You Gotta Have Friends

In response to my blog about growing my hair, my sweet friend Carol wrote:

I don't think you should grow your hair out. Not only am I selfish with my friends and do not like change but I think your short 'do makes you so chic, so distinctive, so classy, so elegant, so very Ann Romine! Forget what the kiddos at the daycare are saying. They are merely reflecting what our culture is teaching us about gender stereotypes around beauty. And who wants these kids thinking Jessica Simpson is so great?

It is our jobs as smart, up-and-coming, educated women to teach our young ones that beauty and femininity is not defined by hairstyle, skin texture (hello Botox and Restalin), shape or attire.

And no, you do not look like a boy. If you did, I'd tell you. You are actually one of the most feminine and graceful people I've ever met. That's why the short haircut is so amazing on you. It gives the public a little "cognitive dissonance." Very Audrey Hepburn-esque if I may say so myself. So there!!!

While it helps that Carol thinks I am feminine and graceful, I just think this is a great comment. And while I do not want to look like Jessica Simpson, I do want to look like this:

image via Simple Lovely via The Sartorialist

That Voodoo That You Do

I swear I don't make this stuff up ... I had a flat tire on the way to work today.

And then, to add something eerie to my string of bad luck, when I used the bathroom at work today, I noticed someone had left a piece of paper on the counter that read:

I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. My help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven and earth.

Is Someone trying to tell me something?

Gore

(not the cinematic kind or the enlightening, presidential kind)

I'm beginning to think that Bryon travels with a voodoo doll of me. He's travelling right now - a fact I don't often divulge for fear someone persistent and crazy enough would know that I'm alone and track me down at home, but, since it is integral to this story, Bryon's out of town.

One of the first times he travelled after Abby was born, both boys came down with strep throat. The pediatrician urged me to separate her from the boys. I'm a new mom, home by myself with three kids. How exactly am I supposed to separate them? Another time I had two flat tires in less than 24 hours.

Which brings me to yesterday. I wasn't sure how the morning would pan out since I needed have to have all of us up and out to get Sam to school by 7:50, but for whatever reason, everybody was up at 5 a.m. Getting out the door by 7:30 was a cinch.

On to a dentist appointment at 9:30. I don't mind the dentist. This particular time I had to get a filling, nothing unpleasant but not something I would want to do every morning. But for whatever reason the dentist wanted to talk about the scar on my chin (car accident, 1990), which led to his lovely anecdote about a 5-year-old patient who basically lost his bottom lip and teeth in a scooter accident.

Let me stop to say that I have a weak stomach and I faint easily. I have fainted in churches, classrooms, amusement parks and national monuments across this great land. It's a wonder I didn't faint when I had my kids. Oh wait, I did!

So here I am rethinking my car accident, hearing about a scooter accident, all the while my head is about 45 degrees below horizontal and the dentist's drill is WHHHHEEEEEing away. I started to panic a little. But, 30 minutes later he was finished and I was on my way to work.

At 11:06 a.m. I sat down at my desk, docked my computer and took off my coat. At 11:28 a.m. Miss Phyllicia, Jake's teacher, called to tell me he shut his hand in the bathroom door and I needed to come look at it.

Thirty minutes later I'm at Jake's school. His finger is gauzed and wrapped. He looks like he's wearing that #1 fan finger. He's miserable but before I can take him home, I have to sign off on the incident report. And before I can sign off on the incident report, I have to look at his bloody finger.

In a hotel somewhere in San Antonio, Bryon is laughing and poking my voodoo doll.

OK, I Get It

I've mentioned before that I have really short hair. I have also mentioned that I occasionally wish for long hair - more than occasionally actually. Recently I've started thinking about growing it out again. There are several reasons. Some are vane, others are ridiculous. It may not be right, and I am ready to hear from you if you think it's wrong, but lately I'm starting to believe that it's hard to be feminine and womanly with short hair. Now that I have a daughter, I feel a special responsibility to be feminine and womanly.

But I won't completely put this on Abby. Sam's played a part too. See recently he has started to notice - or at least admit that he notices - when girls are attractive. Last week he openly ogled a contestant on American Idol. When pressed he said he liked her smile, her dress and ... her hair.

The next day in the car I told him I was thinking about growing my hair. After I explained the idiom he said he thought that would be a good idea because with longer hair I wouldn't look like a boy.

Then last night a commercial for Propel Fitness Water came on TV. If you don't know it, it features a woman in exercise clothes walking with headphones on. She's happy to be exercising and drinking Propel, but she's even happier because John Stamos, Derek Jeter and Taye Diggs are knocking each other over to point their finger guns at her as she strides by.

"That's what happens to me when I walk down the street," I told Sam. "Men stop and smile and point."

"No they don't!" he replied.

"Sure they do. Why not?" I asked.

"Because you don't have enough hair!" Sam told me.

An update: When I picked Jake up from school tonight, one of his classmates announced "Jake, your daddy's here!"

You're Not the Boss of Me

Saturday afternoon I was trying to get Abby down for a desperately needed nap (her, not me) but Sam and Jake were following me from room to room. I don't think they intended to do it, but soon after I left the living room to rock Abby in the nursery, they both came stomping up the stairs. I headed back down to rock her in the guest room and they followed to play in the den. In each room they unloaded baskets of toys and left a mess a tornado would envy.

After they followed me back to Abby's nursery and starting unloading the drawers under their train table, I finally spoke up.

"Is it really necessary to make such a mess? What are you looking for?"

"Lego Star Wars," Sam told me.

Now, let me pause the 'story' to say that whoever invented Legos hates parents. Or hates kids. Maybe both. They should not be called toys. They should be called Tiny Bricks O'Pain or Frustration Squares. No toy with 1000 pieces should be marketed to kids. But they are and kids love them.

"Sam, there are no Lego Star Wars under your train table," I said.

I know this because I bought two Tupperware 'tackle boxes' to hold all their Lego Star Wars. I know this because if there are Lego Star Wars anywhere, it is in the lint trap of the dryer or my purse or the pocket of my bathrobe or under the couch where I've kicked them at 3 in the morning.

I shut the door behind me and went back to rocking Abby when I heard Sam tell Jake, "You heard the boss. No Legos in here."

Apologies To Hanna-Barbera

I never thought I'd say this, but Scooby Doo sucks. Don't get me wrong, as a kid I loved Scooby, at least until that little pisher Scrappy joined the gang. But as an adult, Scooby is quite annoying. Forget that he is more functional than many adults. I'm annoyed by the know-it-all gang of kids that gets all up in everybody's business to solve so-called mysteries, which always involve some greedy grown-up wearing a full-body costume - usually over a full suit, shoes and glasses - haunting a mansion/laboratory/hotel by levitating candles and chasing after the gang in an oddly hunched pose while making 'GRRRAAA' sounds.

It takes the gang 30 minutes to realize the criminal is the first person they met, the most obvious character, and, as Bryon the attorney had to point out, the criminal always confesses. ("I'd have gotten away with it too, if it weren't for you meddling kids.")

As a kid I thought Freddie was cute. I'm sure I wanted to be just like Daphne. Scooby and Scrappy, comic relief. And, like a lot of girls, I probably dismissed Velma as the smart one. (Shame on them for making the smart girl unattractive, but what might be worse is that in the 'new' Scooby Doo, Daphne is the smart one.)

But, again as adult, I think Freddie is a pompous gasbag who constantly refers to his van as the Mystery Machine. No mystery Freddie, I hate you. Velma, you're pretentious, even though your cowlneck sweater is stylish. Daphne, Freddie's gay. Your coyishness, mod clothes and groovy dance steps aren't going to change that. And Shaggy, your best friend is a talking Great Dane. You should've studied harder in high school. I see nothing but a ragged couch, daytime TV and a bag of Doritos in your future.

Squirrel Watch, Day Four

The past few days I have been fascinated with a wee squirrel that has taken a liking to our neighbor's windowsill. I'm not sure what it's doing. It could be sick or preparing to hibernate or fly south, whatever squirrels do in the winter, but it it sticking very close. Yesterday when the barking of the neighbor's dog became too much, the squirrel decided to move a little closer to our house. Very close, actually. It found a broken screen in our living room window and spent the next 12 hours there. If I were a squirrel, I might think I'd found nirvana - a warm place out of the January wind, just a few leaps from 2 huge pecan trees.

An update: Two days ago, Window Squirrel was found dead in our neighbor's driveway, the apparent victim of a cat attack. Rest in peace, Window Squirrel.

In the Still of the Night

Last night after I'd tucked Sam in with little more than a hug and kiss I thought about how far we've come with him and his sleep. I would say he was an average sleeper as a baby. He always slept in his crib (a fact I now regret), but sometimes it took several attempts and what seemed like an eternity arched over the crib hushing and patting. And then there was the perilous tiptoe out of the room, avoiding any squeaky spots on the floor (but inevitably stepping on a stray binky or rattle or cat's tail).

When we moved Sam to a big boy bed we often had to spend the night sleeping on the floor next to him. But now, when you say it's bedtime, he brushes his teeth and climbs into bed on his own. One way I know we finally made it with him - when you tuck him in he is grinning from ear to ear.

Then there's Jake. While he showed promise as a baby, somewhere around 18 months, the wheels came off. We sleep trained, we cried it out, we Ferberized, and just about the time we started to get it right, we kicked him out of his crib for a big boy bed. The apex was the night he got out of his bed 54 times.

I can't really tell what kind of sleeper Abby will be because she hasn't had a chance to sleep on her own, but I'm not worrying too much about it. When I think about all the blood, sweat and tears (and I think we have truly experienced all three) that goes into getting your kids to sleep through the night, and then suddenly they are doing it, all that came before is, well, a little comical.

And bittersweet.

And ironic. Suddenly they are sleeping and you're not.

If anyone is awake at night now it's me, lying in bed listing the homework (check), lunch (check), library books (check), permission slip (check) that have to make it into Sam's backpack. When I do sleep, it is usually in that hazy half-sleep that makes it possible to hear every cough, every whimper, every trip to the bathroom.

That's enough for now. It's time for me to go to bed, to watch Abby sleep. I may miss those nights of deep, undisturbed sleep, but one of these days she'll be sleeping in her own bed and I'll miss her more.

Buzzkill

Last night I had a dream that Bryon and I were trying to give Sam a chainsaw as a gift. Not just a chainsaw but one that was always running. We kept trying to force him to hold it, and we were hurt and a little angry that Sam did not want to.

As I lay in bed this morning listening to the house wake up, I thought about what that dream might mean. I came to the conclusion that it symbolizes our approach to homework. It may sound like a stretch, but let me explain.

Every Monday Sam brings home a packet of homework. Each day he's expected to complete a couple of pages. Now I have tried to make homework time comfortable and enjoyable. We sit at the kitchen table together, no distractions, and work through his pages. But, more often than not, it is such a beating.

I don't know if it is typical for a kid Sam's age, but he can't focus on anything seriously for more than a couple of minutes. To top it off, he isn't the least bit concerned about how well he does his work. Is he supposed to be? I don't know, but most of his homework sessions end up with one of us lecturing him about taking school seriously and doing his best, giving his all. No wonder he hates to do homework. I know how I'd feel if my boss lectured me every time I completed a project.

When I realized his homework was venturing into actual reading I bought him a beginning reader book. One day this week we sat down to read it. It was like being a contestant on that classic TV show Password. If the word was 'bedtime,' for example, he'd yell, "bark, ball, basket, blueberry, buddy." I tried to be patient.

For today's homework Sam was supposed to decorate a penguin. He said he wanted to use black and silver glitter. Great, I thought. But when he was finished it looked like someone had poured bottles of trashy nail polish all over the poor penguin. Sam was fine with that. Bryon and I were not. Do you tell him he needs to work a little harder? Do you sigh a little when you see his nail polish penguin in the hall at school next to the penguin with a quilted tummy and real feathers on its back?

Like many parents I want my kids to be smart and athletic and talented. And wouldn't it be great if they just happened to show a proclivity for the piano, soccer or geometry? Wouldn't that somehow make their lives easier and better?

So back to the dream. We think we are being helpful and we are more likely being hurtful. We think he should enjoy doing homework and learning. He feels like we are handing him a buzzing chainsaw.

To Abby

(also known as Abby Dabby Do, AbbyGirl, Smidge, Miss, Beauty, or, as your brother Sam calls you, Mrs.)

Yesterday was your first birthday. Although you obviously won't remember it or the day you were born, for that matter, I will. You were quite a surprise, Miss Thing. But, from the moment I met you I have been in love, absolutely smitten. From your wispy hair to your dimply elbows to your perfect niblet toes. I love your ready smile and your plump little hands that may someday sport pink polish and wear a wedding ring. I love your fascination with your brothers.

You have made my life complete. You have filled up the corners of my heart. Because of you I see the world differently. I see the possibilities and pitfalls and not a day goes by that I don't think about how I hope to help you navigate both.

I hope to be a good role model for you. I hope that your Dad and I can set positive examples of how to love and support and provide for someone you love. I hope your brothers protect you and teach you. I wish so many good things for you and look forward to every moment I am blessed to spend with you.

Happy New Year's Resolution

Like many people I feel a little deflated after the holidays. The company is gone. The tree and decorations are no longer festive, they're a nuisance. For me there is a a slightly dreadful feeling that there is nothing to look forward to but warm weather, which could be many months away.

So it seemed very appropriate that as I drove to work one day last week the Diane Rehm show featured a writer/contributor named Eric Weiner, talking about his book "The Geography of Bliss." In it he examines why some cultures are happier than others. It isn't because of weather (people in Iceland are about the happiest in the world) or money (a little money can buy a little happiness but a lot of money doesn't buy much more).

No, apparently people are happiest when they don't chase happiness, when they don't read self-help books or constantly analyze the source of their unhappiness - like in the U.S. where we suffer from the "unhappiness of being unhappy."

Happiness, it seems, is best approached sideways, like a crab. And as Mr. Weiner put it, it isn't something you obtain, it is a side effect of a "life lived fully and a life lived well."

So, to my friends and family, here's to 2008. May it be a year that is lived fully and well.