Sorry/Not Sorry

 

hair meme

Imagine the 80’s.

Now imagine 80’s hair, bangs to be exact. Nope, EVEN bigger with EVEN more hairspray.

Now imagine 8-year-old me sitting on the edge of the bathtub in our powder blue bathroom as my mom brushes, fluffs, and sprays my bangs into what can only be described as The Feathered Poodle.

feathered poodle

There was whining about how much longer I had to wait, complaining that she was hurting me, and endless fidgeting while she tried to finish up as quickly as possible. I know I wasn’t the most agreeable client, heaving exasperated sighs in my mom’s face and ignoring all of her pleas to just sit still. When she accidentally pulled my hair as a result of my inability to follow directions and remain motionless, she had to have felt some smug satisfaction. This is exactly how sorry/not sorry became a thing. Sure, she was sorry, but not as sorry as she said. She did try to warn me after all. I admit I’ve been guilty of this a time or two since having kids, so I know my mom had to feel this way also.

My mom would never have hurt me intentionally, I mean, other than making me look like a circus poodle. She was (and still is) the sweetest, most patient person I’ve ever met, but some tiny part of me knows that she couldn’t help but smirk at my momentary discomfort. I’m sure I had it coming anyway. Despite my adorable appearance (HA!) I could be quite bratty, but only to my mom. That old saying that we hurt the ones we love the most proving true.

My mom liked doing my hair, probably because she was good at it, and maybe that’s why I can’t be bothered. My hair skills are meh at best. She’d spend time separating my stick-straight hair into sections, wrapping it around spongy pink rollers that I’d sleep in, just so I could wake up and have curly hair which would then be a nightmare to brush out. Sometimes she’d braid it in one tight braid at the top of my head and I’d swing it around like a helicopter. While I loved the outcome, I didn’t love the process.

Now that I have two daughters I know what a pain doing their hair can be. Simply hearing the word, “snarls,” gives me PTSD, and must be why I keep it as simple as possible. Their options are: up in a ponytail or down. That’s it. I can’t imagine curling bangs, elaborate braids, or anything else that requires more than two minutes.

I love these moments in parenthood when we get glimpses into what it must have been like for our own parents, the realization that they were human beings, trying their best with kids who made remaining calm and patient impossible at times. Doing my girls’ hair now and having this understanding of what my mom must have felt helps me realize that one day I’ll look back and remember only the happy memories too, like feeling my little one’s silky golden strands between my fingers or her big sister’s perfect curls, pulling them down just to watch them spring back up. I won’t remember the rushed mornings of battling tangled bed-head as we run out the door, and hopefully they won’t either.

In the end, even if my mom was genuinely sorry for accidentally pulling my hair, that feathered poodle look makes me think she got away with the ultimate revenge. Well- played, mom. Well-played.

 

 

Advertisements

What Was I Thinking?

My 7yo daughter is at that stage where she needs to be constantly busy and entertained, surely a side effect from when she was a baby and we didn’t put her down for the first six months of her life. Hashtag first kid problems. So the weekends bring a fresh level of what-am-I-going-to-do-with-these-kids-hell. And that’s where our story begins.

We loaded up into the car to drive to the craft store so they could pick out a craft that would hopefully keep them quiet and occupied while I was free to do mom stuff. They oohed and aahed up and down every aisle. When my daughter saw the pom pom kitties, she was done. She squealed, grabbed the box, and that was that. I didn’t even look at what it was, other than it had things to glue to make a cat, or so I thought! She was ecstatic so I blindly agreed. Such a rookie mom move.

 

kitty

Make Your Own Cute Cats At Your Own Risk

 

With one child being super happy, of course the other child had to be super unhappy because that’s how kids roll. My 5yo daughter was moping because she couldn’t find the mermaid craft she had seen on a previous trip. Against my better judgment and to cheer her up, I convinced her to get a clay set to make her own charms. Something told me I was going to regret these decisions, but at the same time, they were happy so I felt like things were going to be okay.

Checking out, the cashier said there was a free slime project in the craft room if the girls wanted to participate. Of course they wanted to, so I agreed, feeling like the world’s best mom because I not only let them get a craft, but now they were allowed to make the most dreaded thing in the world: slime!

 

girls

Slime Heaven!

 

As we drove home, they held onto their projects, anxious to get started while I happy danced on the inside like, “You’re such an awesome mom. Look at you getting crafty, being all nice and shit.” But then we got home and I opened the pom pom kitty box and it was like, “Uh oh. WTF did I get myself into?”

There were bundles of yarn with some plastic thingymajigs, pipe cleaners, plastic eyes, a comb, and a tiny bottle of glue. Where the hell were the cat heads and bodies? I have to what? Make them? Out of yarn? But first I have to do math to figure out how much yarn I need? With a child next to me whining/pleading/asking when her cat will be ready? Oh hell no!

Let’s just say my mood went from birds chirping in the sunshine to storm clouds gathering. I cursed myself over the next 2 1/2 hours. I think an hour of that was just figuring out the math. I wanted to give up, throw the yarn across the table, and stomp out of the house, but we kept going. I worked through an injury sustained while “grooming” the cat, and even paused production to watch a youtube video for additional help.

 

crafting

When you (also) realize someone is documenting your descent into madness

 

Slowly, the pom pom kitty came together, through my frustration, irritation, and grumbling. After only 2 hours and 22 minutes, we finally made it to the part where my daughter could help (8 years old and up, my ass! More like 28 years old and up!). She glued on the details, gave her cat a collar, and voila, Fluff Ball was born. The look on my daughter’s face at our creation and her newest companion was priceless.

While I felt like a failure in the process, realizing I’m no Martha Stewart, I learned that the cat didn’t have to be perfect because my daughter would love it no matter if its head was bigger than its body, or its eyes were wonky, or the feet were jacked up, but that she would love it because we made it together.

 

ev cat

One Happy Customer

In conclusion, my review of the pom pom kitty project is 0 out of 5, do not recommend, at least for those who are not great at math and measuring and patience-having, but if you ask my daughter, she gives it a 5 out of 5 and wants to make 1,000 more.

 

 

 

 

It’s a…Book!

I’ve given birth for the third time!

It doesn’t have ten fingers and ten toes, or a perfect button nose. It’s not a boy or a girl…it’s a BOOK! And to get it out into the world was nothing short of a miracle.

I’m thrilled to announce the birth of my first book,

One Funny Mummy - Ebook Cover

One Funny Mummy Defines Parenthood (in 140 Characters or Less)

I’m not claiming to be a parenting expert, but I’m sort of an expert when it comes to delivering babies and punchlines. I much prefer to deliver the latter even though it’s not easier, and sometimes it’s just as painful, but it’s rewarding in very similar ways.

While I normally feel bad for babies born in the month of December, I’m super happy that my baby is just in time for Christmas. Just in time to be stuffed into every stocking you come across. Because who doesn’t want to wake up on Christmas morning and laugh about parenthood?

The book is a best-of collection of my funny-because-they’re-true tweets that perfectly sum up parenthood. Get yourself a giant cup of coffee, (or a giant mimosa) settle into the couch that’s covered in shredded wrapping paper and plastic packaging, and read the whole thing while the kids play with their new toys.

It’s the perfect gift for anyone who likes to laugh or needs to laugh, but doesn’t have a lot of time to read anything longer than a sentence (ahem, that’s everybody these days)! You’ll feel great knowing you did your part to spread a little holiday cheer this season, not to mention, you’ll be my favorite person ever.

Plus, if you don’t buy my book it’s like saying my baby is ugly…and you don’t want to be that person.