Archives for January 2006

White, that is.

Who knew that with advanced age, your kids would also advance in funniness? And, okay, maybe weirdness.
Laylee has been bedecked in Snow White attire for the past 2 weeks. All day, every day. Nighttimes too. I see no problem with this as long as she’s willing to wear pants under her gown when it’s cold and as long as I can launder it from time to time.

When the shell of her alter-ego is spinning in the evil torture chamber of cleanly death, she frequently checks on it and asks me if it’s done yet.

Me: Go put your hand on the washer and see if it’s still going “Rrrrrrrrrrr.” If it is, Snow White isn’t done yet.
Laylee (leaving and returning a minute later): I think it’s done.
Me: I can hear it going from here. It’s not done.

Laylee then flops to the ground, pretending to sob. I flip the page of my magazine and eat another bon-bon.

Friday night, DYD comes home from work.

DYD: Laylee! Can I have a big hug?
Laylee (turning away with a snooty expression): NO!
DYD: Oh, that’s too bad.
Laylee (turning back with a sly grin): My NAME is Snow White!
DYD: Can I have a big squeezy hug, Snow White?
Laylee: YES!

At the dentist yesterday, we enter the office and the dentist says, “Hello Snow White.”

Laylee turns back to me with her mouth and eyes open HUGE and gives me an astonished look that says, “He knows my NAME!”

We then go out for burgers and stop by the “mini-zoo” (read this – PETCO). Here we pick out new fish, guppies this time. We pick a boy and a girl, thinking it will be a riot to watch them reproduce and have little fishy babies.

Laylee names the daddy fish Jack (of course!) and the mommy fish Hennison (Don’t ask. I have no idea.). She keeps asking when the baby fish will come out. When we get home, she watches a movie with the fishies in close proximity.

We see no action. In fact, they aren’t even eating their food so we may end up taking PETCO up on their Tropical Fish Guarantee. That’s right””if your new pet bites the big one in it’s first 15 days with your family, you can bring the corpse in for a new, live one.

Dan wonders aloud if this guarantee works with the other pets they sell. You walk in, carrying your cat by the tail. “Our new kitty Buster Aloisius McFrick became roadkill last night. Can we please have a replacement?”

Snow White has been cracking jokes left and right. My current favorite is her use of a quote from the movie Cinderella this afternoon.

I was leaving for choir when she came up and asked, “Is that your dress?” flicking my wrap-around skirt open.

Me: Yes it is.
Laylee (with a twinkle in her eye): It looks like a blanket! Would you please hold my BROOM?! (breaking into hysterical laugher) That’s what the stepsister says. It’s so mean! (more laughter)

I don’t mind taking this kind of derision from Snow Laylee because:

A. She’s just experimenting with her sense of humor and comic timing.
B. She is hilarious.
C. She is barely 3.
D. Earlier today we had this conversation:

Laylee: You’re doing a good job coloring Mommy!
Me: Thanks. I like Care Bears.
Laylee: I said ‘You’re doing a good job’ and that was really nice. That’s called encourgent!
Me: Do you mean ‘encouragement’?
Laylee: Yes. I said something nice to you and you’re doing a good job. That’s called encouragement.

One last random bit of dialogue:

Laylee and I are coloring on the floor, concentrating hard on our masterpieces. A Raffi CD is playing quietly in the background.

Swing low, sweet chariot
Comin’ for to carry me home
Swing low, sweet chariot
Comin’ for to carry me home

Laylee (laughing but not looking up): He’s TOO BIG!
Me: Who?
Laylee: Raffi. He’s TOO BIG!
Me: Too big for what?
Laylee: He says, “carry me home,” but THEY CAN’T! He’s TOO BIG! I’m little. You can carry me home. SOMEtimes. (shakes her head and laughs, never looking up from her coloring book)

And, finally – Here it is, unstyled and un-product-ed:

Let’s call a truce and dub it a “shag.”

May I direct your attention to – the new girl.

“Why?” you ask.

Okay. I will tell you.

I’m not sure how she found my site but she emailed me with Blogger questions.

When I asked her to send me her URL, she responded that it was www.shutupnoway.blogspot.com .

That was not a joke.

She calls her kids “Thing 1” and “Thing 2.”

She frequently wears a mountian climber’s light, mounted to her forehead.

She has been blogging for approximately 10 minutes.

Check her out.

Enough of the serious stuff. Let’s get down to what you really come here to read about – my hair.

Karen and my hair dresser and a bunch of other people have suggested using a blow dryer and round brush to transform the mullet-ness of the layers. I cackle.

Me wielding a round brush and blow dryer to shape my hair would be as effectual as someone handing me a sword and asking me to defend my family from the invading Visigoths. My hairs, like my family members, would all lie down in a pathetic, defeated lump. Dead. All dead. No life remaining.

However, thanks to the help of Karli (a real, outfit-wearing, hair-fixing, girl-type person), loads of styling ‘product’ and a lady I don’t know who works at the local self-storage/shipping place, I think we have the mullet under control. It doesn’t even look that bad.

Walking into her little store, I asked the lady, “You are a stranger so you don’t have to be nice. Tell me honestly, does my hair look like a mullet to you?” She laughed and said, “No.”

“Seriously,” I said. “I know it’s not a full-blown mullet, but don’t you think it’s a little bit over the edge towards the mullet side of the hair spectrum? I promise I won’t get mad.”

She examined my hair and concluded that all I needed to do was to curl it with a big-barreled curling iron. Sounded easy enough.

Karli was more ambitious. She came over with root lifter, spray gel, a round brush and blow dryer. When she was done, it looked pretty good.

I did not wash said hair for fully 48 hours, afraid that it would combust into an incendiary display of mulletude upon air-drying.

Yesterday morning I got brave and decided to try it myself, take an actual shower, and do a cross between Karli’s wizardry and shop-lady’s suggestion. I applied the product to my roots. I blew it dry with my head hanging upside down.

Then came the part where I was going to curl it. This was easier said than done since every piece of hair on my head is now a different length than the ones next to it.

Laylee: What are you doing?
Me: Curling my hair.
Laylee: Are you curling your hair?
Me: Yep. Not very well.
Laylee: You’re curling your hair?
Me: Yep.
Laylee: You’re not doing a very good job.
Me: Thanks.

But it ended up looking good and now I’m embarrassed to post the pictures because they don’t look like a mullet at all.

The front view:

The back:

The side:

The highlights:

The good news for you mullet-hungry readers out there is that I will not be willing to spend 40 MINUTES EVERY DAY to achieve this look, so next time I get out of the shower and let it air dry, I will take a picture for you too.

After a windy trip to the park, the giant natural blow-dryer had transformed it a bit and I liked it even more. I’m now considering installing a wind-tunnel in the master bathroom.

If I pulled it up, I looked a bit like that weird hair lady from Cold Case (never seen the show due to irrational fear of weird hair).

So what is my point exactly, besides none whatsoever?

There is a Mullet-O-Spectral Scale against which all hair can be judged. My hair cannot truly be defined as a mullet but it definitely falls closer to the Mullatial end of the spectrum than I am comfortable with. Here’s a rough sketch of the scale as I see it:

I hope that clears things up for you. Basically, as my hair gets shorter or less uniform in length, I freak.

And, if all else fails, I wear a hat!

I promise never to post that many pictures of myself ever ever again.

Someone recently told me that I’m not as funny via email as I am in my blog. Well, sometimes I’m not as funny in my blog as I am in my blog. So here goes one of “those” posts.

Very Mom’s post yesterday got me thinking about trusted advisors.

A while back we were refinancing our home. A few days before we signed, I had some questions but I couldn’t get ahold of our mortgage guy. The day of the signing I started to freak out. None of the documentation made sense to me. I didn’t have a degree in finances or legalese. What if our mortgage advisor was taking advantage of us and trying to rip us off? He called me back in the nick of time, explained everything to me in a way that made sense and has proven accurate and above board. Then he gave me the “trusted advisor” talk.

It goes something like this:

We can’t go to medical school, law school, accounting school, investment banking school and all the other schools out there. So sometimes we need to research and find a trusted advisor (I’ll add here, pray about who you pick) and then trust them to guide us in making some pretty major decisions. By all means, do your research but in the end if it seems inconclusive, listen to the person you hired to guide you.

I was a bit miffed when he gave me this talk because I didn’t particularly trust him but I’d researched as much as I could, took a leap of faith and followed his guidance. It turned out very well for us financially.

When I was going around and around in circles, reading everything I could find, trying to decide whether or not to immunize my kids, I finally came to my pediatrician whom I love and trust and said, “I’m scared to do this. There are so many books and articles against immunizing. It doesn’t seem necessary and there are so many risks. Is there mercury in these shots? (answer – no) I know the medical community pushes immunizations. What I want to hear from you, is – do you immunize your kids?”

She said she did so I did. I do. I’m not sold either way, but in the end I had to trust someone and so I picked her.

Very Mom’s post was about IUDs and the fact that some people say they are an abortive method of birth control. I had always heard that too.

A week after the birth of my second child, with no history of mental or emotional illness, I had a dramatic and terrifying dive into the world of Post Partum Mood Disorder. I became terrified, unable to sleep, eat, or keep food down. I lost weight rapidly and experienced hot and cold flashes, panic and anxiety attacks. I almost completely lost my breast milk, though I pumped every two hours in hopes of keeping some supply for when I got better.

My days and nights were filled with waking terrors and for several weeks the thought of death seemed like a welcome release. I was almost totally unable to function and needed to be babysat around the clock. Everyone said I was the last person they expected this to happen to and I agreed. I think I scared a lot of people.

It was the closest thing to hell I have ever experienced and I pray to God never to go through something like that again, though we do plan to have more children.

In the end, after a visit to the ER, afraid my body systems were going to completely shut down, I was referred to a well-known post partum specialist who I believe saved my life. You can’t go on for long if you never sleep and throw up everything you put in your mouth.

I have never prayed or devoted myself to God as I did during those weeks. In fact, many of the religious practices I started out of desperation during that time still linger on and have had a positive influence on my family. I was reminded that sometimes God heals people through an instant miracle and sometimes he heals them by inspiring good people to come up with amazing medical treatments.

The specialist put me on medication and within 3 days I felt completely like myself again, not drugged, just like Kathryn. I had always said I would never use “mind altering” drugs. I had always harshly judged people who did.

Dan convinced me by saying, “Your mind has already BEEN altered. What we need to do is alter it back. If you were diabetic, you would take insulin. Your body has a chemical deficiency. Replace what’s missing.

If you had lost a leg, you’d use a prosthetic limb. Sure, it wouldn’t be as good as your own leg, but at least you wouldn’t be hopping around on one foot, saying, ‘I’m too proud to use a crutch.'”

I was humbled, scared, and right before taking the medicine for the first time, I called my doctor’s emergency line, bawling and begging him to call me. “Please tell me about the studies again. Tell me how the medicine won’t affect my baby through the breast milk. Tell me I won’t be on this forever. I’m so, so scared to take it and I’m so so terrified not to.”

My new-found trusted advisor quoted the studies. He told me of his past experiences with women over 20 years, dealing solely with post partum issues. He calmed me and I trusted him.

Then it was time for birth control. I needed to be on the above medication for my family to function. I refused to be on it while pregnant. Also – Magoo, weighing in at 10lbs 8oz, had caused significant damage to my body and I was unable to walk normally or even lay down in any position but flat on my back. I had to use a special lifter to get my legs in and out of bed.

I could not be pregnant. I could not trust the rhythm method, or the fact that I was nursing (yes, my milk came back) to keep me from becoming pregnant. I was told that going on the pill would only worsen my PPMD symptoms and so we explored our options.

An IUD was suggested by my Obstetrician, someone I have trusted with my life and one of my most trusted advisors. He brought up the fact that outdated literature suggests that IUDs cause a woman’s body to abort the fetus and, knowing my religious background, he wanted to address that. I am a firm pro-lifer.

He said that the device has been shown by more updated research to act basically as a spermicide, disabling the sperm so they are unable to fertilize an egg. I haven’t read all the studies. Religious websites say one thing, choosing to believe studies done in the 70s for their information. Planned Parenthood says another. I don’t really trust either.

My doctor is my trusted advisor. He’s read the most recent stuff. He knows my concerns. I feel strongly that he shares my beliefs. I believe him. I don’t have access to all of the studies and if I did, would I understand them?

He is my trusted advisor.

(And don’t think I blindly follow any doctor’s advice. I used a midwife the first time around in another state and loved her. I couldn’t find one that I felt great about here so I went the MD route, which turned out to be a majorly great decision considering Magoo’s size and the complications. I even switched OBs 5 months into the pregnancy when I realized that I didn’t really trust my advisor, no matter how many people had recommended him to me.)

Magoo now has two teeth. The first one sprouted on the bottom and the other is kitty-corner on the top. He has been accused in the past of being a “punkin head” but now I think he looks more like a jack-o-lantern.

Yesterday we were driving along and out of nowhere:

Laylee: My fish named Jack swam out of his spirits and now he’s with Nemo.
Me: Oh, really?
Laylee: And he said, “Hey Nemo! I’m dead!”

I’ve taught her so well.

We love the Mexican restaurant in our hood. The food is decent, the service is good and it is ridiculously kid-friendly. (I can’t use the word ridiculous anymore without thinking of my brother who suddenly started saying, “It was so diculous, it was RI-diculous.” Cracks me up in an I-must-have-been-a-14-year-old-boy-in-another-life sort of way)

We often leave our table with a 3-foot blast radius of red rice and pinto beans and they still act like we’re their best friends (and this doesn’t include the mess Dan and I make, although most of mine usually lands on my convenient nursing shelf).

“Niña!” they shout as Laylee walks through the door. Throughout the meal she is repeatedly rubbed on the head, grinned at and called Niña. (That is not her name, but we don’t want to make them feel bad.)

Some restaurants are not so good on the kid-friendliness. I love it when an 11-year-old heavily pierced waitress hands Magoo a box of crayons (for food?) and brings Laylee one of those tiny wooden highchairs. Technically, I’m sure I could squeeze her patoot into the 10 inch opening but then “technically” she would go mental and clear out the joint. So, we graciously decline the offer. She’s a BIGIRL! Do you hear me?

My main tip for maintaining sanity while dining out with kids is – SPOONS.

Yes, mi amigos. We ask for a large order of spoons with our drink order. We hand one to Magoo. He sucks on it until he gags himself and then throws it overboard. 2 seconds later, we hand him a clean one. The sucking, the gagging, the tossing. Periodically, he bangs it charmingly on the table. Everyone at the surrounding tables loves that trick. It is a fabulous game that has gotten us through many meals without baby mind-lossage.

I’m sure you all have good suggestions, maybe even as good as SPOONS (although I’m skeptical) that will work to occupy a baby during dinner. But how about older kids? What’s your plan? How is it executed? I want to see blueprints.

This Tip Tuesday suggestion is brought to you by Karen.

Today I got the sweetest parking spot in the history of ever at the grocery store. (No, I did not park in the handicapped parking. How rude of you to ask! Bad hair is not considered a mobility impairment.)

It was the uber-dy bestest parking spot in all the land and there we were, me, Vinny and the munchkins. I didn’t want to get out of the car. In fact, with a spot like that, I pretty much decided to make the Grocery Mart parking lot my home.

You may be asking yourself, “Why do I care that you got the best ever-living should-be-reserved-for-the-mobility-impaired parking space EVER?”

I’m asking myself the same thing, “Why do these people care about my parking spot? Or how many blankets it takes to suffocate Magoo? My kids’ poop? My post partum drama? What my husband and I talk about when it’s WAY too late at night? How we got the train? My fish?”

Blogs are weird.

Why do I care that Shannon needs to get out more? That Blackbird‘s kid just got his braces off? That Beth has a mom you wish you lived next door to? Or that Mel had the best Christmas Card photo ever?

Is it ridiculous that I really want to know how Angela or Jessica met their husbands? If Regina really looks bad in hats? How old Katy actually is? What kind of scary MacDonald’s Lou attends? (can you say “attends” when you’re talking about a fast food joint?)

And yet, I can’t stop. Heck, they wouldn’t post it if they didn’t want me to read it, right?

Blogging keeps me connected with friends old and friends new. It lets me think I can write, giving me confidence to carry on with other projects. It gives me a void to send my thoughts out into and sometimes I get a response that affirms me or encourages me to do a 360.

It’s a show-and-tell, a therapy, a vice, an art-form, a documentary, a support group and a venting session all rolled into one.

Blog on, my friends.

First of all, I have been FORBODDEN by my husband to post a picture of the mullet, which he says is not truly a mullet. He thinks it looks okay, it will grow out, and posting an image that I think is unflattering, to last forever and ever in cyberspace is just a bad idea.

This is sad because I think that picture may have been my last possible chance of upping my ranking in the BOB awards. There are rumors that the voting trends have to do with chest size (I know this is not true because I am only in 5th place right now), self-deprecating post titles (got em), or number of children (We’re just getting started baby. We’ve got nowhere to go but up).

I think if mullet pictures were thrown into the mix, we could really turn this whole competition on its head.

Alas, maybe Dan is right. It’s just not meant to be. I will be doing something to take the “long” out of my “short-long” but I haven’t decided what yet. My friend’s baby showed up at church today with the best hair I have ever seen.

Hmmmm…… How would it look on me?

Van news – Our new license plate just arrived and it says IOU and then a number. If you see me driving around, don’t get your hopes up. I don’t owe you nuthin’!

Laylee news – She wears her Snow White dress at all times, and in all things and in all places. She has informed me that the bar soap in the bathroom is for princesses only. I am welcome to use the clear liquid soap. That is for mommies.

Magoo news – He’s now a crawler, a creeper, a stander, and a cruiser – resulting in MFBHT.

Massive Fat-Boy Head Trauma:
Pull self up to stand.
Laugh so hard that breathing ceases.
Fling head backwards or forwards.
Fall and slam head into hard surface.
Look stunned or cry (if someone makes eye contact with you).
Repeat.

If you wake up on a Saturday morning and your hair has been cut in a mullet, you just know. You don’t have to look in the mirror. You may not even need to run your fingers through your hair. You just feel different.

You may feel the need to play a couple of periods of hockey to get your blood circulating or maybe you just want to consume large amounts of pork rinds before scavenging for spare headlights in your front yard. Either way, you’ll know.

Because of my New Year’s resolution to spice up my hair-do, I excitedly accepted the offer to join Karli’s hosted haircutting hullabaloo with my favorite stylist. Katie periodically comes out to the home of a local mom and cuts/colors everyone’s hair while we watch each other’s kids. She’s awesome and charges a pittance when we get a group together.

My last cut was a damage control chop-job to cut down on the mental anguish caused by seeing large chunks of my hair fall to the shower floor each morning….that I showered.

So this time, I wanted to do something really fun. I decided I wanted my hair highlighted and cut to look something like this. What I really meant was that I wanted a team of stylists to come live at my house and make my hair look like this every morning.

As Katie was cutting away, she said, “I know you’re sort of a low maintenance hair person (understatement of the year) so I’m not cutting your hair exactly like that picture. If I did that, it would end up looking sort of like a mullet. I’ll make the layers a bit longer and give you fewer bangs.”

Ack! Bangs! Were those bangs in that picture? This was all too scary. Although there was no mirror in the kitchen, I closed my eyes for the remainder of the cut.

When she finished blow drying and styling, it actually looked pretty great, despite the fact that I was repeatedly blowing the sexy messy bang chunk out of my eyes, my lower lip extended.

Driving home, I had the thought, “I may never be able to make it look like this again. I should drive to all my friends’ houses to show them that it was a cute cut once.” I resisted the urge and I regret that decision.

As soon as I woke up this morning, scratching my hairy pot gut, I knew it. I now have a highlighted mullet.

I don’t blame the stylist. She tried to warn me and fix my mistake. I know she will see me through this. I think I mainly blame Liz for suggesting that I come up with resolutions this year.

It actually may be a very nice cut. I’m just not good at hair. I’m not good at doing it or having it, really, in anything but the most basic style.

At least the highlights don’t look like zebra stripes. They are my first and I will always be able to look back on them fondly.

The first time I got layers was not nearly so fortunate. My sister was using me as an experiment to learn how to cut layers and when she finished, I distinctly remember crying and bawling, “I look like David BOWIE… in Labyrinth!”

But that grew out. I suppose this will too. Until then, I’ve got me some monster-truck-rally tickets to buy.

Update: Karli has just promised to instruct me in the feminine art of hair care and styling. We shall see what kind of pupil I make.

I have an aunt who’s fighting hard to kick Cancer’s butt and send it home crying to its mother. She became my aunt when I married Dan 4 years ago and I instantly loved her. She just felt like my family. She is an encourager, a finder-outer, someone who wants to know everything that’s going on in your life and make you feel special – minus the sugar shock often associated with such people. Her killer sense of humor also helps.

Tonight I checked my cell phone messages while grocery shopping and there was a message from Aunt J, congratulating me on the success of my blog and telling me how proud she is that I am part of the family. She told me how much she loves me and how proud she has always been of me. To have a woman like her leave me that kind of a message brought tears to my eyes, in the grocery store. I guess she’s trying to send me home crying to my mother too.

I will never delete that message.

I have a few messages that have touched me in that way and I have saved them until a move or job-change has forced me to erase my entire inbox.

It got me thinking about all the talking, emailing and instant messaging I do every day. I send letters and thank-you notes by snail-mail as well. Words, words and more words are constantly spewing forth from the DYM.

I want to leave more messages that won’t ever be erased.