Nevermind

Tags

children, family, humor, life, parenting, Relationships, sons

5:37 am and Ryder bursts into our room as though a pack of rabid wolves are chasing him down the hall. “I need to use the bathroom,” he says unreasonably loud. A moment later he is standing beside my bed, staring at me with his beautiful brown eyes, and hesitating to say whatever he needs to say.

I assume he wants to get into my bed and is afraid to ask. Instead he whispers inches from my face, “You are mine.” Then runs out of my room with the same urgency which brought him in. Oh my goodness, my son really, really, loves me! I couldn’t wait to share the news with B. I’ve always known Ryder and I have something rare — a very special bond.

His loving declaration was my greatest distraction that morning. When B finally awoke I couldn’t wait to tell him about Ryder’s endearment. B smiled and called our son over and asked, “What did you say this morning?”

Ryder replied, “I asked mom a question but she didn’t hear me. So, I said, ‘Nevermind,’ and I went back to my room.”

WHAT?! No! Impossible! Is this a joke? What a colossal misunderstanding. What wishful thinking.

B is still amused, I am crestfallen and that word, that terrible word, has been stricken from our lexicon. I never wish to hear it again.

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Not so hot 40s

Tags

aging, Family Matters, humor, life, women

A friend tells of an incident a few years back, well, several years back when, while out for lunch with an older supervisor, a group of men catcalled her. She groaned and steadily walked on as her amused supervisor foretold of a time when those catcalls and whistles would come to an end. “Fat chance,” the twenty-something thought to herself, “I’ll always be hot.”

Fast forward a certain number of years later, the former twenty-something-newly-converted-soccer-mom-wife can say, without batting a lash, those catcalls are not missed. Not one bit. 

However, each time that damned bag boy calls her “M’am” or when a twenty-something refers to her as “lady,” — yea, those are the moments when 40-something feels somewhat closer to the end of the road.

Being 40? Not so hot.

Lukewarm. 

Bouffant

Tags

aging, family, Hair & Beauty, Hair Makeovers, life, women

Major misstep after I gave the hairdresser free rein with my hair make-over. I’ve had the same hair style since, well, forever. I’d read somewhere —  and this has stayed with me ever since — that the appropriate length for women of a certain age should not be longer than shoulder length.

I don’t know why I take that as gospel but my hair was well past my shoulders, in fact, it grazed my lower back, and that’s just plain ridiculously long. So, without thinking it through, I asked the hair dresser, who I’ve known at least 3 years, to “update” my hair without chopping it all off.

She did. Except her update is more like a retro-fit. In the process of giving me a new look, she took about 6 inches off, layered it and put so many waves in it that now my hair bobs on its own even when I’m perfectly still. Thirty hours later and my hair is still cheerfully wavy, in an updated-bouffant type of way. I can’t bear myself. My family can’t stop looking at my head.

I need Jordache jeans, blue eye shadow and shoulder pads to complete my unintended retro-80s-really-big-hair-mommy makeover.

So much for free rein.

 

Chopped

Tags

2013, husbands, life, marriage, Pantene's Beautiful Lengths

New beginnings for a new year.

For some people their hair is synonymous with who they are. For others, their hair is a blank canvas that constantly evolves. I belong to the former — to those for whom hair is a constant by which they are identified, their marker.

A few years ago I learned about Beautiful Lengths, a charitable organization by Pantene which collects donated hair and makes wigs for cancer patients. It struck a chord and I made my first donation, all 12 inches.

This time around my cut was a quiet affair. The hairdresser fretted with her measuring stick as I made my way through Alice Hoffman’s The Red Garden. I walked out of the salon, my pony tail in a ziplock bag, feeling significantly lighter. Eight inches lighter.

Several hours later and B had taken no notice of the change. He was oblivious to the cut, the hair he’d tugged a million times, gone. And all the while, I waited for some recognition of the loss, I fumed and questioned whether perhaps my “marker” is a self-perpetuated grand illusion.

Eventually he noticed, though it took a very direct approach from me which included a disapproving look, a statement of facts and a full disclosure statement. Then he sat up and noticed.

I’d like to think this oversight is symbolic of our true nature, and not boredom. B is a grand thinker, a big picture type of guy who can see far into the future whereas I thrive in the detail, the minutia of an idea, and generally can’t see beyond my self-imposed deadlines. I often miss the forest for the trees.

My hair, my veil, is now lifted.

2013 and I am weightless ♥

Vanity

Tags

aging, beauty, children, life

I recently spoke to a good friend and mentioned that in the last week I’d taken my aging parents to various doctors. To which she remarked that our parents tend to look forward to these visits with the same giddy anticipation we feel when a rare night of complete, uninterrupted sleep is promised.

She then asked when I had last taken the time to get a real check up — and by that she excluded quickly jotted prescriptions from my kids’ pediatrician. Truthfully, I can’t recall when I last saw my doctor. I admitted that the only appointment I really want to make is not with a family doctor but with a dermatologist.

Why? Well, for the past year or so, my children have pointed out that “something is wrong with my face.”

What they see on my skin are moles or tags that same said friend explained are common after childbirth. If you connect the dots, the blemishes on my skin are actually their fault. However, I can’t hold seven-year-old twins and a five-year-old accountable for that; or, can I?

But really, this isn’t about how my kids are directly responsible for some of the irreversible changes to my body, or how I sometimes glance in the mirror and sigh, in a not so dreamy kind of way.

This is about disordered priorities. The size of my pores concerns me more than my general health.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll get that appointment with our doctor — besides, I need his referral for the dermatologist.  🙂