lingered, a constant reminder
of the void you left behind.

Three decades have passed,
and the Beast still remains.
I’ve grown used to its presence,
accepting that I can’t fight it.
I’ve built walls around myself,
so tall that only God in Heaven can see the true reflection of me.

But one day, someone will come,
and the Beast will be gone.
My heart knows it,
awaiting the day of liberation.

I’m no longer angry at you.
I’ve come to understand your struggle,
though I never heard you say plainly, “I love you.”
Maybe you never did.
You must have had your reasons.

But I can’t carry your pain for you anymore.
It crushes me.
I need to let it go.

Nevertheless, I love you. I always have.
My heart’s been beating with so much love
that I can’t feel otherwise.
I’m sorry I couldn’t make you happy,
but it’s time for me to find my own peace.