A hairstyle clearly meant for Vampires

I’m on this perpetual quest for “full” hair. Have been, for so many years. Decades, actually. Apparently, as a young girl, I would put tights (the type intended for legs) on my head, and pretend to have “big hair”. Then I'd dance. Red stockings were a particular favorite. No surprise, I’m such a sucker for all those products the joyful Joy (my stylist) promises will  work wonders. I’m currently hooked on some 1.5 ounce Bumble and Bumble delight. It’s made of freaking collagen, after all. I’m not even sure what collagen is/does. It’s got to work, though. Hope in a jar.

I love the “big” look. I lust for shine, bounce, and volume. Unfortunately, given my "situation" (baldish), I've come to realize any hair dream is pretty much impossible. (And yes, I've tried the bumpit. Doesn't work for me, ladies. Oh, and just an FYI. If you have nice hair? I hate you. Don't take it personally.)

What’s a girl to do? You work with what you’ve got. Bald spot and, you know, everything. Take this weekend, for example. I was feeling all, like really good about myself. Figuring out a way to kind of pin your hair half up, and give the illusion of fullness, can truly contribute to a girl’s self-worth. The Husband kept looking at me, inquisitively.

The Husband: Hmm...your hair looks...poufy.

Me: What’s that supposed to mean?

The Husband: I don’t mean anything. It’s just looks...poufy.

Me: Glare.

This same irritating conversation repeated itself, intermittently, throughout the day. Annoying. Jam a bobby pin through your eye frustrating, really.

It wasn’t until later on in the night that The Husband realized his source of unease with my style. Apparently, it seemed I resembled this guy.

That’s right, Gary Oldman from “Dracula”. An old. Male. Vampire.

Just a heads up. I’m clearly living the dream here, folks.

*Photo from here

**No image of me is available, due to a massive switch in hair strategy

The doll quandry

I feel like toys have invaded every part of our being. It started with just a few, stashed inconspicuously around the living room. I remember thinking, “I can hide these in some stylish Target baskets!” Then I patted myself on the back, being uber mama/home-maker extraordinaire, and all. Over time, the number grew, and grew...and grew. I know what you’re thinking. “Umm, it’s called a child! (You fool.)” But really. I can’t walk without tripping over a pointy-edged block, miniature Elmo, or creepy frog’s head. Oh, and many of these items play some kind of Vampire music (and no, there aren’t any shirtless 23 year olds with sparkly skin and/or fantastic cars involved). It’s great for Peanut (who has discovered the fine art of dance. According to The Husband, she’s already surpassed my skill level). Not so wonderful for me. Surprisingly, I actually enjoy walking around my 800 square feet of living space (while gazing at young vampires and werewolfs, of course).

Anyway. We’ve been contributing to our doll collection. Not an easy feat, considering I find many dolls reminiscent of Chucky, bride of Chucky, or baby of Chucky. In a word, scary. But (a while back), I heard that “babies” help with social and emotional skill development. I’m all about the normal (and perhaps even advanced) development. So I was like “great! Bring on the dolls!” All kidding aside, I’ve managed to find a few acceptable examples. Two haired (is that even a word?) and one bald baby.

Now, Peanut (as you probably well know), is half Asian. With a full, beautiful, head of hair. *Sigh.* What I wouldn’t give for that hair! (Being practically bald-ish, and everything.) That said, she is really only interested in the hair-less doll. She licks, sucks, and strokes it’s head (as she was, this morning).

I mean, wouldn’t you want a doll that kind of looks like you? Parenting mystery 230 (and one half). I just don’t get it.

But maybe there's a truth to Peanut's choices. Is life far more interesting when you interact with those who are different than yourself? 

(Picture to be added later. Promises, hugs, and kisses.)

My addiction...the bump...

A few weekends ago, my parents came to visit. Now, The Husband and I don’t like to pay for babysitters. We are (ahem) frugal, in that respect. Basically, we love exploiting family members for free child care, whenever we can entice them with the promise of baby giggles. Grandparents are particularly susceptible. It usually works, because who doesn’t love hearing an infant laugh.

A visit from the grandparents (or auntie) allows us the opportunity to be released from any responsibility we may have. This means we can go to a bar, sit, and say nothing to each other. That’s right, folks. Since birthing Peanut, I have lost all concept of how to behave in many social situations (in particular those bar related). The Husband isn’t much better. Gazed look? Check. Trail of drool? Check. Complete and utter exhaustion usually prevents us from making it past 9pm. Make that until 9pm. You get the idea.

Anyway. This most recent outing was particularly interesting, because I got to see a pregnant woman. I’ve probably never mentioned it before (I know I haven’t, actually, because it’s weird), but I have...(deep breath)...an addiction to pregnant women. A complete and utter infatuation with them, actually. All of them. Yes, ladies and gents. I love the bump. I’m not really sure why. It’s not like I had the best pregnancy ever, or anything. I mean, it was ok. If you don’t count the morning sickness, heartburn, and extreme swelling (fun times).

I guess it’s just that seeing a beautiful, hugely expectant woman makes me remember the best parts of being pregnant (before I started wearing industrial strength compression stockings). And, strangely enough, there’s something magnificent about being so big, and so ready.

She and her husband came in, sat down, and ordered chocolate cake. I stared at her for a while. “Go talk to her,” The Husband encouraged. “You know Peanut would do it” (that fearless piece of protein? She certainly would). I also needed to take some action, before starting to look like some kind of weird stalker (which I kind of am, I guess).

So I went. I told her how beautiful she looked. Then I walked away. And thought of Peanut. Lovely, delightful, Peanut.

When brain = turd, go forth young man

I'm guest posting for the lovely Naomi over at "Organic Motherhood with Cool Whip" today. Unfortunately, I used each and every last brain cell creating said post. My mind is a dried up turd, presently inhabiting the depths of Peanut's Diaper Dekkor (stinky). So skeedaddle over there, as soon as you possibly can. In particular if you've never visited Naomi before. She's intelligent, smart, and completely in touch with the realities of being a parent, today. I heart her, and her delightful blog!

Now go!

xoxo

Things that make a girl pee her pants

I was going to start this post by talking about my limited bravery, and the few risky things I’ve done in the past six months (documented on this blog, of course). Looking back through my archives, I realized something I already knew (if that’s possible, and makes any sense). I am a giant (self-professed) fraidy cat. And if some activity, or event involves any modicum of danger? I run in the opposite direction. As fast as I possibly can.

Anyway. Some of the things that are currently on my “too scared to do” list: getting in a helicopter (I have the cold sweats, just thinking about it); the woods (too dark); my apartment when I’m alone (likely haunted).

Oh, and learning Chinese. I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned it before on this blog, but The Husband’s first language is Mandarin Chinese. It was, in fact, his only language before moving here at the age of seven (at which point he spent countless hours studying Michael Jackson on television, practicing the moon-walk, and learning to say/sing Thriller. Actually a wise way to learn English. Makes for good party/wedding tricks at this later point in life).

It’s been a priority, since Miss Peanut’s birth, to teach her the language. Not only for practical reasons (communicating with family who don’t speak English), but for cultural ones. We’re trying the “one parent, one language” approach, in which The Husband speaks to her almost entirely in Mandarin. It’s difficult, though, considering I’m the sole parent who is with her, eleven of her twelve waking hours (or so).

I could learn. I just get so nervous. The last time I actually tried to string a sentence together (in Chinese. I’ve almost mastered English) was at our 500 person Asian reception in Houston (this was wedding #2. #1 was in Connecticut). My voice cracked as I stood on stage. I said something like “thank you all for coming, we appreciate it dearly.” I could have been saying “my cat just wiped her anus with my toothbrush”. Who knows? I think everyone in the room had had more than enough wine to notice. They were all like “gambe!” (cheers) I was all like, pass the vodka.

So now, I need some encouragement. Is there anything you wanted for your children, oh so badly, but were too terrified to deliver, yourself?

(And if you’re thinking “nothing”, general kudos are always appreciated in upping the self-confidence.)

Happy weekend,

xoxo


Photo from here

When a "lovey" isn't so lovable

Did I mention Peanut has a lovey? She didn’t, until about a month ago. That’s when I went and purchased one. If you’ve been around this blog, you’re familiar with our sleep issues. If you’re new, suffice to say Peanut struggles. I thought getting a “lovey” would help her to relax, settle down, and actually give mummy some peace and quiet.

I was also under the impression that there was only one type of “lovey”. That little blanket with a head. Creepy, actually. But, my thinking was logical, really. If everyone has one, Peanut should too. I selected the least offensive of the bunch, at Carter’s. A frog’s head, green, white, and yellow. Embroidered on it’s “body” (if you can call a small square patch of fabric a “body”, of course) are the words “I love hugs”. A redeeming quality, if you will. I love hugs. Peanut certainly loves hugs. By the power of association, then, Peanut + Frogs + Hugs = Sleep.

Flash forward three weeks. My dear friend Lucy, is visiting. She refers to her son’s adorable monkey as his “lovey”. As in “X goes to bed with his lovey”; “we try to only give X his lovey before he sleeps,” etc. etc. I was all like, “eh...what?” If you can believe it, that’s the first time it actually occurred to me that a “lovey” might be any type of snuggly animal or toy.

So. The dilemma is such. I’m now “stuck” with this toy that is, quite frankly, seriously weird. I’ve tried switching it out (for a very cute little doll), to no avail. Peanut will, in fact, have nothing to do with said doll. The floating frog’s head, however? She’d stroke it all day long, if permitted (I’m trying to restrict it to sleep times, in the hopes of implementing some type of schedule).

The Husband, as usual, has no sympathy for my plight. “Peanut’s lovey scares me,” I told him. “Um, well you bought it,” he responded (rolled eyes). He’s right, of course. But as a woman, and a mother, for freaking sake, I have the prerogative to change my mind. Right? Plus, I bought it out of desperation, panic, and under false pretense.

If I were a truly heartless witch, I’d snatch that spooky little frog right out from under Peanut, and swiftly replace it with some other item from her toy collection (it’s quite substantial, after all).

But here’s the thing. I just peeked into her room, and she’s sprawled right across it. It doesn’t look good, by any means. It’s not designer. She doesn’t care. She’s completely obsessed with it, in fact.

That little frog? He’s not going anywhere. And I think I’m going to have to live with it.

Don't bite your friends

So. You may have already realized the following.

It’s kind of hard to catch a break. Especially when you are accompanied by 1+ small children.

I’m the fool who is figuring this out, just now. Right when you think you’re in the free and clear, it’s inevitable. That noisy little person sticks a finger in something. Anything inappropriate, really. The cat's bathroom is a particular favorite, at the moment. I may think kitty’s poopie is, um, gross. Let’s just say, it’s not something I’d actually want to touch. With my bare hand, or whatever. Not everyone (my baby) feels that way, though, and I’m trying to be open minded. Really, that little turd may be a study in anthropology/an oracle to another galaxy/an effective skipping rock. (At the risk of costing Peanut any additional prom dates, I’m going to quit discussing an affinity for cat boxes right here.)

Anyway. Back to catching a break. Like today, for instance. At baby class. I’m not really sure why I even bothered trying to talk to another adult. Because that conversation involved turning my eyes away from Peanut. For forty-five (and one half) seconds, exactly. One yelp, two screams later - she had bitten a little boy, on the cheek. There were, in fact, teeth marks. I sat, stunned. Alternately amazed that she had managed to hit the apple of the cheek with such precision, and horrified that my little Princess had become some form of wild boar. I mean, feisty little girl. Um, right?

We all know it’s not right to “bite your friends”. For the love of God, Yo Gabba Gabba has made that pretty apparent. Unfortunately Peanut is only interested in those creepy characters for their weirdness, not their message. Yet.

I know it’s semi-normal behavior. I still spent the remainder of class sinking into my seat, apologizing on her behalf, and examining the red mark left by Peanut’s teeth.

One bite down, 2058 to go, I guess?



Image: FreeDigitalPhotos.net