Tales of the Folicly Challenged

When God was giving out fantastic hair genes, I somehow ended up at the end of the line.

My hair is fine and stick straight. Any "bend" or body I might have in my hair is the direct result of sleeping on it wrong.

It's taken me 30 years to come to terms with my hair. I've finally managed to find a cut that works pretty well, and I've accepted that I'm never going to have a mane like Julianne Moore's (as depressing as that fact may be).

But, this post isn't about my hair woes. It's about my children's.

You see, my husband's hair is the exact same texture as mine. That means, genetically speaking, our kids never stood a chance. Great hair just wasn't going to be in their future.

For Josh, this isn't really a big deal. A little gel, a small tousle, and he's good to go.

But, my poor daughters.

They're stuck with straight, fine hair and a mother who doesn't know what to do with it. To top it off, Jilly's hair has so many cowlicks, it's impossible to find a straight part.

Thus, my hairstyle repertoire consists of the following:

* Ponytail
* Pigtails
* Headband
* Braids

That's not too shabby, but here's the problem -- we live in the South. And Southern mothers take little girl hair very seriously. Glance around any holiday gathering or school function and you'll spot a sea of adorable curls, loops and bows.

How do I cope with the hair pressure?

Well, I pretty much resigned myself to defeat.

My hairstyle apathy reached its lowest point last year, when Hubs and Jilly were attending the annual Sweetheart Ball.

None of the styles in my repertoire exactly scream "special occasion." I didn't know what to do. So, I did nothing. Nada. I ran a comb through her hair and sent her out the door with nary a bow, headband or curl.

I'm still not sure what I was thinking.

So, this year I committed to do better. I did a little online research on hairstyles for little girls. Do you know there are blogs dedicated solely to showcasing new hairstyles for your little princess?

Styles like this, this, and -- oh my stars -- this.

I must have spent 2 hours reading those blogs in awestruck amazement. Who knew there were so many style options? Who knew there were so many little girls who would sit still that long?

So, I set my sights high. I began a full hour and half before Saturday's party. We washed, combed, added product, heated up the curling iron, and by 45 minutes into it, I was in a full-fledged panic. My "woven heart design" didn't turn out (despite a practice run the day before). My Plan B -- a head full of curls -- wasn't even an option. Jilly's hair stubbornly refused all but the slightest bend.

So, I had to do some quick thinking. Thankfully, I had made 2 sets of flower clippies (to "dress up" my tried and true pigtails) the day before. Here's what we did:



It's a little "flower girl-ish," but it's light years better than last year.

And, for the record, I'm not giving up. I even took my standard braids to new levels for church yesterday:



With a good deal of practice, I just might be able to come to terms with that girl's mane.

And, with a little luck, it won't take anywhere close to 30 years.

Just so you know how we're holding up around here...

So, today was quite the day. Poor Josh felt horrible for most of it, with his lifeless little 4-year-old body sprawled out on the couch in the great room, watching TV. I spent a good part of the day running back and forth from room to room in response to Josh's frantic pleas for help. It would go something like this:

"I'm gonna throw up! I'm gonna throw up!! I'M GONNA THROW UP!!!"

Josh would end this announcement with a scream that could shatter glass.

At this point, I would immediately drop whatever I was doing and sprint for the great room, calling, "Get your bowl! Get your bowl!"

This little scenario played out about 20 times. He only ended up tossing his cookies four times, but that didn't make the other 16 calls for help any less nerve-wracking.

When my husband came home at 6:15 and asked if I was going to karate tonight, my answer was: "Uh, yeah."

I needed a little break.

Josh is bunking next to our bed tonight. I figure this will prevent my having to run at full-tilt down the hall to his room when I hear him screaming, "I'm gonna throw up!" over the monitor. There's nothing quite like being startled out of a sound sleep and immediately forced to sprint. So, I'm trying to make life easier. We'll see what happens.

Ah, stomach virus season.

There truly is no end to the joys you bring.

I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried

Each fall I volunteer at a local baby consignment sale. The sale has grown dramatically over the last six years, and I can find tons of great deals on kids clothing and baby gear.

When you've got three kids, you're kind of all about the deal.

The reason I volunteer, is I get to shop first (before consigners and the general public), which is an even sweeter deal.

So, before I headed to the sale a few weeks ago, I called my sister to see if I could pick up anything for her kids. She had mentioned that 3-year-old Ashley was really into Barbie these days and that if I happened to stumble across a Barbie doll or two, that would be great.

I get to the sale and spot one Barbie. She's brand new, in the box, and comes with her dog. Ashley is a huge animal lover, so it's a win-win on two counts. I buy the doll and when we give it to my niece, my daughter pipes up, "Ash, when you feed the dog his food, he poops it out."

Um, what?

Jillian explains that she was looking at the back of the box and Barbie's dog most definitely goes poo poo.

I couldn't believe this would be the case -- but upon closer inspection, it appears this is, in fact, very much the case. Check it out: You lift the dog's tail to open its mouth and insert brown food pellet.

You push the tail down and the pellet comes out the other end.

And, to top it all off, Barbie uses the included pooper scooper to clean up the mess.

Because she's responsible like that.

I've gotta say, I was a little shocked.

I kept trying to picture the Mattel "idea meeting." A bunch of high-powered execs sitting around a table trying to dream up the next best-selling Barbie. Ideas are being thrown around and then someone says, "You know what girls today need to learn? Responsible pet management. How about a Barbie that picks up her dog's poop?"

The unanimous response seals the deal. The execs think it's a great idea, and Pooper Scooper Barbie is born.

Crazy, but probably true.

In Mattel's defense, Ashley thinks the whole feeding/pooping thing is just about the coolest thing in the world.

But really, I think I've pretty much seen it all now.

Why I've Been a Little Busy Lately...

I'm going to let you in on a little secret. This whole "parenting three kids" thing? It hasn't been that bad. At times, it's been pretty easy.

Why's that, you ask?

Well, my youngest is not in much of a rush to go anywhere. As we ticked off all the baby milestones -- first smile, first tooth, rolling over -- our "ticking" eventually came to a screeching halt. We hit nine and 10 months, and there was no sign of Grace wanting to crawl. We hit 11 and 12 months (ages at which my other two children were already walking), and there was still no sign of crawling. Grace was happy to just sit where you placed her -- and if there were no toys within reach, she'd happily play with the carpet lint, thankyouverymuch.

If this was my first child -- or even my second -- I would have panicked. I would have sought out referrals for physical therapists. But my doctor assured me nothing was wrong. So, I chose to view Grace's non-movement for what it really was: a gift. The hardest part of babyhood starts the moment your baby learns to crawl. For the next year, your full-time job is to watch them like a hawk. Hazzards abound and you cannot let your guard down for one second.

So, really, I wasn't too broken up that Grace wasn't going anywhere. I could set her in the middle of a room with her siblings, and I was assured she'd be in the same spot 30 minutes later. I could make dinner. I could throw on a load of wash. My job as "Mother of Three" was relatively manageable.

Well, that has changed, my friends.

Finally, at 14 months Grace has started to crawl. And, to make life even more complicated, she's apparently on the "accelerated movement plan." Where my other two kids happily crawled for a few months before tackling how to walk, Grace is already walking with assistance. She loves to take on the stairs, and she's also my first cabinet opener.

All that to say, my parenting job just got exponentially harder. I've been a little tied up lately trying to scoop up the Polly Pockets before she gets to them, or making a flying leap for the stairs before she attempts them head first. Again.

It's going to take a little juggling, a little more multi-tasking. But, slowly, I'm starting to get the hang of it.

And, truth be told, it's fun to see her so proud of her new-found independence.

On Losses and Gains

Dear Jilly,

This past Saturday you lost your first tooth. It was an event that was received with great excitement.

A few weeks ago when the dentist noticed your bottom tooth was loose, she told you. "It won't be long until the Tooth Fairy pays you a visit."

Your big brown eyes lit up like Christmas. In the weeks that followed, you would proudly wiggle your tooth for anyone willing to watch. By Saturday the tooth had become so loose, it only took Daddy a second to pull it out.

Standing in the kitchen with tooth in hand, you declared Saturday, "the best day of your life."

As you danced around proudly showing off your new jack o' lantern grin, I stood there trying to comprehend the moment.

Has it really been nearly six years?

It seems like just yesterday I noticed that very tooth -- its white pearly tip just peeking through your little pink gum (and causing you a whole lot of pain, in the process). I remember leaving the pediatrician's office and calling your daddy to tell him, "She's getting a tooth!"

Your first tooth.

And now, like so many other parts of your babyhood, you've lost it. It's gone the way of diaper changes and baby baths, chubby nursing cheeks and wobbly first steps. It's one more thing that we tick off the calendar -- another milestone achieved. Another sign that you're a baby no more.

And while part of me mourns the loss of these sweet things, a bigger part of me celebrates the gains you've made.

You've traded in a baby's uncertainty for a young girl's growing confidence.

You've swapped out an infant's clumsiness for a young girl's growing grace.

You're developing your own thoughts and opinions. Your own likes and dislikes. You're starting to create your own hopes and dreams. You're learning new things every single day.

In your 5-year-old world, Saturday was "the best day of your life." And that's how it should be. You should relish each milestone, each accomplishment, each step you take toward adulthood.

But from my perspective, as I watch all that you gain with each passing day, as I imagine your future and all it will hold, I know this is just the beginning.

The best, my child, is yet to come.

Love,
Mama

Shoes, Glorious Shoes

"The one thing children wear out faster than shoes is parents."

-- John J. Plomp

I've said it once and I'll say it again: I do not enjoy buying shoes.

This sentiment applies not only to buying my own shoes, but to buying those of my children as well.

My cyber-pal Darcie over at Such the Spot, also detests shoe buying. Thanks to her, I won the cutest pair of shoes for Jilly. (Thanks, Darcie!) But, they are way too cute to see the likes of a playground. So, for that reason, and also because I do have other children, we made a trip to the shoe store.

Is it just me or does anyone else feel like a trip to the children's shoe store is equivalent to running a 5K?

We spent well over an hour in the store.

And the decisions.

Josh wants light up shoes.

Jilly wants glitter.

This shoe hurts.

I don't like these.

Hey, can I try these?

Where is Jilly?

Jilly don't walk out of the store!

Josh, put that shoe down.

No, they don't have it in your size.

Would you be able to check his foot for a minute?

Josh, just walk to the mirror and back -- the mirror and back.

And, if I was exhausted at the end of it all, I can only guess what that poor saleswoman felt like. It was the beginning of the tax free weekend, Stride Rite was running its Buy One, Get One 50% off sale, and she made at least 15 separate trips to the back, each time emerging with a new tower of boxes. And that was just for us.

While I was busy making crucial shoe decisions, my mom was feeding Grace lunch in her stroller. (Of course I brought my mom -- I'm no glutton for punishment. Taking three kids shoe shopping would put me over the edge.)

You know what my mom found?

You know what she bought?

Oh, prepare yourselves!

Your ovaries might ache just a little after seeing this:


Can you even stand it?!?



Oh my goodness. Honestly. Those little white shoes are the cutest things I have ever seen. By the way, the size is for babies "6 weeks to 3 months old." Grace is 14 months. Perhaps that's the reason she's not walking yet -- who can balance on those teeny feet?

Or it could have something to do with genetics. In our pediatrician's words: "Well, I'm not too concerned. You and your husband are not exactly the Bull Mastiff variety. You're more the Terrier variety."

That's doctor speak for: "Y'all are some scrawny peeps."

Regardless, the little white shoes made the in-store chaos totally worth it.

Apparently, she feels the need to make it official...

My 5-year-old daughter Jillian is an event planner in training. Hardly a day goes by when she is not busying herself with the details of the next great celebration she's thought up.

A few weeks ago, when I found myself a little under the weather, I discovered Jilly at the kitchen table designing invitations for my Get Well Party. She had already created a guest list. And planned the food.

Make no mistake, Jilly takes parties very seriously.

Well, it's a new day, so that means a new party is already in the works. This one has had Jilly rushing around in a flurry of activity. You see, it's a very important event. It's a "Crowning Party" (we adults would refer to it as a coronation). Who's getting crowned, you ask? Why Jilly, naturally.

This is the first "Jilly party" we've actually had to rehearse for. Jilly sits on a pillow in the middle of the floor, draws a name from a hat and that lucky person is the one to place the crown on her head and declare her "Princess of the Family."

Her words, not mine.

Josh (3) was the most recent one to be chosen as "crown presenter" and he was practically giddy about it. He ran up excitedly to the make-shift throne where Jilly insisted he bow before placing the crown on her head. Ever the willing servant, Josh happily obliged.

Jilly doesn't think I've caught on, but I'm pretty sure I know what's inspiring this latest celebration. It's all about the "Race to the Throne." Grace (1) isn't old enough to realize what's happening and clearly Jilly's seizing the opportunity to lock in her position while she's got the chance.

That, my friends, is one smart princess.

I'm Open for Suggestions...

I have a teensy little problem that I was hoping y'all could help me with. This Friday I'll be taking Jillian (5) and Josh (3) to the doctor for their yearly checkups. Normally, going to the doctor is not an issue. Josh, in particular, has grown into quite a cooperative patient. There was a time in the not-so-distant past when he would spend the entire appointment screaming in one corner of the room while I shouted questions to the doctor standing in the other corner.

Good times.

But, because the last several visits to the doctor have not involved pain of any sort, Josh has mellowed a quite bit. By "mellowed" I mean he's not hyperventilating in waiting room.

You know where I'm going with this, right?

These checkups are going to involve shots -- one for each child. And, what's more, because I choose to vaccinate on a delayed schedule, it will require another visit after this one for my daughter to get her second shot. She's gonna love me for that, I'm sure.

Here's my problem. On the drive to the doctor's office, I'm going to be hit with the inevitable question, "Will we get a shot today?"

Not to sound all dramatic, but what am I supposed to say?!?

I hate to lie. But is there really any point sending them into hysterics 45 minutes prior to the event? And do I give my daughter a heads up now so that she knows she'll be getting another shot in a few weeks? Do I bribe? Do I promise ice cream after? What do I do?

So tell me, oh wise Interpeeps, how do you handle it? Do you feign ignorance? Or do you just lay it all on the line up front?

Please help. I'm all ears.

Someone please pass the hair dye...

What is it with boys?

Can someone please clue me in?

I've mentioned before that I don't have any brothers, just a sister. I didn't grow up with any "boy" friends. Since having a son, I find myself continually amazed at what life with a boy entails.

Take today for instance. I just finished dealing with yet another one of Josh's head injuries.

The first head injury happened a few months ago and was to the forehead. Josh was busy flying through the house like Superman, with his head turned the opposite direction. When he turned back around -- whoops! -- there was the corner of the wall. Huge gash on forehead. Lots of blood. One late night trip to the emergency room. A few steri-strips later (couldn't do stitches due to the location of the cut). It's fixed. He still has the scar.

Second head injury came after falling off a stool in the bathroom. Head crashed into a ceramic wastebasket on the floor. Smashed the wastebasket and the side of his head in the process. Huge gash over the ear. Lots of blood. Probably could have used stitches. Opted for steri-strips. Luckily his hair has grown over the scar.

Third injury today at the pool. Josh asks me to wrap him in a towel. With a crabby baby in one arm, I use my free arm to wrap him up mummy-style and sit him on the end of the lounge chair. That's when, for whatever reason, he loses his balance, rolls off the side of the chair and smashes his face into the cement pool deck (because I so kindly wrapped his arms tightly against his side with said towel). Huge gash on chin. Lots of blood. Lots of Mommy Guilt. Could probably use a stitch, but really, why break the steri-strip trend? Now resting peacefully and Mommy could really use a stiff drink.

Here's the thing that scares me the most. Three head injuries in seven months -- and he's only 3.

I'm exhausted already, and I'm sure this party is just getting started.

Easing Up

When it comes to the everyday grind, I'm a task-driven kind of girl. I love a schedule and I love keeping life predictable. I can be perfectionistic at times. I've got control issues. I tend to worry. On the continuum of temperaments, I tend toward the "tightly wound'' end.

I have a very good friend who is my polar opposite. She rarely follows a schedule. She nurses her baby on demand, whenever and wherever. She might be 30 minutes late picking up the kids for carpool because her son didn't feel like finishing his breakfast or brushing his teeth. Her feathers rarely get ruffled. She's a master at "winging it." And while I'm not sure I could ever relax my grip on life to that extent, there's a part of me that would clearly enjoy the peace that comes from easing up a bit.

Enjoying the moment, instead of moving on to the next thing on my to do list is a constant struggle for me. Anna Quinlan says it best:

"...but the biggest mistake I made is the one that most of us make while doing this. I did not live in the moment enough. This is particularly clear now that the moment is gone, captured only in photographs. There is one picture of the three of them sitting in the grass on a quilt in the shadow of the swing set on a summer day, ages 6, 4, and 1. And I wish I could remember what we ate, and what we talked about, and how they sounded, and how they looked when they slept that night. I wish I had not been in a hurry to get on to the next things: dinner, bath, book, bed. I wish I had treasured the doing a little more and the getting it done a little less."

Summer, with its longer days and relaxed schedule, has encouraged me to ease up a little and experience life with my children as it happens. I'm trying to "be" in the moment just a little more, instead of tirelessly working toward the next meal, the next appointment, the next load of laundry or the next bedtime. I'm taking time to revel in the silliness. To enjoy the sticky kisses. To chase lightning bugs in the backyard.

Because the to do list will always be there tomorrow.

The moments with my kids, unfortunately, won't.

And now, a moment at the playground...

In my few short years thus far as a mother, I have come to realize that there are two parenting realities, dictated by the gender of your children. They are called The Reality of Raising Boys and The Reality of Raising Girls. This discovery was a bit of a surprise for me, because before I had kids, I figured parenting a boy and a girl was pretty much the same thing.

Because before I had kids, I was a parenting expert.

It didn't matter that I only have a sister, and didn't grow up seeing boys "in action." I had plenty of ideas on how I would raise my boy, if I indeed ended up having one. No guns. No violence. He would sit attentively through an entire Kindermusik class instead of running laps around the room.

Well.

God does indeed have a sense of humor. He sent me Josh.

For the last six months, I've been up to my ears in superhero costumes, foam swords and Power Ranger games (despite the fact that he has never seen an episode of Power Rangers).

Which brings me to our playdate at the park.

The kids are happily playing with their friends, while I watch from a nearby bench with Grace (11 months) and the other mothers. Eventually, Josh finds his way back over to me for a drink. I hand him his juice box. After a long swig, he hands the box back to me, keeping the straw for himself.

I know where he's going with this. I know what he wants to do, and I know what he wants to pretend.

"No, Josh. Not on the playground. It's dangerous to run around with that," I say, hoping to diffuse the situation without a scene.

No such luck.

Josh puts his hands on his hips. I steel myself for what's about to come.

"But I need a gun!" he declares.

The other moms stop talking and shoot curious glances in my direction.

Josh continues, "How am I going to shoot people if I don't have a gun! I need a gun!"

Here would probably be an appropriate time to mention that Josh is three.

I desperately wanted to tell the other mothers, "I DID NOT teach him that." We don't have play guns at home. We don't practice shooting people. Violence is not encouraged. As luck would have it, I'm seated between the mother of a well-behaved girl and another mother who has one of the most laid back, unaggressive boys I've ever seen. I doubt either have had this particular parenting conundrum come up.

"You'll just have to find something else to play with," I say, purposely avoiding any further discussion about shooting people and hoping he'll drop it.

"But that won't work," he whines. I realize he's going to keep pressing me for a solution. "I need a gun!"

By now, everyone's stopped glancing and is just watching, waiting to see what I'll do. I'm at a loss. I don't know what to do with this. I have no idea how to channel the testosterone. Jillian never wanted to play with guns and shoot people on the playground. I rack my brain.

And do you want to know what I manage to come up with? Take a moment to brace yourself for the parental "wisdom" I put into action.

"Well, just use your fingers," I say feebly, with my pointer sticking out the the thumb pointing up.

Josh thinks about this potential solution and shapes his small fingers into a pretend gun. He happily runs off with pointed fingers, shouting, "Bam! Bam! Bam!"

Yeah. Thanks. I'll accept my Mother of the Year crown now.

On the Eve of Summer Vacation

Getting ready for your last day in Pre K.

You can write your name. First and last.

You've learned your address.

And your phone number.

You can tell your left from your right (better than I can).

You're even starting to read.

You can swing all by yourself -- no need for a push.

You make it across the monkey bars in a single try.

Where is the baby?

She's long gone now.

A little girl stands in her place, her eyes toward kindergarten,

anxious and excited for things to come.

I can't wait to see how high you'll soar.

Why I Love My Daughter: Reason #582

Look what I found on my bedside table the other night, just before I crawled into bed --wildflowers picked as a surprise just for me. My sweet, sweet Jillian. Her tender heart is such a treasure. Her thoughtfulness often moves me to tears.

Being Number Two

My oldest daughter started talking at 9 months old.

My son began talking at 9 1/2 months old.

In both cases, their first word was, "Mama."

My third born? Well, she's Daddy's girl. All the way.

Grace started babbling early on. We first heard strings of "Dadadadadadada" when she was around 6 months old. In the weeks that followed, she refined it to sound like, "Dadada Dadee, Dadada Dadee, Hi Dadee." When Daddy walks in the room, the rest of us might as well disappear. In Grace's eyes, he hangs the sun, the stars and the moon.

I've got to admit, initially, my ego was slightly bruised. I mean, I was the one doing the majority of the diaper changes, waking up at night, feeding her and walking her around until she fell asleep. Hearing that first word is the reward for all your hard work. And when that first word is "Mama" well, life just doesn't get any better. You're A #1 tops.

Grace is 11 months old now, and I have a hunch she's been saying "Mama" for about a month, only every time she says it, my back is turned and I just can't be sure. I'll be feeding her lunch, turn around to get something and I hear what sounds like, "Mama." I'll swoop around, my eyes wide and exclaim at the top of my voice, "Mama? Did you say Mama? Say Mama!"

At this point, Grace just stares at me blankly. My overzealous reaction obviously stuns her into silence.

Then, "Dadada, Dadee."

I'll turn back around, set to work on something and hear it again. Something murmured. Can't be sure. Sounded just like... I'll turn around to look at her.

"Dadada, Dadee."

Well, last week I finally got the confirmation I've been waiting for. When I picked Grace up from her afternoon nap, she looked right at me, stroked my cheek and said, "Mamamamama."

Ah. It. Was. Heaven.

There is nothing like the first time your child calls you by name. I don't care if it's your first child or your 15th. It thrills your heart. And while I may not currently be Grace's #1 most favorite person in the whole world, I'll happily settle for being #2.

Because I've found the snuggles are just as tender and the kisses are just as sweet.

Five Signs You Might Be Living with a Superhero

You find yourself tripping over "super boots" -- a pair and a spare.





You've got "bad guys" hanging out in your hallways.





Your pot lids do double-duty as battle shields.





Your hand towels moonlight as capes.




You provide laundry service for items such as this: