Thursday, September 15, 2011

Heartbreak Hotel: Time to be Overdramatic


Today Child 1.0 had his first "alone" day of preschool.  Earlier in the week they had an open-house style day where the parents accompany the children and filled out paperwork while the children destroyed explored the classroom.  I prepped A for it last night at bedtime, telling him that mommy couldn't stay today and that I'd be waiting for him while he learned at school.  He could give two shits.  I assumed this was because it was bedtime and he wanted to hear me read Interrupting Chicken for the zillionth time (in my head I was reading Go the Fuck to Sleep).  This morning Child woke up at 6:00am and I seriously thought I was going to die.  See, we have a program in this house called "Let Mommy Sleep Until At Least 7:30 and No One Gets Sad."  Sure enough, I was up making bacon and coffee long before that program usually starts.  Being awake while hubby is around getting ready for work sucks.  Not only is he in the way, but he asks me to do shit for him.  WTF?  Next time I'll pretend to stay sleeping until he leaves for work.  What's that you say?  You need coffee and toilet paper?  F-off.  I practiced my housewifery by making sure Child had a belly full of fluffy, sticky pancakes in his belly and that his teeth and ass were clean enough to take in public.  I changed his outfit three times NOT because I wanted him to look good, but because I couldn't risk him coming home with stains that couldn't be pretreated until late this afternoon.  I know my kid.  When he was fed, dressed, and packed up, we ventured off to Preschool Land.  On the ride there (aside from seeing at least nine cops clocking people), I prepped him further for the day ahead.  Although he was more intrigued than the previous night, he was busy making plans for us for after school (see: taking him to TRU, riding bikes, making hamburgers, etc.).  In the classroom, A hung up his coat and backpack and found his little name apple that the teachers use to take attendance.  He chose the best seat in the house (the one nearest to the snack table AND the bathroom), and sat down to play with the blocks that were waiting for him.  He must have forgot that mommy was there.  I stood there, waiting for him to acknowledge that I was going to be leaving, but he didn't even look up.  Finally, I couldn't take it anymore and I bent down (sidenote: those chairs are damn low to the ground) to him and said that I was leaving and I'd be back and I love him soooo much and that I'd see him soon and tha---he interrupted me with, "Okay, love you, bye."  I knew that I just needed to walk away, but my heart was aching.  I felt the blood rush to my head and wondered if they'd notice the pregnant lady hiding behind the shelf.  I could just stay, right?  Maybe they need a parent helper today?  Somehow my maturity must have been in control because before I knew it, I was out the door.  I stopped when I thought I was discretely hidden (or as much as you can be when you're six months pregnant) and turned to see what he was doing.  Surely he would be looking at me walking away from him, maybe he'd even be pouting a little bit, or telling me to come back to give him one more kiss.  NOPE.  Child was tinkering away with the toys on the table, not even phased by the fact I was gone.  I at least wanted to give him one more pointer finger wave, but I couldn't.  He was in the zone.  I dragged my lonely ass out to the car and wondered if I could fit through the classroom window.  What the hell was I gonna do now?  I've been childless before (thanks Ma and MIL!) but this childless was completely different.  Of course, I had errands I could run but I had this overwhelming feeling of sadness that prohibited me from even starting the car.  I was a little envious of the parents who had  children bearhugging their legs with tears and snot running down their faces (the kids, definitely not the parents.  Ew.).

This is not to say that I never experienced the "child-screaming-while-you-abandon-them-at-school thing" though.  I started A at classes through the village when he turned two.  His first experience was an eight week, forty-five minute class that was once per week.  Adam cried and screamed the whole forty-five minutes for the first three weeks.  The fourth week, he cried for thirty minutes.  The fifth, twenty minutes.  The sixth, ten minutes.  By the last two weeks, he was FINALLY not crying anymore.  It's awful to experience your child crying for you, especially when they are two.  By the next session of classes, he didn't cry at all.  He liked "school" and even talked about his teacher.  Ditto on the sessions after that.  I truly believe the best thing I could have done for him was start him on the school structure/setting early, like I did.  So fast forward to today.  He didn't even look up because he'd been through this whole scheme many times before.  Other kids, this was their first day of being without ma or pa.  I pulled my shit together and ran my errands, which surprisingly, get done in a quarter of the time than when you have a kid with you.  With an hour and a half left to spare, I had nothing to do.  I went home and watched the clock ate a box of cinnamon rolls.  Finally the time came to pick him up (ok, so it was still thirty minutes, DILLIGAF?).  To my delight, I wasn't the first parent there (see: the third), so clearly I wasn't the only one who was a wee-bit anxious.  I peeked through the door, somewhat hoping to see Child looking for me out the window or maybe asking for where his ma was, but NOPE, Child was coloring at the table.  The only thing that was different than when I dropped him off was that he moved to the table that was closer to the girls.  Typical.  I stood in the hall for twenty long minutes before the teachers got sick of seeing my face in the door let us in.  I was the first mom in the room (booyah) and although he didn't explode into joyous celebration, he at least said "hi" to me.  Followed by that he was hungry and wanted to go to IKEA.  I'm sure he was waiting to shower me with hugs and kisses for later.

So there it is.  I survived my kid's first day of school.  And I didn't even cry.  And I have a new appreciation for the days I get to cuddle him all day and read Interrupting Chicken.  And Tuesday better take it's sweet ass time to get here because I need time to recover.

Monday, September 12, 2011

Hair: The Thing I Usually Don't Have the Time to Bitch About

There was a time in my life when I was on my hair and actually kept up with it.  I was in love with experimenting with colors and cuts and styles and all that bullshit.  This diligence carried on through roughly my sixth month of pregnancy with Child 1.0.  I had always bounced around from stylist to stylist, experimenting with their skills and just being a bit reckless in general (with my hair, duh).  At six months pregnant, I strolled into what I refer to as a WAY OVERPRICED salon with a trendy picture and told the lady to get to work.  I recall feeling as if I sat in that chair for ten years, unpatiently waiting for this middle-aged woman to reveal the hotness that awaited.  When it was time for the big reveal, you could tell she was mortified.  I was equally mortified.  And pregnant.  And mortified---wait, did I say mortified already?  Not only was my hair ridiculously thin and dead; strawlike and lifeless; but it was ugly and fucking ugly.  I was speechless.  She was speechless.  She had nothing nice to even try and say.  Finally I got the words out and said, "What about the picture---I brought you a PICTURE!'" She looked ashamed because I think she knew damn well that she couldn't replicate what was in that picture.  She then went on to try and sell me a deep, deep, deep conditioner; because obviously.  I laughed in her face and refrained from crying.  This rude, rude bitch then said, "It's because your pregnant."  Now I used that excuse many times, mostly to explain why the fridge was empty or why I hadn't gotten off my ass for four days.  I'm not saying she was wrong, because I KNOW that hormones change your hair and that things go all apeshit when you are carrying a parasite.  But I also KNOW that it wasn't just hormones to blame for this shitshow.  I recall being irate that I had to even pay this bitch, and I recall further that I didn't quite tip up to par.  In all fairness, I have gotten bad results in other salons, people's basements, etc., but in 100% of those situations, the stylists try and offer SOME kind of solution.  Maybe you come back another time and they try and fix it, or maybe they even try to fix it right-then-and-there.  I imagine this is so you feel comfortable with them and establish a relationship and trust, therefore returning in the future.  I believe I nursed the shit out of my hair and then box-dyed it right before I had Child 1.0.  Still being who I was, shortly after I had Adam, I went back to my experimental ways.  Of course, I found myself in the same shitty situation when Adam was about eight months old.  I went to yet another fancy schmancy salon and paid a shitton of money for a perm.  This time, I brought in MULTIPLE photos of what I wanted.  I said I wanted a body wave perm; not a poodle perm.  I have thick ass hair and thought I made myself pretty freakin' clear.  The girl (this time SHE was the one super duper pregnant) acted all on-board and although she was a total freaking bitch, I thought she wouldn't screw me over because she was young and had cute hair.  WRONG!  WRONG!  WRONG!  She did the big reveal and BAM! I had been poodle-fied.  Again, I let my disappointment show.  I referred back to the photos I had brought and then the bitch was all like, "Those pictures aren't of a perm..." and "I used the biggest rollers we had..."  Again, I was just blown away by the fact yet ANOTHER "stylist" knew damn well it wasn't going to be what I wanted, yet scammed me.  I paid my $100+ and took my hair home; dead, stringy, disgusting.  That perm took over two years to fully grow out.  It was awful.  Following that catastrophe, I vowed I'd never return to one of the fancy schmancy places.  I got some of my favorite styles ever from girls who worked out of their houses or beauty schools.  After my wedding, I decided I wanted to chop all of my hair off.  After much debate, I found myself at the local beauty school.  Not only was the cut like $8, it turn out INCREDIBLE.  Unfortunately, the upkeep of that haircut is what screwed me.  I attempted to bounce around to different places to get the cut maintained, and EACH and EVERY time it looked like shit.  I fell into a terrible funk and then decided NOT to cut my hair---just get it colored.  I had some great color work done (again, by people working out of their house) but the cut itself was nasty and I didn't have enough faith to even try and do anything with it

That brings me to present day.  I have a choppy ass hair "style" that shows traces of the fact that a year ago I had a reverse bob.  I ran out of time to go and get awesome hair color done, so my latest and greatest color is a box of Colorsilk that cost me $4.  My hair sucks.  Truthfully, I don't care too much because 90% of the time I just throw it in a ponytail and call it a day, but a small part of me longs for a hairstyle that actually consists of a style.  I see great pictures of short hair and say, "Shit, I want to cut off all my hair again!" Reality snaps back into focus and I remember that I was growing my hair out for a reason (see: the maintenance sucks).  I guess the only thing that leaves me with is fooling around with hair color, BUT as you would know it, I'm knocked up again and am TERRIFIED of what my hormones will result in.  I keep saying I am going to do something with my hair, but I always talk myself out of it because hairstyles are SOOO different from stylist to stylist.  One term means something completely different to someone else and there really is no way to 100% guarantee that what you have in your mind (or even on a printed picture for that matter) will be equally interpreted by the person with the scissors (or dye). 

My hair sucks.  Blah.  I am shaving my head.

Friday, September 9, 2011

Doctor's Orders to be Lazy as Shit

Self portrait between the hours of 1:00pm-3:30pm
I am not kidding when I say that this pregnancy has been 100% different than my glorious pregnancy with Child 1.0.  With him, I was sick as all hell for the first twelve or thirteen weeks, but it was clockwork.  I knew exactly what time I was going to be sick (6:40 a.m.), and once I puked, I'd go back to feeling perfectly freakin' fine.  I had lots of energy didn't even feel like there was a crazy ass little boy mooching off of my well-being.  My nails grew in long and luxurious and my hair grew in thick and full (even though in the beginning a lot of it fell out...).  Scroll down nearly four years later and you would think I am having Rosemary's Baby.  I am just about 23 weeks along now and I can't say with complete sincerity that my morning (aka AT ALL TIMES) sickness is gone.  My nails are frail and chip away if you look at them wrong.  My hair is dry and gross and seriously stopped growing.    My body is aching and everything hurts.  I had a small inkling early on that Baby 2.0 was of the female kind ONLY because shit was so different.  I have no freaking energy and I am either laughing hysterically watching the wind blow or crying to my dryer about being so fucking loud.  Gotta love hormones. 

The health aspect of my pregnancy with A was a lot different too.  Even though I was fat as hell, everything was going wonderfully and I was doing SO well that my doctor induced me six days early because I was SOOOO done being pregnant and he was afraid I would eat another Scandinavian orphan.  This time around, I am being closely watched for placenta previa.  The doctors caught it at my twenty week appointment and now my life consists of "taking it easy."  Placenta previa means that my placenta (see: the gross ass organ that nourishes the parasite in my womb) is covering my cervix (see: where the baby comes out).  What this means is that I have to go for ultrasounds every four weeks to see where that bad boy is located.  Right now I am considered to be partial previa, where only part of my placenta is covering the escape route.  It can go two ways from here.  Option 1: the placenta can get off it's lazy ass and move out of the way, bringing me to the status of marginal previa; where its just near the general vicinity of the escape route.  Option 2: the placenta gets off of it's lazy ass but covers the cervix completely, therefore making me forever pregnant.  Kidding about that last part.  I guess Option 3 is that is just stays partial.  Or Option 4 is that it completely moves where it is SUPPOSED to go...a girl can dream, right?  According to my OB, if Lazy Placenta, or LP as I like to call it, remains partial OR moves to complete previa, I'll be having a guaranteed cesarean.  If it moves to marginal, I have a better chance of NOT having a c-section, but it's not guaranteed.  It also appears that if my LP doesn't get a move on it, I'll be looking at bed rest towards the end of my pregnancy so that I don't go into preterm labor.  Although I am snarky as hell, it's a pretty spooky and dangerous thing to have so I have to be extremely careful with my activity.  Not only have I been sentenced to pelvic rest (which means that I will NOT be traveling to Pound Town for the remainder of my pregnancy...), I have orders from TWO doctors to rest as often as I can.  When A lays down for his afternoon nap, I literally kick back on my bed with a bag of whatever empty carbs I can find; or if I'm feeling fancy I'll sit on the recliner.  It's nice to have options.  I spend a lot of time with my feet up challenging strangers to games of Words with Friends.  There is no cause of placenta previa and no kind of preventative measures either, so as much as I hate my LP, there isn't much I can do or could have done. 

So if you are looking for me, check the couch.  If I'm not on the couch, follow the trail of crumbs to the bed.  If I'm not on the bed, I'm just getting another snack from the pantry and I'll BRB.

Thursday, September 8, 2011

"In My Life"

The portrait of a child who owns his parents.
Lately Baby Child 1.0's new thing has been really trying to emphasize the importance of what he has to say.  If you ask him something, he puts extreme exaggeration on certain parts of the sentence.  See:

Me: Child, I think we should go outside!
Child: No Mommy.  You think that you should go outside.

Then he struts (seriously, he struts) away and I'm sure he is doing the kid version of saying "ZING!" or "IN 'YO FACE!" or whatever it is people say/do when they "PWN" or conquer someone else.  Meanwhile, I'm standing there, speechless, wondering when my son turned into a cocky frat boy.  Sometimes in public he rationalizes with people who have no interest in getting their ass handed to them by a three year old.  See:

Lady at grocery store:  Are you done with that cart?
Child: You cannot have that cart because it is ours.
Lady: ...........


Friend: Come on Child of Mine, we've gotta go home now.
{My} Child: He cannot go home now because we're still playing.  Sorrrrry.

Most are taken back when this little professor-looking boy (or Drew Carey-looking, depending how you see it) has got that much sass.  For a while I thought, "Holy shit, where does he get this shit!?"

And then it hit me.  He gets it from the asshole who he spends every hour of the day with.  (Hint: that asshole is not you).  I find that my discipline style entails explaining things to him so that he knows the rationale behind the madness (see: avoiding "WHY").  So I'll tell him, "Child, we do not throw the cans of corn because someone can get hurt if they get hit" or "Child, you do not drink out of the dog's bowl because that shit is just gross." (Maybe that second one isn't verbatim...)  On the other hand, husband's style is more father-like and he'd say something like, "CHILD!  STOP THROWING THE BALL IN THE HOUSE" or "GET THESE LEGOS OUT OF MY SHOES!"  No rationale, just loud booming sounds that are almost as effective, but they don't yield the same hilarity results as they way I tend to handle things.

Today I approached said child with an empty packet of fruit snacks that I found in my shower.  I said, "Child, why were these in my shower?"  Appropriately, child responded, "I have never seen those fruit snacks in my life."

Riiiight.  And that Essential Michael Jackson cd you found in my car?  I've never seen that in my life.

Kids are weird.  But wanna know why?  Because we are fucking weird.