Ack Mum Cut

Okay.  Here is what I want out of a haircut:  I want to walk into a salon, be greeted by a hairdresser, ushered to the mirror, tell said stylist what I want, and have said stylist nod in agreement and do exactly as I say.  So why-oh- why is it every time I go to get my haircut this doesn’t happen?

I went in with long, straight, uncoloured hair that fell to my mid back.  I was prepared.  I’d researched what I wanted: a “grown bob” – basically long in the front and shorter in the back.  A style.  A first for me in a long time, and better yet, it met all my requirements: still long, and not a mum cut.

Armed with this information, I was going to do what my husband says I don’t: be crystal clear about what I wanted, and most importantly, not waiver.

It went south shortly after the words “inverted bob” came out of my mouth.  The hairdresser just blinked.  Her silence made me start to panic, had I just described something that would make me hideous?  ”So longer at the front and shorter at the back,” I reiterated.

“How long do you want the back to be?”

This question I was prepared for, I’d just seen a picture of a celebrity in a hair magazine (in her salon, none-the-less) with the exact length: at or around my shoulders.  Again, there was a pregnant pause.  I felt myself shrinking.  How can I be assertive with every other aspect of life, except this?

Because she’s the hair-care professional.  Because she sees people’s hair day in and day out and she should be able to guide me to the perfect cut.  She lives and breathes the hair culture.  But there in lies my fault; I’ve been watching too much Tabitha Salon Makeover, and Tim Gunn’s Guide to Style in the early morning hours of breastfeeding Miss S.

Trapped by a black apron around my neck, and a surly looking stylist staring back at me in the mirror, the self-doubt floods in.  Get out of the chair, my brain screams, but I am frozen, curious to see what this silent professional is going to offer.

Finally, she speaks.  ”You’re not going to see much difference in the front.”  She looks like she’s sneering at my bangs.

“It can go shorter,” I hurriedly say, and follow up with what my husband would consider the death of my dream, “What do you think?”

Yes, one (me) should never utter that phrase.  The power shifted completely with this woman, this stranger, and my locks.  She didn’t know that my hair turns in on one side and flips on the other, she didn’t know my history with celebrity hairstyles.  My request for “the Rachel” in the 90’s turned into “the Monica” – mental note to check the stylist’s Friend knowledge before assuming she knew who Rachel was.  My desire for shock value in grade four labeled me the Incredible Hulk.  And today, a request for a semi-trendy cut – at least that’s what my research told me, leaves me sporting a nondescript, medium-length bob.

Maybe my quest for complete haircut happiness isn’t meant to be. I know there are worse things in the world than being lukewarm to a haircut, and it will grow.  So as of this minute I choose to be Zen, remembering that in a few short hours my hair will be whipped into a sloppy ponytail, and pawed by tiny fingers.

Hello Three

We are officially out of red food colouring.  We’ve been living in a world of pink balloons, pink outfits (okay, we always, live in pink outfits), pink sparkle play dough and pink cakes this week.  (I made two.  The first: a pink, with camouflage antlers, piggy-reindeer; the second: a pink bear.)

The girl who made me a mum, Miss Q, turned three.  Wow, just writing that makes me feel old.  I know, I know, it’s Miss Q that I should be writing about getting older, (Sun Rise, Sun Set) but really, has it been three years?  It’s flown by.

Miss Q, at three, is spunky, confident, imaginative and a complete bookworm.  Every day I wake, excited to know what kind of day we’ll have.  This week she’s been a surgeon – removing a penis from Curious George’s stomach; a kitty cat – pretty standard; and a dragon – breathing fire on me (the werewolf), turning me into ashes and sprinkling me into the sea.

When not sitting, listening intently to stories, our little is in constant motion.  Her grandparents got her a rebounder (small trampoline) for her birthday in hopes she’d use it instead of jumping from the coffee table to the couch.  Now the rebounder has replaced the coffee table, and she jumps from that onto the couch and back.  One day we’ll have an adult living room!

My pink, sparkle, kitty-cat-fairy-dragon reminds me daily to live in the moment, be silly and get dirty.  Love goes without saying, as do pure joy and peace.

Crocodile Tears???

Today was one of those days.  Even though Miss Q had over twelve hours of sleep, she woke on the wrong side of the bed, and stayed on the wrong side all day.

My brain ran in circles – was she sick, jealous of her sister, still tired, upset her daddy was at work by the time she woke, hungry, sick, jealous…?

Analyzing did nothing to help the situation.  I made her breakfast; she wasn’t hungry; she wanted hot chocolate.  I told her to turn off the TV; she turned it back on when I wasn’t looking.  She told me her stomach hurt; my ears perked; in the next breath she said she needed to watch a movie (like she had when she’d actually thrown up).  I mistakenly told her: if she was actually puking, then she could watch a movie.  A sentence I wished I could have instantly taken back.  Thankfully, she didn’t take me up on the offer.

I attempted to change the scenery; but halfway through her run around the house, she was tripped by our dog and splatted on the pavement.  Then I had to add possible broken wrists to the mix, as I waited for her to let me touch them – though she was moving them just fine while crying.

I thought that we’d turned a corner when she devoured a grilled cheese sandwich.  With her belly full and mood elevated, I suggested we go downstairs and watch a YouTube My Little Pony (a very special treat) while I cleaned my desk.  The magic was broken when we returned upstairs and it took her over half an hour to put on a pair of underwear.

The silver lining to Miss Q’s thundercloud day was that her wails kept Miss S entertained.  It was really bizarre that way.  Every time the big plunking tears fell, Miss S would stop what she was doing and watch her big sister… hopefully not taking notes.

The true I’m really a Mum moment happened when my husband came home.  Just the sight of his bike evaporated all storms.  The excitement in her body was palpable.  Grrr.

As I told Miss Q at bedtime, tomorrow is a fresh chapter.  We’ll go to swimming and Grandma and Grandpa will arrive.  It’s hard being almost three sometimes, but the sun will come out tomorrow – okay the last line, I didn’t say, but it will.

Poor Daddy

Miss Q has given her daddy a couple whoppers over the last couple weeks.  The first was a conversation that went something like this:

Daddy (to Miss Q):  Am I cute?

Miss Q: No

Daddy:  Oh, then who’s cute around here?

Miss Q: Meeee.

Daddy: Aren’t I cute?

Miss Q:  No.  You’re an old man and old men are not cute.

The second treasure happened tonight :  Miss Q peed all over Daddy’s lap as she sat, waiting for him to start reading to her.  Fortunately, the chair was spared, as Daddy’s sweatpants and t-shirt absorbed the liquid.

The good news is Daddy then got to bathe in his in-laws’ giant tub and wear his father-in-law’s pants and golf shirt.  Never thought he’d get to do that.

Entering Temptation

Ack.  Toy store.  How I fight thee each and every time I enter your fluorescent store.  I want to buy everything that I got as a child and everything I didn’t get as a child, but wanted, for my own children.

My children don’t need any more toys, yet I find myself giddy with anticipation each time I pull something off your white shelves and think of their reactions.

Damn the aisles filled with pink, jumping, “Me, me, me.”

Curse you sparkles and your pixie dust too.

And don’t get me started on stuffies.  Their pleading eyes and soft fur make me want to adopt them all.  My girls would give them a good home; no, make that a great home.  Yet they’re running out of storage space and they’re only just shy of three and 5.5 months old.

The problem with you, toy store, is I don’t visit you enough.  I’m not immune to your lures of low prices and flashy new stock.

Even with a shopping plan of a tutu and wand, for my almost birthday girl, I find my eyes wandering to tiers of fake cake, shopping carts, monkey pillows…

One day I’ll get to the checkout without scanning for what I may have missed along the way.

Until then, I fear I’m just as bad as the kids – without the pleading or whining.

Sick Kitty-cat Lion

Miss Q’s car seat cover is dry-clean only.  The beige straps are almost impossible to disconnect from the seat.  We learned this after an unfortunate incident last spring when Miss Q drank too much Starbucks hot chocolate.

Seriously, who makes baby/child items that are dry-clean only in this day and age?

On Friday, as I turned to ask Miss Q if she wanted to go into the bank with me, the memory of last spring came flooding back, as she began vomiting her breakfast smoothie.

“You had to put yoghurt in it, didn’t you?” I said to my husband.  A light moment in the front seat, as our poor muffin was shocked about what was happening in the back.

While my husband went into the bank, I tried to breathe through my mouth as I stripped down Miss Q and gave her my sweatshirt – which wasn’t really mine, it was my husbands – insert wry grin here.

Our poor bug was miserable, and turned purple in the warm shower, because she was so cold.  Our first bought with Miss Q and the flu.

Under a wool blanket, with a pillow and two Care Bears for company, Miss Q watched Winnie the Pooh’s Grand Adventure and then Disney’s Robin Hood.

Though she was sick, and I was worried about her, it was delicious to get her cleaned up, and cozy under blankets, with a barf bowl below her.  This is what motherhood is about.  I wanted to crawl beside her, but my doting, once the movie started was met with, “Move, Mama.”  (Um, that’s: Move, please, Mama.)

By four in the afternoon the fever was back.  She was refusing Advil and Tylenol – whatever flavour she picked was the one she was getting.  How is it that even in their weakest, children are exceptionally cute?

Thankfully, Granny was in the neighbourhood.  She played with wee Miss S while I squeezed Advil through an eye-dropper into a shivery Miss Q.

By 11 o’clock, Miss Q wandered into the living room telling me she was hungry.  Half a peanut butter and jam sandwich and a couple slurps of milk later, she was ready for bed again – though I think I was the one who fell asleep first, lying on her bed mid-song.

Today, her colour’s been slow to return, but we’ve had bursts of our wild kitty-cat lion.  By Monday I’ll be knee-deep in almost three-year-old again.

My husband checked with the store, where we bought the car seat, about a rumoured car seat cover, but was told insurance doesn’t cover any alterations to car seats.

Good thing he and the car seat have become one.

Finally Fort Rodd

Accidents happen.  Young and the Restless ended, the pot of tea grew cold – I microwaved the last three cups, over the evening, just so it wouldn’t go to waste.

Miss Q is, what I would consider 99% toilet trained.  The 1% left is for her random accidents.  Can’t be perfect, but it would be nice for them to happen when I wasn’t in quiet time.

Today we went to Fort Rodd Hill.  Third time’s a charm: it was open!  Hooray.

What a great place to run children.  Better still because now there are safety railings around problematic drop-offs.  (No safety railings back in the 80’s.)

Miss Q and her friends had fun exploring the artillery bunkers – though Miss Q didn’t stay for very long.  They were pretty dark, and echoey.

She enjoyed the beach and throwing rocks into the ocean.  The latter a little too much as she became deaf to my “only one more rock,” command.  If she had her way, the entire beach would be back under water.

But her favourite was the cannon they could all climb upon.  That’s the beauty of this place – interesting things to climb, from cannons to staircases.

Miss Q didn’t want to leave, though the fact she’d had an accident in her waterproof pants (sort of ironic), and her cat-napping sister, dictated we couldn’t stay the entire day.

Side note: Miss Q told me she’d gone pee in her pants because her friend had gone pee too.  What Miss Q failed to observe, is her friend was male, therefore making bathroom breaks a tad easier in the wild.  Welcome to being a girl.

All of the children, except for the ones snuggled on their mothers’ chests, appeared ready for naps after romping around the landmark for two hours.  (Appeared, in Miss Q’s case, but no Sandman for her.)

It was free today, because of maintenance on the park, but at less than $6.00 for a season’s pass, if bought before June, we’ll be back.

Murphy’s Law

It is here, at 2:48 p.m. that I quote Dr. Seuss’ How the Grinch Stole Christmas:

It came without ribbons!  It came without tags!  It came without packages, boxes or bags!

Pot of tea, Young And the Restless, and my computer, how I’ve missed you.  I didn’t know how much I did until now.  Two girls: one, Miss Q, playing quietly in her room; the other, Miss S, sleeping soundly in her crib, in my room.  I don’t know how this happened, but I won’t question -

Crap.  Why, oh, why did I start typing this?  Miss Q just came out of her bedroom and like the coo of a dove – a dove with fangs – told me, “Mama I peed.”  Seriously, universe.

To be continued…

Domestic Chores

Once we got the socks sorted, it was out the door and off to the gas station, Granny’s house (to pick up a forgotten brush) and the grocery store – yay for domestic chores.

Grocery shopping – especially with my girls – is one of my favourite activities.  Up until two weeks ago, my husband never missed a grocery shop, but in the interest of having less to do on his days off, I’m trying it solo (with the girlies), and it’s fantastic.

Honestly, I lived in fear of navigating the aisles with the two of them.  Would Miss Q stay in the cart?  Would Miss S reject the Ergo?  Would Miss Q stay in the cart?  (Yes, that’s the biggest fear.)

Fortunately, thus far, Miss Q enjoys riding in the cart.  It’s sort of a magical ride, as the grocery store we visit has a special cart escalator – the wheels click in and the escalator/conveyor belt carries the cart and Miss Q up to the store – with Miss S and I close behind.

Miss S enjoys peeking out of the Ergo – though it’s a little cumbersome when bending for lower shelf items.

I like to include Miss Q in the grocery choices.  Oh how her face lights up when I ask her what vegetables she wants to eat or what colour grapes we should get.  She is the Captain of the Cauliflower; Empress of the Eggs; Majesty of Milk.

When she sees something she feels we need, her asking technique varies.  Mostly it’s point-blank: Can I have a bakery cookie, Mama?  But sometimes she turns to Jedi mind control: You want to buy that tasty juice, Mama.

I have to admit, she’s 90% successful.

Though I miss wandering the aisles with my husband, having complete control over what we consume is delicious.  He still helps me make a list, but searching for deals and finding in-store coupons is a hunt I enjoy immensely.

Today as we visited the tank of crabs (over half of whom weren’t moving) I wondered what grocery shopping would look like with the girls in a couple years when Miss S is two and Miss Q is four.  Would there be fights over the cart or who gets to pick the cereal?  Tantrums over the flavour of ice cream?  Perhaps we’ll revisit my husband’s level of participation with the shop before then.

Exit Strategy

About the time Miss Q was jumping out of the minivan into the parkade, I realized how easy getting out of the house with my girls had become.  (I write this with the full knowledge tomorrow I might be eating my words.)

Today, aside from a moment with socks, the movement out the door was seamless.

Interjection:  Who, who, who at the Disney sock making branch thought it would be a good idea to include all the fairies on their Tinkerbell sock collection?  Clearly Tink is the fan-favourite, and for those of us who haven’t seen the movie, and don’t know the real names of Tinkerbell’s friends, the no-name fairies cause problems.

Miss Q wants Tinkerbell.  And when Tink’s in the wash, who’s she going to turn to?  ”Orangy,” “Wingtip,” or “Sparkle Madness”?  No.  Thankfully, her daddy had the time to Google their real names this afternoon and now Miss Q’s okay (for tonight) with the side-kicks.

Anyways, I don’t know if the reason our exit from the house has gotten easier because we’ve been refining it for five months, or I’m more disciplined.

I’d like to think it’s because we’ve been leaving the house as a trio for five months, but the reality is, I think I’m more focused, more prepared.  Though I hate planning life, I find myself running around the night before gathering items we’ll need for the next days’ adventure.  And much to my chagrin, being prepared works.  (Should have known, since I was a Girl Guide.)

Of course we still have moments, from wrong fairy on the socks, to last minute bathroom breaks, to spit-up all over clean outfits – mine and Miss S’s.  And then there’s my personal favourite: Miss Q’s handful of “friends” who absolutely need to come with us.  Sometimes it’s two, sometimes it’s five.  When the number creeps to three or more, she stuffs them into a Canucks’ lunch bag in order to by-pass the crowd controller (me).

As easy as it’s gotten to leave the house, because of the aforementioned moments, we’re still not hitting designated meeting times.  Apparently, I can be prepared, but once prep goes sideways, my que sera-sera attitude kicks in: what ever time we get there, we get there.  No need to make mountains out of mole hills.

Will we ever have a day where everyone is lined up at the font door like the Von Trapps?  Doubtful.  I celebrate leaving the house with everyone’s teeth brushed and jackets on, never mind the two-year-old racing for last minute stuffies.  Afterall, even Captain Von Trapp eventually ditched the whistle.