I’ve become completely and totally attached to my long hair.
It’s long, thinned out, frizzy and I wear it up in a ponytail everyday. It’s unattractive and boring and yet? I can’t bring myself to cut it.
I made an appointment for Tuesday to chop it all off, or at least a great deal of it, but I can already feel myself wanting to puke at the thought of seeing all of the hair on the floor.
I think it’s giving me some strange sense of security. Like having all of this hair covers up the fact that I still have more weight to lose.
My brain. It tells me crazy things.
I feel like it’s time to let it go and to do something pretty and fun with it, but I’m not sure if I’ll be strong enough to go through with it on Tuesday.
If I do, I’m pretty sure that I’m going with something like this…
But the way I’m shaking just thinking about this whole “cutting thing” I’m pretty sure I’ll come back with “just a trim.” (a professional trim.)
Although my daughter is two years old, there are still moments in which I am overwhelmed by the reality that I actually have a daughter.
Watching her walk around topless, covered in Elmo band aids and wearing a pink tutu this afternoon was one of those moments.
I watch her prance around in her tutu, shoeless, shirtless, messy hair and I wonder what it must feel like to be so carefree, so innocent, so completely free to be who she is.
And I start to cry. Because I know that life isn’t always going to be like this for her. She’ll go through hard times, people will hurt her. She’ll experience pain. I know that one day, she’ll become aware of her body and how it compares to the bodies of other girls. Maybe she’ll hate it, just like I did, like I still do. I hope that she doesn’t, I hope that I can teach her from my mistakes, that I can be honest with her about my experience and that from me, she’ll learn that it’s a waste of time, energy and of your life to hate your body. I will teach her to love herself, to be proud of herself, to take care of her body and always be kind to it. To never waste a second hating it, for it is the vehicle in which she can do and accomplish whatever it is that she so desires in her life. The one and only life that she’ll ever have.
As I watched my precious daughter twirling around in her pink tutu,
I wished someone had taught me those things when I was growing up. I wished that someone had sat me down when I was starving myself and told me that I didn’t need to do that because I was beautiful the way that I was. I wish my mother would have told me that I mattered too much to the world to inflict abuse upon myself.
In that moment I realized that the words that I needed to hear my entire life had just been spoken to me through my beautiful daughter.
And in that moment, I realized, although I am her mother and it is my job to teach her about life, she is my teacher as well.
“Love yourself mom, because a little bit of you lives in me.”
And I used to say that I didn’t want a girl. God, I had no idea what I was missing without her in my life.
Whenever I watch the video of my first baby being born, I cringe a little inside when I see my husband breathing through the contractions with me because on that very important day in our lives? He was sporting a Haircut given by me.
My “problem” (and yes, it’s a problem) with “thinking I can cut hair” started when I was a young girl and curious to see how I would look with bangs. That set off a chain of events in which I would end up crying, or making someone else cry because I thought it was a good idea to “give ’em a little trim.”
Everytime I’d come home from getting a hair cut, I’d find something wrong with it and try to fix it myself. I can’t count how many times my husband came home to find me in the bathroom crying and saying things like “OMG. CAN YOU PLEASE SHAVE MY NECK BECAUSE I MESSED UP AND WENT A LITTLE TOO SHORT.”
I went through a phase where I truly believed I could cut my husband’s hair “just as good, IF NOT BETTER” than the barber and BONUS! I could save us an entire $8 every month in doing so!
Because my husband is precious and loves me,( not because I had went and bought an entire “hair cutting kit” complete with clippers, scissors and combs! at Costco) he decided to go ahead and let me cut his hair.
I was very pregnant with Andrew at the time and I remember the first time I cut his hair VERY WELL. I remember thinking “Seriously, how hard could this be?” But as soon as I started buzzing off the sides of his hair, I was like “This shit is HARD” and also “WHOOPS!”
The thing about cutting hair is that when you go too far on one side, you have to even that shit out on the other and um, let’s just say by the time I was done “evening shit out” he had pretty much NO hair left on the side and a big puff of hair on the top. I tried desperately to blend the sides and the top, but the only way that was going to happen is if I shaved it all off.
And let’s not even talk about the sideburns. (Or should I say the “lack of sideburns” by the time I was finished.)
I remember when we sat down to watch the video of the birth of our son together for the first time. Aside from the part where I was all “OMG. I think I’m pooping” as the nurse was all “No you’re not” while WIPING MY ASS, the most humiliating moment for me was watching my poor, supportive husband helping me through the labor with a totally jacked up up hair cut. I don’t even think he realised how bad it was until he saw it on tape. He was like “WOMEN, YOU WILL NEVER CUT MY HAIR AGAIN.”
And I agreed because, holy shit, you should have seen it.
One would have thought that my days of giving other people haircuts were over, but one would be wrong in thinking that. One day, a friend who always tries to make me feel like a bad mother was all “I cut my boys hair because why would I pay someone else to do something so easy?” I went all “Oprah” in my agreement with her “Girrrrrrrrrrrrl, I know, right?”
The next day, I went and bought a new haircutting kit (at Costco!) and announced that “from now on, I’LL be cutting your hair!”
That didn’t last too long because OH MY GOD, my kids hated me cutting their hair with a passion.
I had no decent place to cut their hair, so we would have to take kitchen chairs out back. And the cuts would take HOURS and those hours were filled with crying, screaming, tantrums, threats and sometimes? Bleeding.
The kids: Wah. Cry. Bitch. Moan. MOM! this is taking forever.
Me: I bet you never complain to the barber about how long it takes.
The kids: Yeah, because the barber doesn’t take 3 HOURS.
The kids: OUCH! THAT HURT! YOU’RE HURTING ME!
Me: I bet you never whine about that to the barber.
The kids: Because the barber doesn’t CUT THE TOPS OF OUR EARS OFF.
It was horrible. For them. For me. For the neighbors.
I swore that I’d never take a pair of scissors to a head of hair ever again for as long as I lived.
I meant it, I really and truly did. But then? One time? I was giving my dog a bath and I decided to give him “a little trim” and um, well, haha! OOPS. (I’m telling you, that “evening shit out” gets me EVERYTIME.)
Why am I talking about my problem with “cutting hair” again?
Perhaps, because I’ve done it again?
Only, this time to my poor, helpless 2 year old daughter?
I thought “cutting her hair will be easy! Just cut straight across the bottom! No problemo!”
I could actually close my eyes and see myself doing it and doing it perfectly. Obviously, I forgot that a) I was dealing with a child who can not sit still for more than .6 seconds at a time. b)a child who throws herself back when she gets pissed c)That I don’t have the proper hair cutting scissors and haha sewing scissors do NOT work d)I CAN NOT CUT HAIR.
Dr.Phil always says “The best predictor of future behavior is past behavior” and in “the past” I’ve jacked A LOT OF PEOPLES HAIR THE FUCK UP. So, honestly, what was I thinking?
It doesn’t look too bad in that picture, but trust me, it’s totally uneven and way shorter than I intended. I have to take her tomorrow to get it fixed, which means it will be even SHORTER and oh man, PigHunter is PISSED.
I don’t blame him, I shouldn’t have picked those scissors up. I mean, yeah, they were sitting there calling to me “you know you want to do it. Just do eeeet” But, I should have been strong, given them The Fingah and walked away.
Because, no one should ever have to suffer Jacked Up Hair because of my inability to STEP AWAY FROM THE SCISSORS ever again.
I spend a great deal of time and energy complaining and crying about things that I don’t have in my life.
A house. Extra money. A thin, toned body. Perky boobs. a nice camera. Etc.
There’s nothing wrong with wanting a house to call my own. There’s nothing wrong with wishing for extra money to take my children on vacations and to buy a nice camera with. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to get in shape and be thin.
However, when wanting and wishing for those things consumes my time, my thoughts and robs me of joy, something is wrong.
Especially when what I do have is worth so much more than what money can buy.
Bonds that can’t be broken.
(Unlike the wind that surely broke as this picture was taken.)
But most of all, Love.
(Brought to you by Love Thursday.)
On Wednesday night, whilst doing the aerobic dirty dance, The Aerobic Dance Instructor gave me the ultimate compliment.
“So perfect, Y. I must take picture because it’s so perfect.”
I believed her when she said it and left the class swollen with pride and cockiness. I came home and told Tony “I think my instructor REALLY loves having me in her class, because I keep up with her and know all the moves.”
After watching myself do The Dirty Dance on video, I’m PRETTY DAMN SURE that her compliment wasn’t sincere and that she was secretly mocking me, knowing that compliments only encourage me to “try even harder” and “take the dance even more seriously than I already do, which TRUST ME, is VERY seriously.”
I wish I could tell you that “Haha, I just have fun with it and don’t take it seriously at all.” But, the faces that I make whilst spanking the air would prove that to be A LIE.
(There may be a subliminal message hidden somewhere in the video and that subliminal message may very well be “Look! I wasn’t lying when I said that I gained 10 pounds back, except it was actually TWELVE POUNDS, but hey, I’ve lost 5 of the twelve, thank you Aerobic Dancing.)
This is not the greatest picture I’ve ever taken. The lighting is bad, there isn’t any beautiful scenery. Most people wouldn’t even give it a second look, I’m sure. And yet to me? It’s probably one of the most beautiful pictures of my family that I’ve ever seen.
I love it. Love. Love. Love. I love it for so many reasons.
The look on Ethan’s face. I’ve seen that look many times. That annoyed, disapproving look. I can only imagine that as I was snapping the shot, he was saying something like “MOM! Are you kidding me? Another picture? Who takes pictures in an elevator anyway? That’s so dumb.” And look at his hair. He has the “Eddie Munster” look going on. He used to do that shit on purpose. He got sick of “fighting” the widows peek and much to my dismay, made a decision to embrace it, to become one with it, to let the peek fall where it may. Oh, how I love that kid.
Andrew. My first baby. This picture was taken before he went “All Pubescent**” on me. He still had the chunky face, the nervous habit of playing with his hands and the “I LOVE SPENDING TIME WITH MY FAMILY SO DANG MUCH” smile on his face. He still loves spending time with his family, he’s just too cool to let it show as freely. You know how teenagers are, all growing hair in places where the sun don’t shine, thinking their too cool for school. Or for bowling with their parents, or for shouting “I love you” back to their mom when she yells it as she drops them off in front of junior high school.
(Funny story about that. It just hit me last night as we were eating dinner that my son, my first baby, will be going to HIGH SCHOOL NEXT YEAR. I shouted out “Oh my God! You’re in EIGHT GRADE, which means, you’re going to be a freshman in high school next year. NO! NO! That can’t be true… how is that possible?!” To which my son rolled his eyes and said “Oh great, here comes the Water Works.” And man, was he right. I couldn’t stop crying and CRAP! I’m crying again now.)
I do believe that the sweetest thing captured in this photo is the love captured between my daughter and her daddy. It reminds me of something that I wrote when she was an infant.
You are looking at the greatest joy in my life right now.
My husband holding our daughter.
The way she smiles at him. The way she grabs his neck and pulls herself close to him. The way she giggles when he looks at her. The way she just loves him and the way he loves her right back times 1000.
There are no words to describe the happiness and fufillment I feel when I watch them together.
We’ll see how true that is when she’s 15 and I tell her “No!” and she’s all “DADDY SAID I COULD… SO SCREW YOU!”
But until that fine day, I will enjoy watching the two of them together, her totally owning him and him loving every minute of it.
Not a day goes by that my husband doesn’t say “She’s the sunshine of my life, Y.” Not a day goes by that she doesn’t squeel for joy when she sees his car coming up the street after a long day of work. Not a day goes by that she doesn’t make him, Mr.I’mTooToughToCry, tear up from her sweetness. They have a special bond and being able to see it so clearly in this picture is the most beautiful thing to me.
Every night, when we lay in bed, my husband thanks me for my children and I thank him for being such an amazing father and sometimes we cry because we know that we are incredibly blessed to have those 3 beautiful human beings in our life.
I never thought when I took that picture on that hot day in September that one day, on a day that I needed it most, it would remind me of what matters the most.
Don’t let the balance in my checking account fool you. I’m rich, people. I’m so filthy rich.
(brought to you by Love Thursday.)
**More on THAT later, because, pooberty is gross.
My sister bought G-Unit that shirt for her birthday. If you ask her “Who’s loca?”
She’ll point to her chest and say with a pretty lil’ grin “Lala’s Loo-ka.”
Except for today. For TODAY when I asked her “who’s loca?” she threw herself back and screamed “Noooooo, mommy. DON’T DO THAT!” (And by “that” she meant “take another picture.”)
Oh, how I laughed because, “haha, she’s wearing a shirt that says LOCA and she’s acting all LOCA. That’s wild and LOCA!” But looking at the pictures “funny” isn’t the first thing that comes to mind. “Someone needs a flippin’ nap” sure does, though.
Thank you all so much for the birthday wishes. Honestly? (Which, honestly? Is my new favorite word. And, honestly? It bugs the ever living crap out of my husband. But, honestly? The fact that it irritates me makes me want to use it all of the time because honestly? I’m a brat.) The birthday wishes that you all left here for me was my second favorite part of turning THIRTY FIVE. The best and most favorite part was the birthday card/present that my husband gave me in which he misspelled the word “beautiful.”
I swear. I love that man a little more everytime he tries to be “Romantic”. (And I use the word “tries” VERY LOOSELY.)
The truth is, I was feeling rather panicky and scared about turning 35. “Thirty five? That’s only FIVE away from forty! FORTY! OH MY GOD! My life is half over and I’m still renting a house and… fat! And OMG! I’ll never be young and pretty again!”
Those were the kinds of thoughts that were running through my head the night before I turned 35. Then, I read the most beautiful comment from The Beautiful Grace and everything changed.
Please, dollin, you’re not old. 105 is old. Anyone younger than that has a chance for growth, pleasure and love.
Love your age, dear Y. It’s who we are.
Trust me on this, Joy Readers. I speak from the vantage point of my happy, upbeat 51 year old self.
Those words gave me comfort and hope. Yes, HOPE! Because, you know how I tend to be “Dramatic”? I honestly (HONESTLY!) was feeling as though my life were almost over because…THIRTY FIVE! But after reading that comment, I tried to change my way of thinking. I kept repeating “105 is old! You’re only 35! You’re not old! Have fun! Enjoy life, you young thang, you!” I was like “Screw this I’m old crap! I’m going to LIVE LIFE TO THE FULLEST!”
To some people, that might mean “signing up to jump out of an airplane” or “go swimming with dolphins” but to me? It meant “Time to start eating fruit and get back to the gym!” So, I put on my stretchy yoga pants, I doubled up my sports bras, grabbed me a cup of that healthy stuff called “water” and headed for Aerobic Dance Class.
On the way there, I was positively motivated and feeling like “This is going to be The Year.”
The year I get healthy. The year I make peace with my body. For good. The year that I become a better mother. The year that I learn to forgive. The year that I let it all go.
Also? The year that I reclaim my title as The Greatest Aerobic Dancer to Have Ever Danced Aerobically.
I arrived to the gym to find out that Bitchy Step Class Wimmins had won and that the schedule was changed to accommidate their needs and wishes. If I sound bitter in saying that, your ears do not decieve you. I am bitter. Bitter that they got their way, bitter that because of them, I have to wait until 7:45pm to Dance Aerobically, bitter that “Steppers” have more “pull” then the “Aerobic Dancers.” I’m bitter that the woman who started the whole “we should change the schedule to better fit MY NEEDS” didn’t even show up to the damn class. I’M BITTER ABOUT ALL OF IT, MAN.
When the sculpting class was over, I excitedly made my way to the front of the class and waited for Anna The Instructor to acknowledge my presence. (I admit it, I LIVE for her acknowledgment.) She did and then, she acknowledged my desire to “live life to the fullest” by announcing that “tonight, we will do The Dirty Dance.”
THE DIRTY DANCE, PEOPLE.
I was in a state of “I’m so excited that my mouth is watering uncontrollably” for a good minute and a half, but then, I looked around the room and was like “OMG! I’m going to dirty dance with THESE WOMEN?”
Now, I don’t mean that in a judgemental way, I mean that in a “How am I going to be able to dance dirtly and sexily with women wearing spandex shorts and HEADBANDS?” And honestly? I was wearing a gray shirt with the word “EVERLAST” written in giant letters across my chest. Not the greatest attire to get one in the mood to Dance Dirty.
Still, I was more excited than one should be at the prospect of doing The Dirty Dance in the aerobics room at a cheesy little gym.
At first, it felt a little ackward. Touching my body whilst doing hops and hip thrusts in a room full of strangers in spandex is just… weird. But, after a few minutes, I started concentrating on the music and how it felt to move my body in that way and I really got into it.
I should be embarrassed to admit this, but there was a moment where I was bent over, running my hands up my thighs where I got a little choked up. I closed my eyes and let myself really get into the movement and I started to feel in tune with my body in a way that I never had and I could feel the tears welling up inside of me and was like “OMG Y NO! DO NOT CRY IN AEROBIC DANCE CLASS FOR THAT IS BEYOND DUMB AND JUST STOP THIS CHEESY CRAP RIGHT THIS MINUTE” and that was the EXACT MOMENT where I heard the words “Lick my pussy and my crack” and the love for my body that I felt inside of my soul vanished and was replaced with “OMG’S” and “HAHAH’S” Because OH MY GOD. AND HA HA HA!”
You see, Anna The Instructor is from Russia. She came to America only 9 months ago and didn’t know any English at all. She can speak it, but very broken and she has a hard time understanding many words. So, when I heard the Unedited version of This Song (OMG! THAT SONG!) blasting out of the speakers, I couldn’t help but think “Does she know what they’re saying? And that there are women here who will possibly be offended? ”
I was NOT offended. Infact, I was the OPPOSITE of offended, if there is such a thing. I was like “THIS IS THE GREATEST THING TO HAVE EVER HAPPENED IN DANCE AEROBICS. Even better than The Dance Off because I was rubbing my legs and thrusting my hips whilst doing a “spanking” motion** to a song in which a woman is all My neck, my back lick my “OMG” and my “HAHA!”.
I wish you all could have been there. I’m telling you, it was awesome, people. Totally, purely, most defininetly AWESOME. I don’t know how I lived my life without this class for three entire months.
**I’m charging the batteries to my camera as I type this so that I can record myself doing That Move because HOLY CRAP! Air Spanking is dirt-ay!? I just hope I can get up the nerve to actually POST the footage because not sure that I want The Internet to see ALL OF THIS doing ALL OF THAT.
Crap, I’m old.
This is a test of the “IS MY BLOG WORKING YET? OH MY GOD IT BETTER BE” system. This is only a test. Had this been an actual post, you would be reading things like “I DO NOT CARE HOW OTHER PEOPLE PARENT THEIR CHILDREN, I DO WHAT WORKS FOR ME AND MY FAMILY.” And also “Is anyone else watching Big Brother All Stars and if so, hahaha DID YOU SEE BOOGIE CRY?”
This concludes the test.