It's only July, but my girls already have Christmas on the brain.
Yesterday, out of the blue, my daughter asked me,
Mommy, who leaves Santa presents in his stocking?
After a short pause, I returned with:
Probably the reindeer.
She responded,
They can't, Mommy, they stay on the rooftop.
So I tried again,
Then the elves probably do it.
To which she retorted,
They're too short to reach the stocking, Mommy!
Grasping for straws, I reasoned,
It must be Mrs. Claus.
She paused and concluded,
He must get a lot of coal in his stocking, Mommy, because it's a wife's job to always remind him that he's been bad, right?
Hmm, I guess I've been doing my "job" a little too well around our house.
I knew I should've just said that the Easter Bunny fills Santa's stocking.
Monday, July 31, 2006
Saturday, July 29, 2006
Unexpected Selection
I promise, I'm not going to make this blog about piercings, but today I went shopping for new navel jewelry since I only had the starter from the original piercing. I was stunned at some of the selections I found, which included:
The Little Mermaid
Nemo
Fred Flintstone
Mickey Mouse
Tweety Bird
Bart Simpson
As I stated in my previous post, I'm aware that the demographic for those getting navel piercings is getting younger and younger, but it certainly hasn't gone pre-teen, has it??
I'm going to assume that those buying the cartoon jewelry are adults who are just big fans of the characters, and not kids.
I bought a beautiful, dangling flower piece (which my older daughter helped pick out, so she's coming around), and a fun Coca-Cola bar, the latter for reasons I will save for another post.
The Little Mermaid
Nemo
Fred Flintstone
Mickey Mouse
Tweety Bird
Bart Simpson
As I stated in my previous post, I'm aware that the demographic for those getting navel piercings is getting younger and younger, but it certainly hasn't gone pre-teen, has it??
I'm going to assume that those buying the cartoon jewelry are adults who are just big fans of the characters, and not kids.
I bought a beautiful, dangling flower piece (which my older daughter helped pick out, so she's coming around), and a fun Coca-Cola bar, the latter for reasons I will save for another post.
Thursday, July 27, 2006
A Little Something for Myself
When I was 23, largely on impulse, I got a piercing - a navel piercing. I know today that doesn't sound particularly interesting as it's become pretty mainstream. In fact, navel piercings are nearly standard for most of my daughter's "bathing" Barbies. But 10 years ago, a navel piercing, at least around here, really was kind of cutting edge. At the time I didn't know anyone personally who had one. I loved everything about it: the rush of getting it done, how it looked, the way I would fiddle with it when I was nervous or bored. It was a constant reminder of a core part of my personality that I often tried to suppress: my impulsiveness, spontaneity, intensity.
Six years later, I was married and became pregnant with my first child. On my very first appointment with the OB, the doctor looked at my navel ring and said, "That's gonna have to come out." I played the trusting and obedient patient and immediately took the ring out; whatever was best for my unborn child, that's what I was going to do of course. I look back now and wonder what possible physical, medical reason there could be that would mandate a navel ring to come out. I'm no MD, but surely this tiny flap of navel skin has absolutely nothing to do with my uterus, but I figured he knew better than I did. Besides, I reasoned, if I didn't take it out and let the hole close up immediately, as my stomach grew, so might the piercing hole. I figured if I took it out right away, it would close up just as discreetly as an earring piercing would. Again, I'm no MD.
I had child one, then child two, and I never put the navel ring back in. So it closed up, but because of the ever-changing shape of my belly during pregnancies, my piercing mark became a much more noticeable scar than I had hoped.
Ever since I had my second child and was fairly certain that she would be my last, I've been contemplating getting my navel repierced. Yes, I know that I'm now in my mid-30s, a mother of two in suburbia; I'm no kid, I get it. I realize many in my demographic have outgrown navel piercings, especially since it has become so mainstream that I've seen 14-year-olds with them. But as was the case with the first piercing, my reason behind doing it was not to follow some trend. I liked everything about the piercing, and I'd rather have the piercing than the scar that the first left behind.
So I did it. About a month ago, I was meeting some girlfriends for an innocent evening out, and on a whim I asked my friend if we could make a stop at the tattoo parlor on our way out. I didn't even tell my husband I was getting it repierced. It was a rush getting it done, and I love it. However, my oldest daughter (4) does not. The first time she saw it, she gasped, covered her eyes, and gasped again on a second look. Then came the tears, and she begged and pleaded for me to take it out. You have to remember, any kind of piercing is foreign to her. As I mentioned in an earlier post, I had to take my earrings out when she was just two because her new sister has a penchant for pulling on earlobes. The piercings my daughter has seen on her Barbies are not a true representation of what a piercing, even an ear piercing, really looks like either. It startled her to see a steel rod poking through a piece of her mother's skin. At least I thought that was the primary cause for her protests and alarm.
My daughter's tears and pleading turned into a full-fledged fit, so her father tried to intervene and console her. We explained that it didn't hurt Mommy and that it was just like her Barbies' earrings and belly buttons. We kept asking her to explain why she was so upset. Finally, when she could regain her voice in between her cries, she said, "I'm sad because now I don't match Mommy."
It was one of the sweetest things I have ever heard. Everyone has always told her that she looks just like me, and she does. And she prides herself on telling people that "we match." The piercing, in her eyes, distorted our likenesses, I guess, separated us in a way. And she didn't like it.
The mother in me immediately wanted to take it out to appease my daughter if it upset her this much, but the drowning individual in me beckoned me to keep it in. I listened to the latter for once. I realized that the older I get, the more of who I am as an individual is getting lost in the "mother, the "wife," the "professional." Sure, I am all of those things and I cherish them all, but in becoming those, I don't want to lose what makes up"me" at the core; in fact, I think it would be a detriment to my family if I did. I am still vivacious, spirited, and spontaneous (although more cautiously so, if that's possible), and if this navel ring reminds me of that in some small way, if it keeps me in touch with that part of me that age and responsibility doesn't often afford anymore, well then I think it needs to stay put.
I understand my daughter's desire to be a reflection of her mother, and believe me, that is the single biggest compliment I can ever receive in my entire life. And I know that her interest in being like mom will probably disappear all too quickly. But I also want to instill a value of individuality and sense of self in my girls, and I can't instill that in them if I stifle it in myself.
I'm just wondering how my daughter will react when she sees the tattoo I am planning.
Six years later, I was married and became pregnant with my first child. On my very first appointment with the OB, the doctor looked at my navel ring and said, "That's gonna have to come out." I played the trusting and obedient patient and immediately took the ring out; whatever was best for my unborn child, that's what I was going to do of course. I look back now and wonder what possible physical, medical reason there could be that would mandate a navel ring to come out. I'm no MD, but surely this tiny flap of navel skin has absolutely nothing to do with my uterus, but I figured he knew better than I did. Besides, I reasoned, if I didn't take it out and let the hole close up immediately, as my stomach grew, so might the piercing hole. I figured if I took it out right away, it would close up just as discreetly as an earring piercing would. Again, I'm no MD.
I had child one, then child two, and I never put the navel ring back in. So it closed up, but because of the ever-changing shape of my belly during pregnancies, my piercing mark became a much more noticeable scar than I had hoped.
Ever since I had my second child and was fairly certain that she would be my last, I've been contemplating getting my navel repierced. Yes, I know that I'm now in my mid-30s, a mother of two in suburbia; I'm no kid, I get it. I realize many in my demographic have outgrown navel piercings, especially since it has become so mainstream that I've seen 14-year-olds with them. But as was the case with the first piercing, my reason behind doing it was not to follow some trend. I liked everything about the piercing, and I'd rather have the piercing than the scar that the first left behind.
So I did it. About a month ago, I was meeting some girlfriends for an innocent evening out, and on a whim I asked my friend if we could make a stop at the tattoo parlor on our way out. I didn't even tell my husband I was getting it repierced. It was a rush getting it done, and I love it. However, my oldest daughter (4) does not. The first time she saw it, she gasped, covered her eyes, and gasped again on a second look. Then came the tears, and she begged and pleaded for me to take it out. You have to remember, any kind of piercing is foreign to her. As I mentioned in an earlier post, I had to take my earrings out when she was just two because her new sister has a penchant for pulling on earlobes. The piercings my daughter has seen on her Barbies are not a true representation of what a piercing, even an ear piercing, really looks like either. It startled her to see a steel rod poking through a piece of her mother's skin. At least I thought that was the primary cause for her protests and alarm.
My daughter's tears and pleading turned into a full-fledged fit, so her father tried to intervene and console her. We explained that it didn't hurt Mommy and that it was just like her Barbies' earrings and belly buttons. We kept asking her to explain why she was so upset. Finally, when she could regain her voice in between her cries, she said, "I'm sad because now I don't match Mommy."
It was one of the sweetest things I have ever heard. Everyone has always told her that she looks just like me, and she does. And she prides herself on telling people that "we match." The piercing, in her eyes, distorted our likenesses, I guess, separated us in a way. And she didn't like it.
The mother in me immediately wanted to take it out to appease my daughter if it upset her this much, but the drowning individual in me beckoned me to keep it in. I listened to the latter for once. I realized that the older I get, the more of who I am as an individual is getting lost in the "mother, the "wife," the "professional." Sure, I am all of those things and I cherish them all, but in becoming those, I don't want to lose what makes up"me" at the core; in fact, I think it would be a detriment to my family if I did. I am still vivacious, spirited, and spontaneous (although more cautiously so, if that's possible), and if this navel ring reminds me of that in some small way, if it keeps me in touch with that part of me that age and responsibility doesn't often afford anymore, well then I think it needs to stay put.
I understand my daughter's desire to be a reflection of her mother, and believe me, that is the single biggest compliment I can ever receive in my entire life. And I know that her interest in being like mom will probably disappear all too quickly. But I also want to instill a value of individuality and sense of self in my girls, and I can't instill that in them if I stifle it in myself.
I'm just wondering how my daughter will react when she sees the tattoo I am planning.
Monday, July 24, 2006
Hazard to Guess Where I've Been?
Last night my family and I returned from vacation, if you want to call it that. It was a family reunion (my mother's side) in Hazard, Kentucky. Yes, Hazard, as in the Dukes of. The activities of the reunion went on for a week, but we arrived on Thursday for the long weekend. That's about as long as I thought I could take it. Don't get me wrong, I was excited to see my relatives who are spread out across the country, and even one in Japan. All of the "How've ya been"s and "The last time I saw you, you were this tall"s and the scenery are all-good, it was just I thought I would go stir-crazy after a few days because of the lack of variety in the locale. No computer, no electronic guide on the TV programming (you have to look it up in a book?), and the cell phone doesn't even work in those mountains. I know, vacation, especially a rural one such as this, should be a nice time to relax and get away from it all, but I really like "it all."
What was most difficult for me to adjust to on the trip was the food; and this struggle of mine is what held me back as a kid from doing all kinds of things I wish I had done. I am rather picky with food (although I've gotten much better), but I also have this strange need to rotate my food selection. If, for example, I have chicken for lunch, I cannot have chicken for dinner; I cannot even have chicken for lunch or even dinner the following day. Well, not really "cannot," but "very strongly prefer not to," to the point of bypassing a meal if need be. This is normally fairly easy to accommodate at home. However, where we were staying, the only option really was eating at the resort, unless you want to venture out a good 40-minute drive, one-way, and after 7pm or 8pm, forget it. There are no street lights along the mountain roads leading to the resort, and no guard rails to stop cars from literally falling off the edge of the cliff if you get off track. But it wasn't just that the food selection at the resort was limited; the food was just awful. I mean, awful. I was expecting comforting, southern, home-style cuisine at this resort nestled in the mountains. And it attempted to be that. But it was just nasty or tasteless, often served cold.
On night two, I talked my husband into making the 40-minute drive to a Pizza Hut I eyed on our trip in to the resort. Being the doting husband that he is, he relented, and nearly two hours later, he returned during a thunderstorm with four surprisingly still hot pizzas from the Hut. I'm not sure I ever appreciated my husband quite as much as when I sunk my teeth into that pie. It was the best dern pizza I have ever had, I'm sure mostly because my taste buds had been dead for nearly 48 hours. I wouldn't get very far on Survivor. I guess I'm spoiled. Ok, I know it.
Besides the food, the trip was good, despite the fact that my two-year-old, who cannot sit still for anything, screamed nearly nonstop during the long drive to and from; despite the fact that my husband and I got into a squabble because he swore I lost the second room key (turns out there never was a second); despite the fact that it rained nearly two days and we were confined to our small room with two children who fought over one Barbie doll (even though they literally brought over 25 that were constantly strewn across the little bit of room that we did have); despite all that, it was a trip of growth and depth for my family. I came away with a deeper understanding and appreciation of who my mother is, where we came from and what we have.
We visited the warm house in the mountains where the one-room farmhouse in which my mother grew up was located, with no electricity, no running water, housing nine children, where they ate what they killed and/or grew. We visited the church from which my mother graduated high school 50 years ago (it was built in the mid 1800s). We visited the locale where my maternal grandmother (my mother's mother) was murdered over 50 years ago (while in the presence of my mother, 19 at the time) and learned more telling details behind the crime.
We learned while on this trip that my 78-year-old uncle is literally the last in this bloodline to carry the name since there are no more males of this namesake, which makes me grateful that I gave this last name, my mother's maiden name, to my youngest daughter as her middle name.
We spent priceless time with my great-aunt who is 92 years old. She was celebrating 20 years of marriage to her second husband, whom she met at a dance studio after her first husband passed away. She is a vivacious and eccentric lady, as is her husband. She and her 90-year-old husband drove up to Hazard themselves, from St. Augustine, FL! Her daughter told us a story of the two of them driving from FL to Denver in a beat-up car last winter to visit them. They stopped at a restaurant, and because the restaurant didn't offer a senior discount, they packed up, and drove in a blizzard to another restaurant (even though they are very well-off). Her husband played the clarinet in the band on the final night of the reunion, while my aunt watched proudly. Every morning they walked, and briskly, five miles. They were constantly hand-in-hand, sharing embraces. A true inspiration in so many ways.
These are the things that by the end of the trip made me realize that I didn't really need that cell phone, my laptop, my TiVO, or even my rotating meal plan. I had brought with me everything I needed and valued and was so very blessed to have: my family. In fact, I had never really left home at all.
What was most difficult for me to adjust to on the trip was the food; and this struggle of mine is what held me back as a kid from doing all kinds of things I wish I had done. I am rather picky with food (although I've gotten much better), but I also have this strange need to rotate my food selection. If, for example, I have chicken for lunch, I cannot have chicken for dinner; I cannot even have chicken for lunch or even dinner the following day. Well, not really "cannot," but "very strongly prefer not to," to the point of bypassing a meal if need be. This is normally fairly easy to accommodate at home. However, where we were staying, the only option really was eating at the resort, unless you want to venture out a good 40-minute drive, one-way, and after 7pm or 8pm, forget it. There are no street lights along the mountain roads leading to the resort, and no guard rails to stop cars from literally falling off the edge of the cliff if you get off track. But it wasn't just that the food selection at the resort was limited; the food was just awful. I mean, awful. I was expecting comforting, southern, home-style cuisine at this resort nestled in the mountains. And it attempted to be that. But it was just nasty or tasteless, often served cold.
On night two, I talked my husband into making the 40-minute drive to a Pizza Hut I eyed on our trip in to the resort. Being the doting husband that he is, he relented, and nearly two hours later, he returned during a thunderstorm with four surprisingly still hot pizzas from the Hut. I'm not sure I ever appreciated my husband quite as much as when I sunk my teeth into that pie. It was the best dern pizza I have ever had, I'm sure mostly because my taste buds had been dead for nearly 48 hours. I wouldn't get very far on Survivor. I guess I'm spoiled. Ok, I know it.
Besides the food, the trip was good, despite the fact that my two-year-old, who cannot sit still for anything, screamed nearly nonstop during the long drive to and from; despite the fact that my husband and I got into a squabble because he swore I lost the second room key (turns out there never was a second); despite the fact that it rained nearly two days and we were confined to our small room with two children who fought over one Barbie doll (even though they literally brought over 25 that were constantly strewn across the little bit of room that we did have); despite all that, it was a trip of growth and depth for my family. I came away with a deeper understanding and appreciation of who my mother is, where we came from and what we have.
We visited the warm house in the mountains where the one-room farmhouse in which my mother grew up was located, with no electricity, no running water, housing nine children, where they ate what they killed and/or grew. We visited the church from which my mother graduated high school 50 years ago (it was built in the mid 1800s). We visited the locale where my maternal grandmother (my mother's mother) was murdered over 50 years ago (while in the presence of my mother, 19 at the time) and learned more telling details behind the crime.
We learned while on this trip that my 78-year-old uncle is literally the last in this bloodline to carry the name since there are no more males of this namesake, which makes me grateful that I gave this last name, my mother's maiden name, to my youngest daughter as her middle name.
We spent priceless time with my great-aunt who is 92 years old. She was celebrating 20 years of marriage to her second husband, whom she met at a dance studio after her first husband passed away. She is a vivacious and eccentric lady, as is her husband. She and her 90-year-old husband drove up to Hazard themselves, from St. Augustine, FL! Her daughter told us a story of the two of them driving from FL to Denver in a beat-up car last winter to visit them. They stopped at a restaurant, and because the restaurant didn't offer a senior discount, they packed up, and drove in a blizzard to another restaurant (even though they are very well-off). Her husband played the clarinet in the band on the final night of the reunion, while my aunt watched proudly. Every morning they walked, and briskly, five miles. They were constantly hand-in-hand, sharing embraces. A true inspiration in so many ways.
These are the things that by the end of the trip made me realize that I didn't really need that cell phone, my laptop, my TiVO, or even my rotating meal plan. I had brought with me everything I needed and valued and was so very blessed to have: my family. In fact, I had never really left home at all.
Sunday, July 16, 2006
Bad Buggy
Last night my husband hosted a Texas Hold-em card night, so I was left to the wrangle the kids, with the help of my friend. Early evening, we decided to take the girls outside on the patio swing and read some books. As we stepped down the deck steps, a swarm of wasps flew out from underneath and stung my younger daughter, G, in the leg. She of course yelped immediately, and the tears and the screams started flowing.
We brought her inside and put some ice, kisses, and eventually a Strawberry Shortcake bandaid on it to make it all better. G is a tough little kid, so the cries really didn't last long, considering. She just intermittently would look down at her boo-boo, put on her pouty, bulldog face and say, "Pep-pa kill that buggy!" Pep-pa is my girls' name for their grandpa/my dad, whose name is Pep.
Yes, that's right, Pep. Of course that's not his real name, but he's been called Pep nearly his entire life. I was well into elementary school when I first learned that wasn't his real name. He had always told me that he earned that nickname because of a combined love of Pepsi and his his incredible spunk and energy (i.e. "Pep"). Not until my 20s did I learn the real story of "Pep" from a cousin who was in town. According to this trusted source, around the age of six, my father was hanging out with said cousin, and they were going to eat some pizza. Apparently, my father didn't know what pepperoni was. No one could understand how this 100% Italian child could possibly not know what pepperoni was, so everyone started calling him Pepperoni, Pep for short.
But once again, I digress..
My daughter's "wasp incident" brought back a most hysterical memory involving my husband.
In the middle of the night one summer evening, my husband suddenly jumped out of bed, screaming, and ran out of the room. He dove onto the couch, clutching his buns, apparently writhing in pain. I followed him out, not knowing what had happened, but assuming that he was just having a bad dream. He started screaming frantically that a snake had bitten him on the butt. Trying to hold back my laughter, I kept saying that he was just having a bad dream. He then showed me the big welt on his bum. He was insistent that a snake had bitten him, not rationalizing that this was next to impossible, living in suburbia with a bedroom on the second floor. Determined to both prove me wrong and rid our home of this creature, he grabbed a flashlight and crept back into the bedroom in search of the snake like the Crocodile Hunter. Why he needed a flashlight I have yet to understand - we did have working electricity! He tiptoed into the bedroom and threw down the blankets. And there, in the place on the bed where he had been sleeping, was a flattened, squashed....wasp.
Being the manly man that he is, I'm sure he thought a pain such as the one he endured just had to be something as treacherous as a snake. It was a shot to his ego (and a bigger shot to his rear) that it was just, as G would say, a little buggy.
We brought her inside and put some ice, kisses, and eventually a Strawberry Shortcake bandaid on it to make it all better. G is a tough little kid, so the cries really didn't last long, considering. She just intermittently would look down at her boo-boo, put on her pouty, bulldog face and say, "Pep-pa kill that buggy!" Pep-pa is my girls' name for their grandpa/my dad, whose name is Pep.
Yes, that's right, Pep. Of course that's not his real name, but he's been called Pep nearly his entire life. I was well into elementary school when I first learned that wasn't his real name. He had always told me that he earned that nickname because of a combined love of Pepsi and his his incredible spunk and energy (i.e. "Pep"). Not until my 20s did I learn the real story of "Pep" from a cousin who was in town. According to this trusted source, around the age of six, my father was hanging out with said cousin, and they were going to eat some pizza. Apparently, my father didn't know what pepperoni was. No one could understand how this 100% Italian child could possibly not know what pepperoni was, so everyone started calling him Pepperoni, Pep for short.
But once again, I digress..
My daughter's "wasp incident" brought back a most hysterical memory involving my husband.
In the middle of the night one summer evening, my husband suddenly jumped out of bed, screaming, and ran out of the room. He dove onto the couch, clutching his buns, apparently writhing in pain. I followed him out, not knowing what had happened, but assuming that he was just having a bad dream. He started screaming frantically that a snake had bitten him on the butt. Trying to hold back my laughter, I kept saying that he was just having a bad dream. He then showed me the big welt on his bum. He was insistent that a snake had bitten him, not rationalizing that this was next to impossible, living in suburbia with a bedroom on the second floor. Determined to both prove me wrong and rid our home of this creature, he grabbed a flashlight and crept back into the bedroom in search of the snake like the Crocodile Hunter. Why he needed a flashlight I have yet to understand - we did have working electricity! He tiptoed into the bedroom and threw down the blankets. And there, in the place on the bed where he had been sleeping, was a flattened, squashed....wasp.
Being the manly man that he is, I'm sure he thought a pain such as the one he endured just had to be something as treacherous as a snake. It was a shot to his ego (and a bigger shot to his rear) that it was just, as G would say, a little buggy.
Saturday, July 15, 2006
Finding Security in the Strangest of Places
So today I got my hair cut. No big deal. At least not for me. For my daughter, M, who is four, this can be a traumatizing experience.
M has been obsessed with hair since the day she was born. I think it is because she didn't have any, and I have to admit that I was in denial that she didn't have any either. I used to put those baby headbands on her head all of time when when she was a baby. As soon as she grew maybe three hairs, I tied a bow around them like Pebbles Flintstone, and I totally thought it looked full. I look back at photos of what I did to that child and wonder "What was I thinking?" I am in complete bewilderment that I honestly didn't realize my baby was bald! And that's ok!
But I digress. Since the moment that she could make a fist, M has always had a lock of hair enclosed in it. For literally the first two years of her life, I sat in the back seat of the car with her so that she could have a hold of my hair while my husband drove. Whenever she was upset or scared, she'd cry "Hair!" and she'd need a lock to grasp to calm her down. To fall asleep, she still prefers to stroke my hair.
I made the mistake of taking her to the salon with me to get my hair cut and colored about a year ago. I should've known better, because she won't even let my husband/her daddy touch my hair. At the salon, she was totally traumatized. You would've thought that the kid was seeing her mother undergo medieval torture. She screamed and yelled and threw an absolute fit, telling that (and I quote) "Bad Lady" to get off her mommy's hair! I had to call my husband to come pick her up, in fact carry her out, screaming and kicking.
Last month when I came back from getting my hair cut, M cried hysterically for a solid hour, grieving for that one-inch that I had been left on that salon floor. She wanted it back!
Today, I not only had to sneak out to get the job done, but I also had to avoid the topic altogether to prevent another breakdown. And she hasn't noticed a difference in my length. Yet. Shhh.
But I'm starting to worry that I'm indulging too much in her obsession with hair. I mean, what if I decide to get a cute pixie cut or something? M would just absolutely freak.
I'm also starting to wonder if such obsessive behavior is genetic. Sure it is. And it comes from me, right?! And our younger daughter, G, has a similar issue.
G (age two) has been obsessed with ears since the day she was born. She grasps someone's ear whenever she's excited; she grasps someone's ear for consolation whenever she is sad; she grasps someone's ear (more forcefully) whenever she's angry; and she absolutely has to grasp someone's ear (or her own) whenever she's sleepy. I had to take out my earrings for good shortly after she was born due to her obsession. Otherwise I'd have ripped lobes.
Is this akin to other children who have a blankey or a favorite, raggedy stuffed animal that they drag around everywhere? My kids just use my hair and ears in lieu of these items? Is it completely normal and even good that my kids just seek comfort in the hair and ears of their mother instead of some inanimate object? Or is it deeper than that?
M has been obsessed with hair since the day she was born. I think it is because she didn't have any, and I have to admit that I was in denial that she didn't have any either. I used to put those baby headbands on her head all of time when when she was a baby. As soon as she grew maybe three hairs, I tied a bow around them like Pebbles Flintstone, and I totally thought it looked full. I look back at photos of what I did to that child and wonder "What was I thinking?" I am in complete bewilderment that I honestly didn't realize my baby was bald! And that's ok!
But I digress. Since the moment that she could make a fist, M has always had a lock of hair enclosed in it. For literally the first two years of her life, I sat in the back seat of the car with her so that she could have a hold of my hair while my husband drove. Whenever she was upset or scared, she'd cry "Hair!" and she'd need a lock to grasp to calm her down. To fall asleep, she still prefers to stroke my hair.
I made the mistake of taking her to the salon with me to get my hair cut and colored about a year ago. I should've known better, because she won't even let my husband/her daddy touch my hair. At the salon, she was totally traumatized. You would've thought that the kid was seeing her mother undergo medieval torture. She screamed and yelled and threw an absolute fit, telling that (and I quote) "Bad Lady" to get off her mommy's hair! I had to call my husband to come pick her up, in fact carry her out, screaming and kicking.
Last month when I came back from getting my hair cut, M cried hysterically for a solid hour, grieving for that one-inch that I had been left on that salon floor. She wanted it back!
Today, I not only had to sneak out to get the job done, but I also had to avoid the topic altogether to prevent another breakdown. And she hasn't noticed a difference in my length. Yet. Shhh.
But I'm starting to worry that I'm indulging too much in her obsession with hair. I mean, what if I decide to get a cute pixie cut or something? M would just absolutely freak.
I'm also starting to wonder if such obsessive behavior is genetic. Sure it is. And it comes from me, right?! And our younger daughter, G, has a similar issue.
G (age two) has been obsessed with ears since the day she was born. She grasps someone's ear whenever she's excited; she grasps someone's ear for consolation whenever she is sad; she grasps someone's ear (more forcefully) whenever she's angry; and she absolutely has to grasp someone's ear (or her own) whenever she's sleepy. I had to take out my earrings for good shortly after she was born due to her obsession. Otherwise I'd have ripped lobes.
Is this akin to other children who have a blankey or a favorite, raggedy stuffed animal that they drag around everywhere? My kids just use my hair and ears in lieu of these items? Is it completely normal and even good that my kids just seek comfort in the hair and ears of their mother instead of some inanimate object? Or is it deeper than that?
Welcome to My World
I've been wanting to do this for awhile. Start a blog. I've been procrastinating about it for so long, well, because I've been overanalyzing it. Wondering who might read it, wondering who (if anyone) I should tell about it, wondering what I should write about, wondering what I should not write about. Ok, more than wondering - overanalyzing, obsessing. It's what I do. But like everything else I overanalyze about, doing so never yields an answer, so I'm just doing it. So there.
A little bit about me and my life: I'm a thirty-something, happily married mother of two. I'm 50% Italian, and also a Scorpio, so be forewarned: I'm fiesty! By profession, I'm an editor. My husband, J, is a computer geek by profession. He was quite a rugged man when I met him, but as he ages, the geekness is starting to take over.
We have two gorgeous, but dramatically different daughters, M (age four) and G (age two).
M is a girly-girl, through and through. Loves clothes and shoes, "shoe" was actually one of her first words. She's quite a serious and calm child. She loves to dance and act. She is eerily the spitting image of myself at that age, in both appearance and temperament.
G is a fire-ery redhead; in appearance the polar opposite of myself. She can't sit still for anything, and she's tough. A brute, almost. But by far the most compassionate child I have ever known. She genuinely consoles anyone who is sad, and even cried while watching a Lifetime movie with me once simply because a baby was crying in the background.
I still have not gotten used to the idea that I am a mom (even though a minivan sits in our garage) and I still can't grasp the fact that these two wonderful little people were borne of my womb. It's astonishing.
I look forward to sharing glimpses of my life with whomever out there might be reading.
A little bit about me and my life: I'm a thirty-something, happily married mother of two. I'm 50% Italian, and also a Scorpio, so be forewarned: I'm fiesty! By profession, I'm an editor. My husband, J, is a computer geek by profession. He was quite a rugged man when I met him, but as he ages, the geekness is starting to take over.
We have two gorgeous, but dramatically different daughters, M (age four) and G (age two).
M is a girly-girl, through and through. Loves clothes and shoes, "shoe" was actually one of her first words. She's quite a serious and calm child. She loves to dance and act. She is eerily the spitting image of myself at that age, in both appearance and temperament.
G is a fire-ery redhead; in appearance the polar opposite of myself. She can't sit still for anything, and she's tough. A brute, almost. But by far the most compassionate child I have ever known. She genuinely consoles anyone who is sad, and even cried while watching a Lifetime movie with me once simply because a baby was crying in the background.
I still have not gotten used to the idea that I am a mom (even though a minivan sits in our garage) and I still can't grasp the fact that these two wonderful little people were borne of my womb. It's astonishing.
I look forward to sharing glimpses of my life with whomever out there might be reading.
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