I’m no stranger to unusual birthday gifts.

Through the years, I’ve received a ceramic rooster, hot glue gun, bedazzler, nesting tins and–a personal favorite–being serenaded on my 22nd birthday by a 50-something drunk who pretended to have cancer. Committed to his lies, he sang happy birthday in a raspy voice as he held his fist to his throat, desperately trying to convince beer enthusiasts he had a tracheotomy. Even worse, his backup singer was a guy named “Big Daddy,” who pretended to drive limos for a nonexistant local mob, but actually drove a school bus.

On that particular birthday, my friends and I chose to roll our eyes as we ignored the truth.

But this year, the truth could not be ignored.

This particular gift started to be appropriate a few years ago when I became a vegetarian for four months. Watching someone make a mess of themselves while eating wings during a March Madness game, I decided it was time to leave that party. A July cookout, however, eventually made me cave for grilled shrimp, and I downgraded to pescetarian, adding eggs and fish into my otherwise-meatless diet.

I coasted as a pescetarian for quite some time until a three-month health scare inspired me to become a vegetarian and design my diet with plant-based products and dairy.

Then I started a new job 220 miles away from the place I called home. At my old address I was surrounded by houses, businesses and busy streets, but in my new abode there’s room to breathe. I’m within walking distance of ponds, lakes, trails, a tree farm, and some of my favorite neighbors are dairy cows.

Though the nearby Holsteins seem to graze a lot and get milked by hand–unlike those at factory farms–driving past them every day made me think of food differently.

As my 5-year-old son Ty said, ‘That’s not protein. That’s an animal.”

His words brought tears to my eyes, changing our lives one gentle, innocent, honest word at a time.

It was quite easy to find alternatives to milk, especially because I had been a fan of Silk for a long time, but I struggled to give up cheese, yogurt and ice cream.

Then I got to know Andy, a co-worker who writes a wonderful vegan blog, VegOnTheTable.com, with his wife Sara.

One of the quotes I found on their blog was shared by Ellen DeGeneres, who said, “Ignorance isn’t bliss, it’s just ignorance.” And Andy was very good at keeping me from being ignorant. When I’d say, “Oh, but I just have a little milk, a little cheese, a little ice cream…,” Andy would share all he knew about the inhumane lives dairy cows suffer at factory farms.

In the seven months since I started at the York Dispatch, I’ve also been on the fortunate end of Sara’s cooking skills. Chocolate chip cookies, blondies, muddy buddies and ice cream have been revamped in my household simply because a compassionate wife shared her recipes with my family.

Not only is the taste amazing, the recipes are an easy swap when applesauce can replace dairy, you can find milk-free chocolate chips and all you need for a frozen treat is a whipped banana.

My new way of life earned a lot of eye rolling (or maybe it was just my fashion) from family and friends who were comfortable with the status quo. They were also concerned the kids and I wouldn’t get enough protein.

Well, they were half right. I did it the wrong way for a while, taking in way too much soy for one hormonal girl to handle. But after speaking with a doctor, I found healthy protein alternatives and feel great.

For anyone considering a vegan diet for themselves or their children, I recommend consulting a physician first. Everyone has unique needs, and there are a lot of options to tailor compassionate living to each person.

It requires some planning and thought, especially in the beginning, and I researched my new lifestyle for months before fully committing to it. I didn’t want it to be some trend or fad I supported just because it’s cool to love animals.

What I found is it’s incredibly healthy if you do it the right way, and there’s a growing food movement in York County, demanding fresh, local food.

The combination of awareness and compassionate, healthy eating can lead to a higher consumption of fresh fruits and vegetables, while reducing chronic diseases, according to medical reports.

My husband, who doesn’t eat an animal-free diet, shared support among my birthday gifts this year. One of the presents was a sponsorship in my name for a cow at the Poplar Spring Animal Sanctuary in Maryland. Attached was a note–”I hope it’s Jason”–and the biography of a cow who was fortunate to be derailed in Pittsburgh.

According to his animal story on the sanctuary’s website, Jason is an Angus steer who was rescued 12 years ago when the double-decker tractor trailer he was riding in crashed into a guard rail near the city.

Jason, along with 120 other cows, was  en route to a feed lot in Kansas, where he would have lived among thousands of cattle in a large dirt area with no shelter, getting fattened up on grain before being slaughtered for beef.

Though the crash killed about 100 of the animals, Jason survived and was rescued by the former OohMahNee animal sanctuary in Westmoreland County. But the animal farm didn’t really have room for him, so he ended up at the 400-acre, nonprofit refuge in Maryland.

I’m not sure if my sponsorship will help pay for Jason’s food, bedding and veterinary costs, but I’d sure like to meet him. I know I’ll see him the way Ty sees him.

Jason’s not protein. He’s an animal.

I’ve always liked a full house.

The idea of many cultures and personalities under one roof–or in one room–excites me, and groups have never scared me. In fact, an empty house has the potential to freak me out a lot more than a little chaos.

So when five of Cienna’s friends arrived Saturday for a slumber party, I was up for the challenge of supervising six third-grade girls, and my 5-year-old and 3-year-old sons.

They arrived with smiles, pillows and sleeping bags, each telling me something different about their lives: one girl lives in a house once slept in by George Washington, another loves crafts, another speaks Chinese, another has a mom who makes awesome birthday cakes and another just returned from Disney World.

Loud cheers erupted when one friend suggested they play a game called “Horses and Wolves.” I wasn’t sure what that was; the only game of Horse I was aware of involved a basketball. Adding wolves with horses didn’t sound like a fun game–or one that should be played indoors.

To steer them away from that game, I invited them to join me in making Christmas crafts, which is one of Cienna’s favorite pastimes. Together, they painted wooden ornaments, made foam Christmas Trees, and built and decorated a gingerbread house.

Continuing the holiday theme, they watched “Arthur Christmas” while their ornaments dried.

Once the movie ended, I learned 9-year-old girls today aren’t much different than the 9-year-old girls of my generation (other than the fact my friends and I got to use Apple’s first Macintosh once a week in school, and my daughter and her friends can navigate the iPad as easily as their parents use pens).

Nail polish and makeup were lined up on our kitchen table as they prepared to perform makeovers. We’ve either come full circle or it was coincidence that their eye makeup and lipstick resembled the 80s fashion my friends and I suffered. With floral prints, leggings and leg warmers chic again, all that was missing from my 80s youth was big hair, lace gloves and an Expose record.

Watching them paint their already-perfect faces, I was reminded of an unfortunate dichotomy: When we’re young, we try to look older, and when we’re old, we try to look younger.

In that moment, a part of me wanted to stop time. I wanted Cienna to stay my little girl forever. I wanted her to live worry-free, reveling in her youth, loving school and looking forward to which items on her Christmas list Santa may deliver.

But, as Jonas Salk once said, “Good parents give their children roots and wings.”

Life has taught me great things happen when you let go. Control is fleeting, perfection is a moving target, and being the best is never a constant state of being. I’ve learned it’s better to appreciate a moment for what it is and try not to take anything for granted.

Looking at Cienna, with blue shadow on her eyes and pink blush on her cheeks, I saw a little girl who was very happy. And that was all the reason I needed to welcome a little chaos.

There will never be a shortage of things to worry about as my kids get older, but for now I’m going to appreciate things like slumber parties and a full house.

Imagine my surprise when my 5-year-old son Ty returned home from school Tuesday and already knew who was elected president.

“Mitt Romney won,” he said.

Ty, a Kindergarten student, and his 9-year-old sister Cienna, a third grader, participated in their elementary school’s mock election on Election Day.

Students in Kindergarten through third grade selected Romney by a narrow margin. Romney received 205 votes, and President Obama received 197 votes, my kids said.

“I really liked voting and can’t wait to do it for real,” Cienna said.

(I’m pretty sure I was gasping when I realized she’ll be eligible to vote in just nine years. I have a feeling the next nine years will go even faster than the last nine.)

The reason Ty enjoyed voting was far more simple than his sister’s explanation. “I liked it because I got to go on the computer,” he said.

We all talked through dinner about the importance of voting and steps in the national election process, which takes much longer than their school’s vote.

As we waited Tuesday night to find out who Americans chose as their next president, Cienna said something we could all agree with: “I just hope whoever wins will care about kids and not hurt our schools.”

Cienna settled into an arena seat, crossing her legs and arms as she stared at the glow of stage lights upon a clean sheet of ice.

The green flecks in her eyes were seemingly magnified as the glow from an illuminated Mickey Mouse projected onto her face, which was filled with hope and anticipation while she waited to see some of her favorite characters.

For her ninth birthday last week, our family traveled to Giant Center in Hershey to see Disney on Ice: Rockin’ Ever After.

My sons Ty, 5, and Dimitri, 3, were thrilled even before the show started, following with their eyes the smooth, resurfaced trail left behind by a Zamboni.

But their excitement was truly palpable when the show’s hosts Mickey and Minnie Mouse skated onto ice usually occupied by the Hershey Bears, the American Hockey League affiliate of the Washington Capitals.

Mickey and Minnie were followed by a singing, figure-skating chorus dressed in vibrant colors and smiling faces. The cheerful hosts with famous black ears soon introduced casts from “The Little Mermaid,” “Tangled” “Brave,” and “Beauty and the Beast.”

As a family that has both read and watched those stories, it was delightful to see them unfold on ice.

We left feeling sure of a few things: It’s impossible for Sebastian  not to be charming. Merida’s red hair could be its own character. And “Beauty and the Beast” has the best soundtrack of any Disney movie and is perhaps the best Disney-animated movie ever.

Disney has made a lot of great movies. Its subsidiary Pixar has made even more.  Other Disney productions like  “The Mighty Ducks” and “The Muppet Christmas Carol” are in a perfect, nostalgic class of their own. And I also must confess I can’t seem to change the channel if one of those National Treasure movies are on TV.

But “Beauty and the Beast” is a charming fairytale that teaches life’s curses can be broken with love. It’s visually stunning and heartwarming, riddled with timeless classics, such as “Be Our Guest” sung by the lovable Lumiere.

Everything we loved about Belle and the Beast transferred well to the ice. Beautiful, close-fitting costumes worn through most of the figure skating were traded at the end for the glamorous gowns the princesses are known for.

And it was that moment at the end where I truly appreciated archery-maven Merida. Earlier this year, I had given “Brave” a not-so-great review. But seeing it on the ice, among some of Disney’s more traditional princesses, I felt differently.

As Ariel, Rapunzel and Belle were escorted by their perfect princes, all Merida had on her arm was a bow. It’s  just as important for my daughter to see that independence as it is the life lesson that often accompanies shows aimed at young audiences.

At 9 years old and beyond, I hope Cienna knows she can be whatever she wants to be. And no matter what she chooses, or where she goes, her family will love her. Unconditionally.

We were almost 9 years old, and we knew all the words to several TV theme songs and Billboard’s top hits.

Using the posts of my friend Morgan’s canopy bed, we pretended to sing into microphones as we belted the lyrics to “Kokomo” by The Beach Boys.

I’m not sure Morgan, Nicole and I were ever considered trained vocalists, but nobody seemed to mind that we spent many Friday nights singing songs from “Cocktail” or the New Kids on the Block anthology.

The only thing that really encouraged us to give our voices a rest was the awesome, two-hour, TGIF lineup on ABC, which included “Perfect Strangers,” “Full House,” “Mr. Belvedere,” and “Just the Ten of Us.”

(No TV show today provides anything remotely similar to the perfection that was the dance of joy with Balki Bartokomous.)

And if our sleepovers happened on Saturday evenings, it wasn’t unusual to find us watching “The Golden Girls.”

But we didn’t just watch TV. With the help of the fortune-telling game MASH (mansion, apartment, shack, house), we also determined our futures. I was supposed to have four kids and a mansion, so perhaps MASH is wrong sometimes. (Hey, it’s no Magic 8 Ball.)

As an eternal optimist, I tend to believe what lies ahead is far better than what we’ve left behind. However, as my daughter plans her first slumber party, I’m reminded of one of the joys of childhood.

Life was simple in that safe, five-block town. A fire department bingo was the biggest event of the week–especially when the kitchen was managed by a ladies’ auxiliary that cooked like every Tuesday bingo was a Saturday wedding. (If a hunky woman hasn’t cooked for you, you haven’t lived.)

The girls were too young to be petty. The boys were too young to be rude. We all played together. We rode bikes. We went to the park. We sipped Slush Puppies. We played. We had childhoods. We had sleepovers.

There seems to be more expectations of kids today. Myriad activities tie up schedules. There’s always somewhere to go or something to do.  When their to-lists stretch as long as ours, it’s as though we’re raising little adults instead of little kids.

So I was delighted when Cienna said she wanted to have a slumber party for her ninth birthday.

And if she and her friends sing pop songs as loud as they can, I won’t mind at all.

Oh, Edward R. Murrow. What would you think now?

Murrow, a legendary and award-winning CBS newsman who pioneered broadcast journalism, expressed concern about the moral compass of the television industry and the dumbing down of its loyal viewers.

“We have currently a built-in allergy to unpleasant or disturbing information. Our mass media reflect this. But unless we get up off our fat surpluses and recognize that television in the main is being used to distract, delude, amuse, and insulate us, then television and those who finance it, those who look at it, and those who work at it, may see a totally different picture too late,” he said.

During the same time period, Murrow also said, “If we were to do the Second Coming of Christ in color for a full hour, there would be a considerable number of stations which would decline to carry it on the grounds that a Western or a quiz show would be more profitable.”

He saw those problems and shared those concerns in the mid-1950s.

Last night, while I sat open-jawed and horrified for 30 minutes, I wondered what Murrow would think of TLC’s hit “Here Comes Honey Boo Boo.”

The show is supposed to be about Alana “Honey Boo Boo” Thompson, a 7-year-old girl from small-town Georgia who has a penchant for beauty pageants. She was previously featured on another of TLC’s banal programs “Toddlers & Tiaras.”

But this show is less about a child performing in pageants and more about her southern family being used for sport.

Episodes, which seem to have no storyline, largely focus on her 32-year-old mother June “Mama” Shannon. Cameras focus on her making “sketti” and a sauce made from Country Crock spread and ketchup; mixing “go-go juice” –a combination of Red Bull and Mountain Dew; making lemonade with 5lbs of sugar and two bottles of lemon juice; playing bingo; being dragged into a mud pit; attempting to climb an inflatable water slide; and her unsuccessful attempts at doing her daughter’s makeup.

Also included in the show are Mike “Sugar Bear” Thompson, Honey Boo Boo’s 40-year-old dad and father figure to Mama’s three daughters Anna “Chickadee” Shannon, 17; Jessica “Chubbs” Shannon, 15; and Lauryn “Pumpkin” Shannon, 12. Though the baby hasn’t been featured in the first season of the show, Anna Shannon gave birth to daughter Kaitlyn Elizabeth Shannon on July 26.

I’m sure viewers will meet the baby during the second season of the show. The season one finale airs Sept. 26, and previous episodes have attracted 2 to 3 million viewers weekly.

And, given that last night’s episode ended with Honey Boo Boo sneezing and spouting a large volume of snot from her nose, that scares me to death. Millions of people tuned in to watch a child cover her nose and mouth with her hands, trying to snort the mucus back in. She wasn’t handed a tissue by the camera crew. TLC didn’t cut to anything else, and the show’s not live. It could’ve been edited out, but instead it rolled for more than a minute and earned its own hashtag #booboosneeze.

Is this really what we’ve come to?

I’ve never had much faith in TLC, given the shows in its lineup. But there was a time when the so-called learning channel aired things like “A Baby Story,” which taught viewers about pregnancies and birth. The episodes featured ordinary families and their birth stories.

Then came “Jon & Kate Plus Eight,” and we watched what began as a family with multiples turn into two divorced parents rising to and falling from fame.

Since then, TLC has aired a number of reality shows that push the envelope a little more each time, which is how we’ve ended up with Honey Boo Boo.

TLC has a responsibility to say no to this show, but they won’t as long as it makes money. And it will keep making money as long as people watch it.

So, please, stop watching garbage. Just because someone sells it doesn’t mean you have to buy it.

Our country is in the middle of an important election cycle, our economy is still sputtering, schools are closing and consolidating because they can’t afford to operate, the Middle East is in turmoil because of a YouTube movie, the cost of living continues to increase while wages do not, and people continue to struggle every day in this country and around the world.

But our electorate strums along gleefully as they know more about Glitzy–Honey Boo Boo’s pet pig who pooped on the kitchen table–than their presidential candidates.

When we behave this way, we will get the government we deserve. When we allow human beings to become sport and entertainment this way, we will eventually live in a world where works like “The Hunger Games” aren’t fiction.

Sure, it may seem extreme now. We’d never be a dystopian society capable of watching people fight to their death, right?

Really? Is it that much of a stretch to believe one day shows like “Survivor” will have a little more latitude? Or that TLC won’t air a show that exploits people who have Down syndrome, dressing it up with more absurd hashtags and catchphrases similar to Honey Boo Boo’s, “You better redneckonize.”

The cast of Honey Boo Boo may be proud of who they are, but they are still being exploited and used.

And so are the viewers. When we start watching our country’s problems–obesity, teen pregnancy, poverty and lack of education–as entertainment, then we are definitely cause for Murrow’s concern. Laughing at America’s flaws may be easier than fixing them, but that won’t make them go away.

Last night, to answer my question, I think Murrow could’ve only said, “Good night and good luck.”