Bye-Bye, Bob

Excitement?  You want excitement?  For the first time in almost 20 years, I went into a hair salon and did NOT have my still-brunette locks hacked off into a sensible, layered Mom-bob - a hair style that is to my generation what the beehive was to my mother and her parenting cohorts.  That's right - realizing that I have (at best) only a few more years of full-bodied, naturally-colored hair left to me, I decided it was best to flaunt my tresses, as it were.  A bold move for this change-averse, new-hairstyle-wary individual, true - but I didn't even flinch.

After leaving the salon, I stopped to gas up the car.  Waiting at the busy station for my tank to fill, I decided to photograph my grand new 'do, complete with its long layers and its trendy slanted bangs, before I wrecked it up by sleeping on it.  So!  I pulled out my cellphone (even my cheap one has a camera nowadays) and took several photos of myself while standing outside the car.  Several, because it took me a while to get the angle right. "Who knows?" I thought.  "Maybe Larry will let me post one eensy-teensy picture of myself with my fantastic new hair on my blog."  (He won't.)

All this to say that, if you stopped by a gas station on your way home today and saw a petite woman with a kick-ass hairstyle posing in front of a gas pump while grimacing at the cellphone camera that her short arms couldn't really hold far enough away from her face and you wondered what the hell she was trying to do?

That was me.

Old Jokes Never Die

Rachel and Susie have a new hobby.  There's nary a trip in the car I can take without having one or both of their voices pipe up from the back seat:

"Mommy! Stop!  There's a STOP sign!"

"Mommy! Did you put your blinker on?  Did you?"

"Mommy! Why did you turn there?  Don't we go straight?"

Perhaps a better mother than I would find this habit charming. She might even decide that it is amusingly precocious.  As for myself, however?  The backseat driving grates on me to the nth degree.

So! As we were driving David to science class the other day, I had to swerve (twice).  I winced as I did so, knowing that my evasive maneuvers would unleash a torrent of commentary from behind me.  I was right.

"Mommy! Why'd you do that?"

"Mommy!  What's that in the road?"

David, more patient than I ever will be, took over the job of explaining.  "There were some bags of mulch in the road," he told the girls.  "She didn't want to hit them."

"Mommy!  Why is there mulch in the middle of the road?"

Why is there mulch in the middle of the road?  Now there was a question I didn't mind answering.

"Because," I said, "it couldn't get to the other side."

Sometimes?  Life is good.

Image credit goes to ivman's blague - do click on that link, he has a slew of great chicken jokes and a funny newspaper clipping.

7 Quick Takes: Problems

The problem with reading everyone's blogs is that I lose the will to post to my own.  You're sapping my creativity, all of you.  Also?  You're making me realize I don't have a single original idea in my brain.

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The problem with being able to do things I couldn't have even dreamed of 10 years ago - like, say, uploading images to a personal blog post - is that now these things take too long.  People, I had to wait 5 whole seconds for that 7 Quick Takes icon up there to load.  Doesn't the Internet know that I AM A BUSY PERSON?

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The problem with being a tad OCD-ish is that I have to make sure that there are an equal number of asterisks between each of these pearls of wisdom.  Nothing I can't live with, but still...

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The problem with having a husband who made me promise not to post anything here that I wouldn't want every single person in the whole wide world to read? Is that I can't post some really good stuff.  Funny stuff.  Damn.

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Sigh - the artist in me is so misunderstood.  My creativity feels stifled.

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Censorship is evil.

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The problem with complaining online is that no one can hear you scream.

 

Except Jennifer, over at ConversionDiary - she hears me.  Don't you, Jennifer?  Jennifer?

Henry Granju's Birthday

Today is Henry Granju's 19th birthday.  Or, rather, it would have been his 19th birthday if he had not died this past May from the brain injuries he sustained during a drug deal gone bad.

That's right - a drug deal.  Believe it or not, Henry could have been any of our teens.  He was raised in much the same fashion we all raise our children - vacations at the beach with siblings and cousins, birthday parties with extended family, school, guitar lessons - all the warm, family-oriented experiences that are supposed to keep our kids safe from the evils of the big outside world.

Sometimes?  That doesn't work.  Bad things happen anyway; they slip in there between the Goodnight Moon readings and the child safety seats and the family dinners.  Despite the love of his parents, the affection of his siblings, and the professional expertise of the counselors who saw him through a residential drug rehab program, Henry is dead.  After 3 years of what must have been an emotional roller coaster for his parents, they received the sort of closure no parent wants.

Click on over to the Facebook group Acts of Kindness for Henry if you feel moved to memorialize his life by paying forward some kindness.  Let Katie Granju know that her oldest child has not simply disappeared without a trace; help his memory live on in the good deeds of others.  As far as memorials go, this idea sure beats a pile of  teddy bears, you know?

And Your Little Girl Scout, Too!

Whew!  I've spent the last 2 days re-adjusting to life with kids around.  Go figure - I have almost 19 years of living with kids under my belt; yet, after a mere 36 hours off, I forgot how to manage.  What?  You want to be fed?  What do you mean, "Where are my clean clothes?"  And, for heaven's sake, can't you go to the potty without announcing it?

I'll be okay - I mean, I think I'll be okay.  A little chocolate wouldn't hurt, though....

On the bright side, however, the friends Larry and the kids went camping with are planning another camp-out for the spring.  I vote for Mother's Day weekend, myself.  Forget the flowers and the card - just make yourselves scarce for a couple of days.  Absence makes the heart grow fonder, and all that...

Look - I am a mere burned-out shell of the mother I used to be, and I know it.   Generally, I have made peace with the fact that I am not nearly as fun and optimistic and energetic, parenting-wise, as I was 10 years ago.  Generally.  Unfortunately, we have Girl Scouts tomorrow. 

As mentioned previously in this blog, most of the mothers in this particular scout troop - wonderful women, all of them - are still young enough to be members of the zealously nurturing school of parenting.  I know they must see me as a cautionary tale, a ghost of parenting future, as it were.  I don't get excited about trips to the local fake pumpkin farm, I couldn't care less what badge the girls are working on, and damned if I'm sleeping in a tent just so the 8-year-olds can have what is essentially a big outdoor slumber party.

You know, you can microwave a s'more.

In short?  Going to these meetings, much as I like the other mothers there, makes me feel like a gray-haired old hag.  I swear, I start channeling the evil witch who appeared at Sleeping Beauty's christening. 

Wet blanket, anyone?











[Image credit: Coupon Smarter]

[Image credit: AccidentalMommies]

[Image credit: National Geographic Kids]