Women's work

My daughters were deep in the midst of an imaginative role playing game.

They have dozens upon which they draw for daily entertainment:
- Molly and Sally go the store
- Snow White and Baby Horse at school
- Rudolph and Clarice at the North Pole

Loaf is often delegated the boy’s role, if there is one, or the role of lesser importance. In a recent game based on Little House on the Prairie, Peanut was Laura and Loaf was assigned the role of Jack . . . the Ingalls' family dog.

She doesn’t seem to mind.

Yet.

But I digress.

There they were, playing some game. They were chattering back and forth. I was off to the side, folding laundry and sort of half listening, but mostly lost in my own thoughts. When suddenly, Peanut, who was wearing a bandana tied around her head like an old-fashioned kerchief and a pint-sized apron tied around her dress said, “I will go pick the berries because that’s women’s work.”

I froze mid fold and stared at her.

What?!?

Over the past several months, Mark has been reading chapter books to her – the entire Great Brain series, as well as the aforementioned Little House on the Prairie books.

While I am thrilled that she enjoys this time with her father and is completely enraptured by these big books with few pictures, these are tales written in an entirely different time – a time when men’s and women’s roles were clearly defined, rigid and limited.

It is good to learn about these times – the historical lessons are important – but I’m less than thrilled that the concept of “women’s work,” has been introduced into my six-year-old daughter’s lexicon.

And who’s to say it even came from these books? It could just have easily been slipped into one of the old Disney princess films, or another source I’m not even aware of.

“Peanut,” I asked her delicately, trying to keep my tone casual, “where did you hear that phrase? Women’s work?”

She looked at me with a skeptical grin. Maybe my tone wasn’t as casual as I’d hoped. “No where,” she said. “I made it up.”

“I’m not mad,” I quickly clarified. “I just want to know where you heard it.”

“No where. It’s from inside my head.”

Which I know is totally not true. But I decided not to press.

Instead I launched into an explanation of how roles have changed. How “women’s work” is a very old-fashioned term. How women can do any type of work—and for that matter so can men. I finish my diatribe using our own family as an example.

“Dad does the dishes. I take out the trash. We both take care of you and your sister.”

“Uh, OK, Mom,” she said, turning to resume her game. I can practically hear the eyeroll.

A few minutes later, I am back to folding laundry (and no, the irony of what I am doing as I deliver my little speech about today's changing gender roles is not lost on me) and they are once again playing.

“You pick the berries,” Peanut declares to Loaf. “I am going to sweep the floor.”

And then I walked up the hall, found a good solid wall and proceeded to bang my head against it for 10 or 15 minutes.

And the laundry? I left the rest of it for Mark to fold.

Let them watch their father finish it up while I’m in the office today. I think it might be good for them.

Next mood swing in 10.6 seconds

Peanut, is still waking up early. Overall, she's handling it well, but when she loses it - she REALLY loses it.

After school today, she lost it. It started when she didn't want to leave school. A group of mothers were standing around chatting about something I don't know or care anything about and the kids from the class were running around the school's Great Room, playing tag and racing.

I wanted to leave. Peanut did not.

Out in the car, she bucked in her car seat and thrashed, folding her arms tightly across her chest making it difficult to fasten the straps. It was like trying to stuff an octopus into a sack. Every time I got one limb under control, another came out of nowhere to undo what I'd just done. I finally got her buckled in, but in the process, both of her shoes fell off.

As we pulled away, she started screaming at me to stop and put her shoes back on. Ummmm, no. Last I checked, I don't take orders from 5-year-olds.

Suddenly, something whizzed by my head and banged - loudly - into the dashboard in front of me. It scared the ever-loving crap out of me. Picking it up off the floor, I realized it was a pink plastic Fisher-Price unicorn.

And then, I lost it. Within 15 seconds, she lost her show, her treat, and I threatened to not let her go to ballet class tomorrow.

When we got home, she sobbed and sulked for a while and then (at her father's insistence) apologized and gave me hug. Within seconds of that, she was my happy, carefree, smiling girl again. The incident forgiven and forgotten. Moments later, she was skipping down the hall with her sister, their laughter trailing behind them.

I sat at my desk exhausted and rethinking the whole thing. If her moods swing like this now, what's she going to be like at 13? or 16?

I've concluded that I'm in serious trouble when the hormones kick in. At least I've got plenty of warning.

The fullest of threats

I am not a believer in empty threats. I firmly believe that if you threaten your child with some type of discipline, you have to carry through with it, no matter how inconvenient it may be for you.

Children are wonderful little beings, but you give them an inch and they take a few thousand miles. And you do them no favors by teaching them their actions don’t have consequences.

It was beautiful here Wednesday. The sun was shining, the sky was a gorgeous cobalt blue and the thermometer hovered in the 70s. Relishing the day, I packed up the kids and drove to the local playground.

A few minutes after arriving, we landed in the big sandpit. Peanut started digging a big hole while all Loaf wanted to do was use a sand mold to make herself a sea horse. Upon finishing she proudly declared, “Look Mommy! Look my sea horse!”

Before I could even praise her, Peanut rushed over and stomped on it.

“Don’t do that again,” I warned. “Say you're sorry.”

Peanut apologized with a shit-eating smile on her face and Loaf remade the sea horse. But again, within seconds of finishing it, Peanut rushed over and crushed it.

While Loaf shrieked, I grabbed Peanut by the arm. “I’m serious. Don’t do that again. If you do, we’re leaving. We’ll go right home.”

As soon as the threat left my lips, I regretted it. I should have instead put up “no treat tonight,” or an on-the-spot time out. I really did not want to leave the park on such a beautiful day, and this was a punishment that affected the very well behaving Loaf as well.

On the other hand, I figured the threat was weighty enough that she’d take it to heart. I knew she didn’t want to leave.

I. Was. Wrong.

The third sea horse was instantly destroyed and all the worse, she looked right at me while she did it, daring me to act.

“OK we’re going. Right now. Get your shoes.”

“NOOOOO!” she bellowed as she ran from me. A couple of nearby moms looked over and I instantly felt the shame of being judged for not being able to control my own kid. I caught her by the arm and pulled her to me, but she leaned forward and sunk her teeth into my shoulder.

From this point on, the situation became the proverbial runaway train.

“DON’T YOU EVER BITE ME OR ANYONE ELSE,” I screamed, no longer caring about the other mothers at the park.

I turned to Loaf. “We have to go honey. I’m sorry, but Peanut is misbehaving and we all have to go.”

Well, Loaf did not want to go. She simply shook her head while continuing to scoop sand into her bucket. It became clear I was going to have to carry her out and the only way I could do that was to let go of Peanut.

As I reached down to pick up Loaf, Peanut grabbed two fistfuls of sand and dumped them on my head. Sand ran through my hair, down my face, landed in my eyes and gathered in my bra.

This kid is going to drive me drink, I thought.

Furious, I picked up Loaf, stood and grabbed Peanut by the arm once again. “Now, in addition to leaving, you’re going to get a nice long time out when we get home.”

The sandpit is in the back of a very big park. I still had to maneuver past all the swings, slides, other equipment and about a dozen benches filled with happy, chatting mothers.

I had Loaf balanced on one hip and Peanut by the arm. Both were shrieking. Neither was wearing shoes nor socks, so I had those cupped in the hand at the end of the arm that was supporting Loaf. Every now and then, I’d drop a shoe or sock and had to stoop to pick it up.

It was the longest walk ever and I felt every single eye on us as we passed.

As we approached the parking lot, I sat them both on a bench and slipped on their shoes, but Peanut kept kicking hers off. So I asked Loaf to walk and picked up Peanut, who proceeded to pinch me – hard – on the back of my arm. She then drove her index finger forcefully into my collarbone. (Seriously, are they teaching self-defense at her preschool? Where the hell is she learning this stuff?)

When we got to the car, I set the barefoot Peanut down on the rough gravel, no longer really caring if the stones hurt her feet.

“You stand here and you don’t move one inch. Got it? Not one inch or you won’t see a minute of TV for the rest of the week.”

She was either totally worn out or she finally realized I was serious, because she stood exactly in that spot while I buckled the very unhappy Loaf (”Want to stay! Want to stay at park!” ) into her car seat.

Both girls screamed and cried all the way home. Peanut was sent straight to her room and Loaf sat on the front step and pouted for several minutes.

Me? I poured myself a big, tall glass of cold lemonade. Then dumped a shot of vodka in it for good measure.

Sometimes, even the threats you make in your own head need to be acted upon.

Easter: A study in sugar's effects on small children

Date: March 23, 2008. Easter Sunday

6:45 a.m.—After threatening her not to get up too early (“The Easter Bunny may not have come yet, and then he won’t come at all,” I admonish the night before), Peanut rushes into our room asking, “Did I wait long enough?” Loaf hears this and wakes up too so we all head to the living room to hunt for eggs.







7:10 a.m.—Eggs are found, baskets examined and we’re sitting at the kitchen table eating cold, colored eggs and cereal for breakfast. They are already asking for candy.

8:00 a.m.—Breakfast is over so each girl is allowed to open one plastic egg full of jelly beans. I get in the shower.

8:30 a.m.—I emerge from the bathroom to find that they’ve broken into at least two other eggs each and also eaten a few small chocolate eggs. They are running around the kitchen in small circles.

I take the remaining eggs and chocolate and stash it high on a shelf.

For the next two hours, they proceed to ask me for candy and/or jelly beans every two to five minutes. I hold firm.

10:45 a.m.—We are all dressed and ready to leave for Grandma’s house. I am trying to snap a photo of them in their Sunday best. Instead they are making faces:




Jumping up and down:



And refusing to look at the camera:



Finally, I bribe them with the promise of another egg with jelly beans if they stand still and let me take one nice picture. Wonder of wonder it works:



11 a.m.— I give them their reward, we strap them into their car seats and off we go to Grandma’s house.

11:02 a.m.— With Peanut thrashing her head side to side and Loaf waving her arms in the air, I realize that perhaps it was unwise to provide them with more sugar right before an hour-and-a-half car ride. Ooops.

11:45 a.m.—We aren’t even out of New Jersey and Peanut has kicked the back of my seat 432 times. Loaf is even worse — she is screeching at the top of her lungs (granted, she’s happy as can be, she’s just screeching for fun) and flailing in her car seat. Her limbs are flying in every direction as the sugar courses through her body. This is the longest car ride ever.

1 p.m.—We arrive at Mark’s mom’s house, a lovely home filled with many tiny, breakable things. I glance back at the girls. Peanut is bouncing up and down in her car seat as much as the wide canvas straps will allow. Loaf has a glazed over look and is chewing on the sleeve of her coat. I take a deep breathe for courage, make a mental Sign of the Cross and unleash them.

They bound into the house and immediately spy the two delicate bowls of jelly beans on the table. Before I can even get my own coat off, they have eaten more candy. I start to grow really concerned.

1:15 p.m.— I discover Loaf under the dining room table with a fistful of chocolate eggs in one hand and several empty wrappers in the other. Her lips are coated with chocolate and she is humming and waving her feet in the air.

1:20 p.m.—I am forced to remove all the beautiful and delicate bowls of candy from the dining room table. The more sugar the girls eat, the more they want, and they have lost all measure of self control along with any ability to listen or follow directions.

They head into my mother-in-law’s living room, where they proceed to remove all the cushions from the furniture, jump around and spin in circles.

2 p.m. — Lunch is served. I manage to get something other than sugar into their bodies, which is a very, very good thing. I hope this counteracts the effects, but as I learn, this has about as much positive impact as the proverbial cup of coffee for the drunk. It doesn’t “sober them up” at all. Rather, it seems to give them another burst of energy. We decide now is an excellent time for the outdoor egg hunt.





In addition to hunting for eggs, Loaf plucks every single budding crocus from my mother-in-law’s yard. Sorry flowers. Better luck next year:



3 p.m.— We head back inside to get Easter baskets from Grandma and Grandpa. They tear them apart in about 15 seconds, then begin pillaging their newest Easter eggs for goodies. Some of the plastic eggs in their bags have broken open, and they are frantically stuffing loose jelly beans and Raisinettes into their mouths knowing I am about to take them away. And I do. But not before they get a goodly amount down their throats.

3:30 p.m.— Cupcake time. Because what these kids really need right about now? Is an energy boost.
::gulp::



4:50 p.m. — Mark is helping his mom with her computer upstairs. I am attempting to read the girls’ new books to them, but neither can sit still. Loaf has head-butted me in the face three times and Peanut is rolling on the floor.

We head upstairs. My in-laws are in the middle of repainting their bedroom and the room is practically empty with only a few pieces of furniture pushed against the wall. It seems to be the ideal place for my kids, except that Loaf keeps opening the closet door and slamming it shut and both keep trying to climb on top of the furniture.

When they’re not doing either of those things, they are on the floor doing somersault after somersault and/or flopping on the floor like two fish out of water. Seriously, it appears they have lost complete control of their bodies – they are thrashing in every direction.

After Loaf slams the door one more time, I yell out, “THAT’S IT! GET OVER HERE.” My mother-in-law and Mark come in.

“I think it’s time to go because otherwise, I’m going to beat her,” I tell Mark. Which, is probably a really stupid thing to say in front of one’s mother-in-law. Um . . . Hi Pat. It’s me. I have never and would never beat either of my children – really. Just a little frustrated in the moment. Sorry!

5:30 p.m.—We are back in the car. Now, you would probably think by now they are ready to crash. In fact, Mark’s mom says, “Oh they’ll probably be asleep before you hit the Thruway.”

I would have guessed she was right. And under normal circumstances, she would have been right. But today, on a day when they have eaten more sugar than they normally eat in two full weeks, is an entirely different ball game. The sugar buzz is way too powerful. They are crying, whining, melting down and . . . Most. Definitely. Not. Sleeping.

I am talking on the phone with my mother. Loaf is in full-blown meltdown mode. She cries and screams for nearly 20 minutes before Mark (don’t-make-me-pull-this-car-over) pulls the car over on the freakin’ N.Y. Thruway, gets out, opens her door and says, “WHAT? WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?”

That’s it folks. We have officially crossed over into insanity. And what do they say? You have to hit rock bottom before you can rebound back. Loaf looks at him and screeches back, “NOOOOOOOOO!”

I calmly turn around and resume my conversation with my mother, who somehow doesn’t seem to hear any of this. (Or if she does, she is politely ignoring it).

6:30 p.m.—The car is silent. Both girls are sound asleep. Mark and I remark that it was like we had two different children with us today — children who did not listen AT ALL, were manic, hyper, physically insane and emotionally fragile. I have never seen anything like it. I really wish I had a video camera because I would play it again and again before every major holiday as a reminder.

Next year, maybe we’ll put coins in those eggs instead of jelly beans.

Wordless Wednesday: Tantrum

Click here to see more Wordless Wednesday posts.

Thou shall not lie (when there are witnesses)

Last week, when it was warm, Mark took the girls out in the backyard for the first time in weeks. The snow has melted and they opened up the empty sandbox. Inside, among the shovels and pails, was a small red rubber crab. It was a pool toy last summer, and it was coated - completely - in black mildew.

Despite that, Loaf brought it inside and deposited it in the bathroom sink.

"You wash my crab?" she asked hopefully. "Peas."

I gave it my best shot, but after copious scrubbing, the icky black mildew was still caked all over it and worse, when I squeezed it, a giant blob of slimy, greenish black gunk came flying out of the bottom of it.

"Oh my God, it just shit in my sink," I thought. Knowing that mold is not exactly a health food, and knowing that my kids love to put stuff in their mouths, I gave up and while Loaf was distracted, tossed Mr. Crab into the bathroom wastebasket.

"Why did you do that?" asked Peanut.

"I'm sorry, but it's never going to be clean and that black stuff can make you sick."

A few minutes later, distraction over, Loaf came looking for the crab.

"Where my crab?" she demanded. "Where it go?"

Feigning stupidity (and wishing to avoid a huge meltdown) I pretended to look as baffled as she.

"Hmmmm. I'm not sure. I just don't know," I said looking around the bathroom. "Want a cookie? How about finger paint?"

But it was no use. I have known for a long time that Loaf is not one to be easily deterred, and this was no exception. I offered up a number of bribes, but none could take her mind off that stupid crab.

"I want it! I want my crab! Where is it?" she stammered. Now, this was precisely the scenario I was hoping to avoid, but at this point, there was no going back, especially since Mark had come in moments before and emptied the contents of the bathroom wastebasket into the bigger trash bag, which was now sitting in a barrel outside the house.

Just then Peanut came sauntering back into the bathroom. "Mommy, you know where it is. You threw it in the trash."

I shot her the stink eye, but it was too late. The damage was done.

As Loaf processed this information, her face slowly transformed from confusion to fury.

"MY CRAB! I WANT MY CRAB!" She peered into the empty wastebasket. "YOU GET IT! YOU GET IT NOW!"

"No," I said. "I'm sorry, but it was really dirty and now it's gone."

I had the next 10 minutes in which Loaf lay on the floor, kicked her feet against the wall and screeched bloody murder to think about what I'd done. And I'm proud to say I've learned my lesson.

I will not lie to my children again.

Unless I am really, really, REALLY sure there are no witnesses. Lesson learned.

Just a little off the back (and the front and sides)

Yesterday, Loaf did something that nearly made me pass out.

One minute, she was happily sitting at the kitchen table, cutting strips of paper with her safety scissors, and not two minutes later the room was filled with carnage and horrified screams.

The screams were mine.

And the carnage consisted of her pretty little curls.



Yes, Loaf gave herself a haircut.



Looking on the bright side #1
It could have been a LOT, LOT worse. I've heard stories of preschoolers who put the scissors right against their scalp and cut. Or those who lop off ponytails below the band. So really, in the world of self-haircutting, this is not so bad.



(She looks so damn happy and cute here, it’s almost impossible to stay pissed at her. And she knows this. Grrr!)

Looking on the bright side #2
She also decided to give her sister a trim, but fortunately cut straight up into her hair vertically instead of going across the back. So it’s a few strands thinner, but otherwise fine. So again, we were lucky.



Side view after I evened it out.

This side is not so bright
She has bangs now. And a mullet. (Fan-fucking-tastic.) And this comes just when her hair was starting to look really cute. It was long in the front and a little wild, but in a sweet, curly-Q kind of way that only a two-year-old can pull off.



The back. It’s a lot shorter in the middle, but I refuse to go that short all the way around. Hopefully, it will grow in quickly.

Looking on the bright side #3
Fortunately, school pictures were taken two weeks ago. Phew. And someday when she is complaining to her friends about the bad haircut she had when she was almost three, I will show her those school pictures along with this post as proof that I did not do this to her. The therapy she'll need for this one rests fully on her own (hair covered) shoulders.

The crying game

Today, Peanut woke up at 4:30.

4-fucking-30.

A. M. !!!!

She was in a pretty good mood for, oh, about two hours. Then, it was a whole lotta whining and crying and complaining for the next 10. Around 4 p.m., she finally fell asleep, which was a mixed blessing, because at that point she wanted to keep right on sleeping until tomorrow morning.

Waking her up was a Herculean effort involving more crying, whining and complaining (and that was mostly from us).

But what was the alternative? Let her sleep so that tomorrow she can get up at 3 a.m.? (Or worse??)

After getting her sitting in a somewhat upright at the table and coercing her into choking down some eggs and toast (perhaps serving her breakfast might fool her system into thinking it was now time to be awake?), we brushed her teeth (she cried because she didn’t want Mark to do it) and then put on her PJs (more crying, because a certain pair were in the laundry).

And Loaf was no picnic either by this point. She too was quite tired and trying her best to take top place in the Gav family’s “most annoying child of the day” contest.

I decided at this point to let them watch a movie. I figured, best case, it would keep them awake for an additional 90 minutes, which might, maybe put them back on a normal sleep schedule. And worst case? They fall asleep on the couch in 10 minutes, but at least I don’t have deal with them anymore.

So into the DVD player went Ratatouille. Only Loaf, didn’t want to watch Ratatouille. So of course, she started crying.

Again.

And Peanut wanted milk, but instead of asking, she launched right into tears.

Again.

Mark and I stood in front of the TV, arms crossed, like two pissed off prison guards.

“No movie until you stop crying,” Mark warned. “Do you want to watch the movie or do you want to sit there and cry?”

“I want cry,” Loaf stated, boldly looking back at him. And Peanut agreed nonverbally, sitting on the couch wailing, tears streaming down her red face.

Me?

I had to leave the room to hide the fact that I was shaking with laughter. I’m not quite sure that’s the response he was expecting. I guess you have to at least respect the fact that even at their young ages, they know what they want in life.

Can someone please tell me . . .

. . . at what age does the ritualistic, daily carnage wreaked upon the Christmas tree by small children end? Because our tree has been up exactly three days and I am already sick of it.

Last year, I was so tired of reassembling the bottom third of the tree every night—restringing garland, re-hanging ornaments (and mending broken ones if possible)—that I took the tree down two days after Christmas (seriously) and gave fleeting thought to not even getting one this year.

Of course, those thoughts were dismissed immediately. I like tree almost as much as they do, which is why the idea of not getting one was so surprising to me. I was really in a snit.

I just cannot take it. Today alone? Three broken ornaments. And these are not glass ones – those are way at the tippy top and hooked around the branches in an ornament hook death grip. These are plastic or wood ornaments that they take off and then “play” with. A male reindeer is now a female having been relieved of its antlers, a snowman has undergone the world’s cruelest nose job with his big orange carrot unceremoniously broken off leaving just a little nub, and a little Christmas fairy was snapped in half at the waist.

All have been super-glued and will likely be just fine, but seriously . . .what the hell? And this extends beyond the Christmas tree.

My. Kids. Touch. Everything.

Years ago, I removed absolutely everything breakable that I valued from display. Even items formerly up on high shelves because my kids are not above pushing a chair or stool over to a bookshelf in order to retrieve something that has caught their eye.

And I watch them. I do. But you know, not every solitary second of the day. They just seem to KNOW when I’m wrapped up in something (in the basement throwing laundry in the dryer or prepping lunch in the kitchen) to strike. Crafty little munchkins, they are.

I have at least two friends with older children who say their kids simply weren’t “touchers.” I remember visiting one friend’s house when her children were 18 months and 3. All over her home were spindly-legged tables loaded with crystal frames and vases with flowers untouched—not even noticed—by her children. I can’t even fathom having such items in my home for at least 10 more years (maybe 15).

So tell me, are everyone’s kids this destructive or do mine have an extra-special proclivity in this department? And further, what can I do to break them? The Christmas tree and I desperately need your help. Soon.

Hair update: There is hope

It's looking better today. I used a different brush and my husband's gel. I'm feeling a bit more centered.

Deep breaths.
In and out.
In and out.

Wanted: One good wig. Or hitman to rough up hairdresser. Or both.

Alright, so here’s a story to which every woman in America (maybe every man too) can relate.

I needed a haircut. Badly. I pretty much had not had a haircut since the spring and it’s been a long summer of swimming and outdoor play. The ends of my hair were like straw.

So I started looking around at hairstyles and decided I was going to get an
inverted bob.

Shorter in the back – longer in the front. I was a bit nervous about this, because my 20-year high school reunion (ACK!) is about 3 months away and I didn’t want too drastic of a change. So I figure if I keep the ends to about collarbone length in the front, I can always grow it out by the reunion in November.

I walk into my hair salon and sitting at the reception desk is a young woman with exactly the haircut I am coveting. It’s about mid-neck in the back and sweeps down to grace her shoulders in the front. It’s adorable.

My hairdresser calls me back to his chair and I tell him what I want. He is nodding along in agreement.

“Actually,” I say, “the woman at the front desk? That’s exactly what I’m looking for.”

“Oh!” he says. “I just cut her hair two days ago. No problem.”

So I am thinking, “WOW! Excellent. He knows exactly what to do. I mean, afterall, he just did this exact cut TWO DAYS AGO. And there is a real-life model a mere 15 feet away from us.”

I get washed and return to his chair and he again confirms, mid-neck in the back, just past shoulders in the front.

“Sounds great,” I say.

And he starts to cut. And cut. And cut. And by the time he makes his way to the front of my hair, I realize that the ends in the front are just barely chin length. Barely. If I pull on them a little.

It is about this time, he realizes his mistake.

“Is the length OK in the front?” he asks.

"Hmmm. Let me see. Considering that it’s a full TWO INCHES above what we discussed, what do you think, fuckwit?!? Now start gluing all those individual hairs back onto my head, tootsweet. I don’t have all fucking day."

OK, I didn’t say that. I believe it’s in my best interest not to piss off anyone holding scissors inches from my head. And besides, what’s the point? What’s done is done. At this point, the only choice you really have to is make the best of it.

So yeah. My hairdresser somehow fucked up a haircut he himself performed on another woman—a woman who was seated only a few feet away—48 hours before. HOW???? DOES???? THIS??? HAPPEN???? TO??? ME????

This is especially upsetting because on my round pumpkin face this is just about theeeeee most unflattering length possible. It reminds of Sally Field’s “brown football helmet” hairstyle in Steel Magnolias. Not. Good.

OK. OK. I know. It’s only hair.

It will grow back.

Yes, there is at least a small chance that I’m overreacting to this. Wee. Minute. Teensy. I accept that. But come on? I don't think I know one person who does not have a "my hairdresser completely fucked up my hair" story. If one of my clients asked me for a newsletter and I delivered an intranet, I'd probably get in pretty big trouble here at work. Perhaps he was confused between "chin" and "shoulder?" Maybe next time I go I should bring a diagram of the human body? Sheesh.

And also, hello?? Twenty-year class reunion? Three months from now? People I haven’t see in two decades? Yes, vanity, thy name is Kimberly. I want to walk in there looking and feeling great. It all adds up to shit.

For the next 12 weeks, I’ll be taking lots of vitamins B and E and massaging my scalp and mediating to send energy to my hair in an effort to foster increased growth. Any other tips? Wigs? Extensions? I’m only partly joking here, people. If Britney can get away with it, so can I.



Looking really happy about my new haircut. NOT.



Does this look “shoulder length” to you? Maybe if I shrug my shoulders really high. Like to my ears. UGH.

Problem solved

This morning, my children woke up in utterly awful moods. There was much whining. There was a lot of screeching. There was fighting and slapping and snatching of toys followed by more screeching.

So I did the only logical thing. I tossed both their grumbly butts in the car, drove to the gym, dropped them in the babysitting area and made them someone else's problem for an hour and a half.

I'm starting to think my love of the gym has nothing to do with exercise.