A Mom Learns That All Is Fair in Love and Thin Mint Wars

An assault is taking place. Not in Afghanistan or Pakistan. But on our own soil. In our own neighborhoods. At our own front doors. The soldiers are smallish, often ponytailed, and wear a mean shade of brown or green. And as with all well-trained warriors, their mission has been drilled into their brains: “Sell Tagalongs, All Abouts and Do-Si-Dos until you drop!”

Yes, Girl Scouts are out in full force selling cookies. And, like you, I dread this time of year. You get hit up at Vons, at your kids’ school, at neighbors’ homes. At work, dads and moms do the dirty work, waylaying you at the water cooler or in the parking garage.

But this year is different. This year, my daughter, Libby, has become a Brownie. She will be among the soldiers of sugar patrolling the streets, and I will have to put the squeeze on all my friends and relatives.

So it was with a heavy heart that I dragged myself to the Brownie Troop 151 parents’ meeting. There, cookie chairwoman Sharon, like any good commander, laid down the rules of engagement in clear terms: Each girl was expected to sell a minimum of 100 boxes by the end of February. As motivation, they would win prizes along the way, ranging from the piddling--a cookie patch for selling 40 boxes--to the sublime--frolicking with the dolphins at Sea World for selling a mind-boggling 1,250.

Each girl wrote her goal on a bulletin board. Most were realistic: 150 boxes, 175, 200. Not my daughter’s. Last year the top seller in our troop had moved 500 boxes. Libby, vowing to beat that amount, wanted to sell 550.

My heart started pounding. My left eye began to twitch--550? That was impossible! Why, at the school fund-raiser last fall, we’d barely been able to sell $30 worth of wrapping paper. And guess who bought them? Me, because I couldn’t bear to ask anyone.

When we got home, I asked Libby what had possessed her to want to sell so many cookies, hoping to talk her out of it. “I’ve got big goals, Mom, and I go after them,” she explained. How could you argue with that? I kept my mouth shut but still prayed she’d come to her senses. The Girl Scout handout states that part of the purpose of selling cookies is to help girls develop their goal-setting skills, but this was ridiculous!

The D-day to begin selling was set--no early sales, please--Scouts honor. The first day of sales, I went for a morning run. As I was heading home at a still-early 8:30, I spied a tiny blond creature striding down the street. Another figure loomed behind her. As I got closer, their forms became horrifyingly clear: It was a Brownie, getting an early jump, mother in tow. A block closer to home, I spotted yet another brown-vested sprite going door to door.

Right then, something happened that I can’t quite explain. Maybe my competitive spirit kicked in. Or my inner Brownie. Or my desire to support my daughter in whatever she did, whether it was school, soccer or selling Samoas. Or maybe I just wanted Libby to win that 30-inch stuffed monkey prize she kept talking about.

All I know is that I was seized with the compulsion to rush home and hustle Libby out the door before all these other Brownies plucked our neighborhood clean. This was war, and we were going to win.

I raced home but couldn’t find my family. They’d walked to the park. I ran there and gave Libby the news as calmly and succinctly as possible: “Brownies. On the street. Cookies.”

Somehow, in her wisdom of 7 years, Libby understood. “You get a pen, and I’ll get the sign-up sheet,” she yelled as we made a beeline for home. Once inside, she grabbed the sheet and marched out the door, too impatient to even put on her uniform.

Most neighbors weren’t home, but those who were greeted us with enthusiasm and generosity. Next, we hit my hairdresser’s, who was good for two boxes of Thin Mints. Then, on to my son’s baseball tryouts--24 more boxes snapped up. Next, a quick drive over to our friend, Mrs. D’Oro, who took seven. By the time we got home an hour and a half later, Libby had sold 54 boxes.

Already the brands of cookies were becoming a blur. Aloha Chips, All Abouts, Thin Mints. It didn’t matter what people bought. All that mattered was that they were buying.

We were taking a well-deserved lunch break when the doorbell rang. There, on our own turf, stood a Brownie who lived in another part of town. An “enemy” Brownie was invading! After reaching a detente with the other mother (she bought a box from Libby, I bought one from her daughter), Libby knew what she had to do: Hit the streets again, this time with Dad. While she’d been outmaneuvered at a few homes in our neighborhood that were rightfully hers, she was still able to sell 27 more boxes for a total of 81.

We were joyful, giddy. Heck, we’d almost sold the minimum--and in just a few hours. As I write, we’re resting. But good soldiers never truly let down their guard. Good soldiers continue to strategize. So Libby plots. She’s combing the school directory, pinpointing families without girls. She’s making a list of easy marks--her grandparents, Aunt Alexa and Uncle Steve. I’m jotting down people who owe me favors. And my husband is putting the Girl Scout “pocket” order form in his briefcase to pass around at work tomorrow.

Only 550 boxes? Why not make it 600?