Heather Caliri is a writer living in San Diego, California. Her work has appeared in Literary Mama, Brain, Child, and Harpur Palate. She blogs at heathercaliri.com.
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street while keeping her from spilling the merchandise is not my idea of a peaceful afternoon. Generally, then, I say no. But with a few lemonade stands under my belt, I know there’s a bigger reason I sigh every time the subject comes up. I’m afraid. It makes me squidgy inside to watch my daughter broadcast her excitement publicly. I worry about her confidence, her blithe assumption that people will be interested in her rocks, her lemonade or her art. I worry she’ll be rejected or that people will find her silly. I worry about the smackdown that comes when you put your passions out there. And here’s where I have left the realm of talking about my child. People are almost uniformly kind to my kid. They are almost uniformly encouraging of young entrepreneurs. The worst reaction she’s dealt with is someone ignoring her, which isn’t all bad. But my heart is still in my throat every time she sets up her little table and asks me to help her letter a sign. As a kid, I spent an afternoon once gathering desert wildflowers, bundling them into nosegays no bigger than my six-year-old palm, and waving them wildly at passing cars. I worked together with some neighbors. We had big plans for our flower bouquets, and imagined splitting the profits when they started rolling in. I remember being pretty hopeful that someone would stop and purchase these lovely creations. No one did. We all abandoned the wilting flowers on the roadside and headed home for dinner strangely disappointed. I felt silly thinking we could be a success. My daughter expects only success. She is surprised when someone drives by without waving. Last lemonade stand, she would call out to passersby from across the street to alert them to her business. After a few minutes, she turned to me and said, “Stop that.” “Stop what?” I said. “You keep laughing when I call out to people.” She was right. It was a kind of genuflection, an ironic distance from her enthusiasm. I was appalled. And the next time she called out, I did it again, like Pavlov’s dog. The truth is, I admire my daughter’s chutzpah. I keep examining my arguments against the lemonade stand. Because I know that part of my reluctance is this discomfort, this embarrassment. Perhaps I should figure out a way to make it work. Surely I could distract the youngest long enough for the shop to happen? Perhaps I could deal with being out there for an hour? Surely her creative, entrepreneurial spirit needs to be encouraged. I want her to live in a world where she is confident enough to dream big dreams. To put them out there, and the hell with the consequences. I want her to shush the people who laugh at her, rather than listening to them. I want her to find a way to make money creatively, to be entrepreneurial and wily. I want her to be her own boss. Each time I encourage my daughter’s boldness, every time I swallow my fear, I sense I’m learning a lesson. When I stop protecting her from even the possibility of rejection, I inoculate myself against that people-pleasing timidity. When I let her take risks, I learn to be bold, too. Last weekend, my daughter set up another lemonade stand, this time to raise money for a cause we all supported. My husband stood out with our daughters for an hour while I prepped food in the kitchen. The window was open to the glorious June sunshine, and I could hear almost every word the three of them were saying. My daughter sold at least 10 cups of lemonade, and chatted with (to my introvert’s eyes) half the neighborhood. She met moms and commuting businessmen, people walking their dogs, runners. She told each of them about the service project the money would go to, her sales pitch growing more polished with each person passing. For once, instead of looking at my daughter and wondering how long that passion and openness and trust in others would last, I started looking at the people who were walking by. At first, I was surprised. Their faces were alight, their eyes relaxed. They weren’t annoyed by her, or put off by a kindergartner’s shakedown. Instead, they looked joyful. As if the real treasure on offer—my daughter’s infectious enthusiasm—was well worth the asking price.
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