Top 10 Ways My Toddler is Like a Homeless and/or Crazy Person

I've started to notice some things lately... some general observations about my 2-year old daughter. She, and her fellow toddler contingent in general, exhibit behavior resembling... well, a mentally unsound street person. Yes, that's right, I am comparing my precious, beautiful daughter to a insane vagrant. Here's why:

 

 

10.)  She eats her meals on the go, taking bites while hunched in a corner or while walking around talking to herself.

9.)  She talks to herself.

8.)  She occasionally growls at strangers.

7.)  Aggressive behavior may spring forth at any moment.

6.)  She carries around collected money, old bits of food, and other random small objects in a change purse.

5.)  She asks for money when she sees it.

4.)  She asks for food when she sees it.

3.)  Personal hygiene is not a priority. And she occasionally pees on herself and/or her bedding.

2.) She finds creative (and crazy) uses for objects.
"This glove is for squirting babies."  "My forks hold my shirt."

And the #1 reason my toddler is like a homeless and/or crazy person:

1.) She pushes her most prized objects around in a shopping cart.
This may include blankets, cups of water, dogs, babies, weapons, snacks, sun glasses, shoes, and so on...

I know this is potentially offensive. To the (many) rational, down-and-out folks who are homeless (and reading this blog? =none), I apologize. What can I say? Childish impulses do often resemble insanity.

Plushie Hatin'

Stuffed animals are lame.

I mean, yes, they are actually unable to walk - the definition of lame. But they're also distasteful little puffs of fabric that collect dust and take up more space than they're worth.

Did I just define myself as a terrible person? Does not like stuffed animals = evil; cold-hearted.

Okay look, I don't hate all stuffed animals, just collections of them.

When I had my son, lots of people gifted him with stuffed creatures - which was fine at first. We kept them on a shelf and stared at them on occasion. He never played with them; I guess he's just not a stuffed-animal sort of kid. (Good boy that he is.) But then he continued to amass them over the years.

People gift them and try to pass them down - by the garbage sack full. No, we really do not want your collection of seven dozen stuffed animals from your childrens' childhoods. Whatever would I do with them?

Get one of these? An ugly avalanche of stuffed animal suffocation straight out of the 80's?

Or these? A strange perpendicular zoo/jail?

Please no.

So, I was all smug and proud of my plushie-hatin for the first couple of years of my son's life. Well, in a mostly polite, quiet kind of way. (Expect to my mom; she got the uncensored version of my, NO, DO NOT give my child another stuffed anything.) And this worked out pretty well for us; we kept our plushie numbers down.

Someone once gave my son, at 4-years old, a teddy bear to which he later said to me, "But Mom, how do I play with it?" ...So, he and I were pretty much on the same page.

Then.... I birthed this little girl. This little child, who as it turns out, cradles, feeds, pets, hugs, cleans, and generally loves on every small living and pretend-living creature that crosses her path. She loves animals. She loves babies. And yes, she is a first-rate plushie-lover.

Dolls and stuffed animals litter - yes litter - her small, shared bedroom. And when she goes to sleep at night, an arsenal of textiled-stuffing blankets her body; she will have it no other way. Dog, Kitty, and Bunny (pink and brown bunny, not the white one, or the pink one, or the brown with white spots one) are her Top 3. They are must in the crib. Whatever else has caught her fancy for the day will join the Top 3 in the cushy zone of privilege that is crux of her little arms.

When they're not lining her sleeping body, she pushes them around in a toy shopping cart or a stroller, stuffs them in her clothes, carries them on walks, sets them on chairs around the table or next to her in the high chair...

It's like they're taunting me. Those glass-eyed little critters sitting up tall everywhere I look, with their complacent little smiles. They won. They fill my home. They are a collective whole that could be termed a collection.

Like absolutely everything else in parenting, my plushie hatin has been ground down into a fat slice of humble pie. Anything I was successful with in the earliest years of parenting my first, my second child came along and beat me over the head with my self-congratulatory confidence. So different; they are so different.

Each child is a wholly unique creature. We should remind ourselves of this before we judge other parents based upon our own experiences.

So, you win, you lame little pieces of fluff; you win.

Trash Digging

Among my (many) poor qualities, pridefulness does not rank high.

I have never owned a fancy or even a brand new car, and I do not aspire to. Until recently, I held out with a dinosaur of a cell phone that flipped open and was anything but smart. I *might* have worn the same yoga pants 3 times this week. Oh, and I occasionally bring home other people’s trash.

Yes, that's right, trash - straight from the curb on trash day, carted back to my nice, clean home.

What can I say... other than that I take a lot of walks, so I see stuff. Plus I do live in a rather affluent area; people throw away some pretty nice things here. Wait, hold on, that’s not a very good excuse; when I lived among people poorer than myself, I still brought home trash.

In our mid-twenties, my husband and I rented a house on campus from the university where he did his doctorate. Our charming little white house was surrounded by apartments of undergrads, and I might have brought home their trash once or twice too: drunken-mid-western-teenager's trash.

I recall a so-procured office chair (that was pretty uncomfortable) and, my favorite: a desk that I dragged from the side of a dumpster into our backyard. Before I could get out to purchase a proper dog house for our newly adopted puppy, I gave the DIY/(very) recycled method a go. That cheap desk, only slightly transformed, with a straw bed inside, served our pup well in the first weeks.

Originally, I had plastic stapled to the roof of said-desk to help with warping from rain/snow. Not a week later, a huge storm ripped through town and left building debris and roof shingles scattered across the roads. Imagine my euphoria: I needed some roof shingles to cover the top of my dog’s desk, er, house, and then, like mana from heaven, roof shingles came raining down.

I would go so far as to say this dog house was preordained by God himself. Can’t you just tell by looking at it?

(pre-roof shingles)

Right, so in addition to the desk/dog-house, I’ve picked up a few other things here and there, curbside. While I am a far cry from a hoarder - I give, sell, or throw away anything my household is not putting to use - sometimes, well, we can put other people’s trash to use.

While vacationing in New England, I once walked past this fantastic old painted tray. I was sure to make some room in my suitcase so that treasure of a souvenir could make it home with me.

And lately, here among my working-wealthy-urbinite neighbors, my repertoire of acquisitions includes: a mini basketball hoop, a plastic teeter-totter, a couple of spare chairs, a hideous framed painting that was great for recovering with fabric, a half-dead tree that came back to life… and probably some other stuff I don't remember.

Why let them go to the landfill if I can rescue them back into use?
 

I think this sporadic hobby of mine generally mortifies my husband; if I have to enlist his help in carrying the article home, he is none too happy to walk up to someone’s trash at the curb and walk away carrying something. I can understand that.

It does make me feel a little hillbilly-ish, strolling down PCH, past the mansions, with a piece of furniture hanging out of my stroller… stopping the flow of Mercedes and BMW’s, in my grubby exercise clothes, so I can cross the street yielding a large piece of “garbage.”

But my hilarious and humiliating jaunts are worth it for me - to sacrifice how I look for that moment for what I get out of it that’s lasting.

Recently, on my way home from an afternoon walk, I passed a little brown desk, set out to the curb in the rain. I kept walking. Turned around. Did a second walk past. Yes, that has potential. I picked it up and ambled awkwardly down the sidewalk for the remaining 25 yards until I got home.

I don’t need a desk. But I brought it home anyway. I cleaned it up and applied a coat of hip paint and a little bit of sanding. Voila. It was a useful stand for party-favors at a soiree that weekend and the following week I sold it on Craigslist. $50, thank you very much.

And what did it cost me? Just a little bit of elbow-grease and an ounce of pride.

I'm just saying, sometimes when you swallow your pride, you burp up a treasure. Or $50.

May my trash digging escapades inspire you to consider what you would bring home, or do differently, or not buy if it weren't for your pride.

Hello. My Name is Frazzled. (But You Can Call Me Mom.)

I was just telling a friend my kids had me particularly frazzled today and she expressed surprise. "So you are like the rest of us," she said with what I will infer to be a relieved chuckle. Whaaaaaaaaaaat? How I have hidden my parenting ineptitude from her for so long I do not know. 

Well, this one is for her, and for every other mama out there having a rough kid-day.

Some days I call them the Tag Team of Terror. My husband calls them Terrorists. They are our children. And whatever unflattering T-word you want to use, they seem to have both reached a pinnacle age for difficulty. ...Well actually, probably not, as we're only 5 years into this parenting thing and I fear we have a whole lot of difficult phases ahead. But regardless, those little T's are pretty darn difficult in tandem right now.

Should I admit that it's feels a tad cathartic calling them little T's? It's almost like I'm cussing at them, but not. Maybe that's how I should start expressing anger: call things by their first letter in accusatory tones. Stub my toe on the door and shout at said-door, "You D!" When my husband is upsetting me, "Stop being a B!" ...wait, that one doesn't work so well.

But back to my little T's. They got the best of me today, I'm afraid.

They fought. One screamed - a whole lot - like it was her only means of communicating. One argued - a whole lot - like he had suddenly acquired wisdom. They were loud, difficult, full of complaints and seemed to need the same toy/piece of food/pen/EVERYTHING at the same moment in a repeating round of bickering.

Why?!? (Picture arms outstretched to the sky, beseeching God.)

From the moment my daughter woke up and started screaming demands to be rescued from her crib...(Yes, she's nearly 2 and still in a crib; I like to keep them trapped as long as possible.)... and my son came sauntering out of bed complaining about the day of the week - it's been nonstop.

Unfortunately, to top-off the chaos of their combined-75-lbs of self-centered childishness + grumpy x2, I took them to the store in this state.

Short of sharing that unsavory experience, let me just say that there were a number of times I wanted to look around indignantly, like I might be thinking someone is playing a trick on me. (God?) But I didn't because then I might have had to meet the stares of the unfortunate shoppers in the store at the same time as us.

I take that back, those shoppers were not unfortunate. They were the opposite of unfortunate because they were not me. They got to watch/listen and get a free little pop of gratitude for their own lives.

I, on the other hand, came home from the arena for complaints and bickering, aka Fresh & Easy, looking like a haggardly old lady. Not that I had time to glance in a mirror to actually know what I looked like, but I could just feel it, feel the haggardly sticking right onto my forehead crease lines, unshaven legs, and Mom Jeans.

Are you kidding me? I only have two kids. 2! Why are they besting me?

How is it that two little humans, that I actually love so abundantly, can challenge my sanity so
completely? Can exhaust me so thoroughly? Can frustrate me so adeptly?

Little T's.

I feel I should balance my pretend-cursing at my kids with a more loving reminder on the joy and beauty of parenthood, but I don't want to. Not today anyway. Today I am simply commiserating with every other parent out there that, yes, raising little people is a ridiculously difficult, humbling job.

For some encouraging, uplifting parenting reminders,

you can check out my pal's post here.

Playground Love: Part II

Well, Love Bird mastered the challenge of drawing a heart. Can you tell?

Who are those other two spider-people next to the smiling-holding-hands-surrounded-by-hearts-couple? That's Lily's mom and me, who apparently also get to be present at their rendezvous. Good boy; chaperons are a good thing. But why do we look so angry?

Oh, and I *might* have encouraged the word "friends" instead of "love" inside that big heart. I didn't want to freak Lily's parents out too much. Plus the whole this isn't real love thing....

Playground Love

“There’s this girl. She had a white dress on yesterday and today she had on a red dress. When I see her, it just makes me think that girls are pretty,” said my son the second week of kindergarten.

What?! I guess that is starting now.

Luck was on my little Love Bird's side that week because we ran into said-girl at the park. “That’s the girl I told you about,” he whispered to me, pointing discretly to an adorable brunette running in circles around a tree-trunk. He bravely walked right over and introduced himself. (Is it brave? Does he realize there's anything to be afraid of?) The two proceeded to spend a few hours running around together, with a small pack of their siblings and other playground-instant-friends, in the Sunday afternoon sunshine.  It was pretty easy to pick-up on Love Bird's admiration of this girl, we now know is named Emma, as he followed her around and somersaulted next to her.

We heard a lot about Emma that week.

The following week, Love Bird came home talking about Lily. Who's Lily?

 

Lily sits next to him at Rug Time in his classroom and they had drawn pictures together that afternoon. Sorry Emma, that is pretty tough to compete with. Love Bird and Lily had exchanged drawings at the end of class, so my son came home with a random splay of lines on a paper, with her name across the top, and a small, somewhat discrete heart in the bottom corner.

Love Bird definitely noticed the heart.

We spent the next half hour with him trying to learn how to draw a heart. I must admit, this unfurled into him whining and crying that it was too hard and me yelling at him that he wasn’t listening to me. (Mommy-fail-moment.) When we both calmed down, he said, “I want to do it the easier way; can you show me how to write ‘love?’”

That would be when I realized he didn't just want to learn to draw a heart like her; he wanted to learn to draw one for her. That's inspiration.

Well, instead, he ended up taking the easy way out and reciprocating the love letter to his classmate in a way he knew how: a little tiny her and a little tiny him with the word “love” written above it was quickly produced.

Nothing says love like extra-long arms, missing torsos, and crazy-big eyes.
 

But then my little Love Bird asked to change his drawing to instead say “I love you” and that, for some unexplainable reason, had crossed a line for me. No. I want him to understand the significance of what love means – not to squander the word on whichever girl draws him a picture that day or wears a pretty dress. (What is pretty to a 5-year old boy, I am not sure.)

I proceed to launch into an entire lecture on the meaning of love and how the word is appropriate for those we know well and care deeply about. (Meanwhile, my attention-monger of a daughter is sitting next to us in my spinning office chair demanding that someone spin her. I am trying to stay focused on this serious conversation with Love Bird and ignore the increasingly indigent shouts of, “Turn! Turn!”) Why don’t I just let him tell her he loves her? That certainly would be easier.

But it would also be a lie. Love is deep and meaningful. It is bigger than a crush. I guess I just want that to be clear from the beginning – and this is very truly the beginning.

I encourage Love Bird to instead compliment what he likes about Lily or how he enjoys her friendship.

“Do you understand?” I ask him.

“Yes, I understand,” he replies. And then, “Can I write ‘I love you’ now?”

 

 

Oh well. He'll probably forget to take it to school with him tomorrow anyway.

 

 

Yard Art: A Story Without a Point

Sometimes nature is just not on an animal's side.

Am I now going to launch into a tyrade against my defective genes/my inhereted (BRCA) gene mutation responsible for the massive tumor that grew across my chest throughout my 20's?

No. I'm going to talk about bunnies. Again.



How I wish I had a picture to share with you.
I nearly recreated everything just to show you;
except we now live 2200 miles from that yard.
But you can imagine something akin to this.

It has been my experience that mother bunnies don’t canvas an area very well before stowing their babies. We once found a little burrow of baby bunnies right smack in the middle of our lawn. No trees around, no logs, no rocks, just right there in the open - in the middle of a grassy yard. Oh, and a yard that housed two rambunctious, large dogs.

In spite of Mother Bunny’s stupidity (we probably would have been doing Mother Nature a favor by letting this creatures’ offspring die), we felt the need to protect these innocent, furry little lives.

We were afraid to move them, in case this fantastic specimen of a parent would then either abandon or not be able to find them. But we couldn't keep our dogs inside the house for the next however long until the bunnies grew up and left the nest. What to do?

Well, we took near bouts everything we had in the yard and garage and built a sort of cage around the burrow. Lawn chairs, bistro tables, rakes, all manner of yard fare was piled in an encapsulating circle of fantastic yard art. It was a tottering tower of protection. A staggering statue of ingenuity. A fanciful fortress of fortification… Okay I’m done. It was cool. In a hillbilly sort of outlandishly strange creation.

We thought it would keep the dogs away during the day, and then at night when they were in the house, Mother Bunny could make her way in to her babies. Our poor dogs spent hours pacing around that pile, sniffing, barking, digging. Actually, it was probably good for them – added some excitement to their meaningless, uneventful day. 

Eventually though, in spite of our best efforts, the dogs made a way in and killed all of the fuzzy little babies. Our lawn was a mortuary of tiny, dead rabbit carcasses splayed across it. Our efforts toward protecting them were for naught.

Sometimes nature is just on an animal's side (i.e. the dogs').

If this was a sermon or a story with any kind of larger point, this would be where I make it. Maybe something about the truimph in persistance, go dogs, or the futility of failed efforts, no matter how grand. Because yes, our mound was grand. 

But it’s not. (A story with a point, that is.) I just wanted to tell you something I recalled the other day that makes me laugh - not the part where the bunnies die, of course, the part where our furniture and tools are piled in a mound on our lawn.

Plus, well, I thought I could use some animal redemption points given that I recently wrote about the pointlessness of bunny ownership. I mean, we did try to save them and all. I can’t help it that every last one of them was ferociously killed by my dogs.

This story really didn’t really help my animal cred, did it?

Rabbit Ownership

 At the risk of sounding insensitive, I admit that I do not understand rabbit ownership.

Why would we suppose that housing any small animal in a cage for the duration of its life would be a beneficial arrangement for said animal? And what are the return benefits to this caged confinement called pet-ownership? Looking at it? Petting it on occasion?

Like I said, I do not understand.

Perhaps I am simply being unpleasant. That my neighbor’s rabbit, caged a few feet from my bedroom window, wakes me up every night and morning is quite possibly clouding my judgment.

After all, I owned a rabbit myself as a child. It used to hop all around my room, leaving little black pellets, and to my father’s disdain, chewing holes in the corners of my bright pink carpet. Then one day, my bunny escaped from the second-story balcony where I often left him/her (?) to roam whilst I was away. (Even as a child I understood the cruelty in keeping an animal caged around the clock.) Wait a minute, I’m having an epiphany… I’m realizing that my father just might have had something to do with this miraculous bunny escape. He was known to “free” an inconvenient pet or two during my childhood.

I should call my father. Or maybe I shouldn’t; he would be too much of an ally.

Around 4 AM, when my neighbor’s floppy-eared critter starts moving things around in its cage and, from what it sounds like, running on some kind of squeaky wheel, all manner of plans goes through my mind. Who knew a rabbit could be so loud?

Mostly, I decide I’m finally going to go knock on my unfriendly neighbors’ door to tell them (again) that yes, whoever decided it was okay to build houses as close together as ours should be shot in the toe, but perhaps their backyard would be a more appropriate place to house their critter.

And when I’m more tired and less charitable, I imagine quietly creeping outside in the dark of the night and loosening the cage door. Run free, little one! You were never meant to live out your life in a cage anyway.

(I am a bit of my father’s daughter, aren’t I?)

Well, I don’t follow through with either plan. I just quietly stew over the pointlessness of owning a rabbit, every morning, around 4 AM.

And so yes, I have decided that ownership of non-domesticated pets is selfish – not even because it is inconsiderate of your neighbors but because it is inconsiderate of the pet itself. If you have a goat in your pasture or a chicken in your coop, I commend you. If you rescue dogs or cats from shelters, here again, I applaud you. (If you keep a fish in a tank, I think nothing more of you than to marvel at your dedication to keeping the bowl, aquarium or tank clean.) But if you have a small animal caged for your pleasure, I wonder, do you love animals so much that you can’t help but own one? Or is it that you care so little for the animal that you own it – valuing your access to it over the quality of its existence?

Well, whatever. Catch you very early tomorrow, little rabbit. (No pun intended, I promise.)

Recipe for Semi-Disaster

The "Surprising" part of this recipe is not born of higher hopes, as one might assume, but instead comes from crashing expectations. In case I didn't have you at "surprise" or even at "mediocre," because aren't those two qualities everyone is looking for in a recipe, do read on.

Here's what you'll need:

2 cups garbanzo beans
1/3 cup tahini
1/4 cup lemon juice
2 cloves garlic
1 tablespoon olive oil
And, most importantly: 1 totally absent-mind

Directions:

1.   Soak the garbanzo beans overnight. Drain and set aside until you're ready to assemble.

2.   Return in the late afternoon (of, er, two days later), tired, hot, and preoccupied. Squeeze lemons by hand to come up with 1/4 cup juice, probably with at least one small laceration somewhere on your hand that will sting the entire time.

3.   Add ingredients to your small, inexpensive and unimpressive food processor, only to have it not start. Of course.

4.   Transfer ingredients to your large, expensive and impressive blender, only to have it start but not blend.

5.   Curse.

6.    Realize that the garbanzo beans, now mixed in with all the other ingredients, are in fact not yet cooked.

7.   Repeat step 5.

8.   Throw the chunky mass in a pot on the stove. Because what harm is there in seeing if it can be salvaged?

9.   After checking on said mass several times, stirring and smelling it, get distracted with your children and let it burn to the bottom of the pot, ever so slightly.

10.   Cool. Blend with olive oil, a pinch of salt, and a big squeeze of more lemon juice.

Enjoy - while being impressed that it actually turns out into an edible, hummis-like product. (Or, just feed it to the baby.)

In spite of how I have now presented my culinary abilities, I generally do produce a pretty tasty product. As my kind husband says, I "almost always hit a home run" with my cooking. (Thank you Dear; you almost always hit a home run with the post-dinner dishes.) My last major cooking foible was years ago, while making a penne vodka sauce. I'm just going to say, hazelnut creamer can look an awfully lot like half and half if you're not careful, but one is definitely not a substitute for the other. In light of that inedible disaster, I'm suddenly hungry for some hummus.

Guest Blog, by Baby L

Today was a big day in our lives: we left the house. That doesn't happen all that often and I think it exhausts my parents when it does. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

The day started like most of my other 15, I was handed off between my daddy and my mommy. I can only assume they take turns because they can only handle so much of my fabulousness before the other one gets jealous and needs a turn. They usually start yawning about when a shift change is in the works.

I haven't figured out why it gets dark for half the day yet, but I just treat it all the same.

Today, when it started getting bright out, or maybe it was a little before, I got the switch from the daddy to the mommy. We were having a nice bottle in bed when the little boy joined us. My, was he interested in giving me "kisses" and "hugs" this morning. I kept getting little slobbery pokes and disturbing squeezes; he took absolutely no notice whatsoever of my disagreeing grunts. I keep giving him my strongest squirms, squeals and dissatisfied faces, but he just kept right on touching me. I can't decide if he's calming and one of my very favorites, or quite a nuisance. For example, this morning, he spread my delicate fingers apart until they would stretch no more. "Mom, look at how I can separate her fingers," he hollers out, as though the achievement is somehow his. I do like the sound of his voice though. It's oddly familiar, like when the mom lays me on her chest and there's the thump-thump rhythm that my body is so in-tune with.

So this morning I got a bath, which I don't mind at all, and then dressed carefully. (I have noticed the mom spends significantly longer getting me dressed than herself. She's really going to have to work on that.)

So, we all get out the door and where is our big outing to? The public library. Wow, so impressed; this family really knows how to live it up. Our mom seriously sat forever, or like an hour, reading books to the boy. I was so bored I had to take a nap. But then I had to remind them I was there and so cried and hollered a little bit. Then the dad came back and they picked up chewable food for themselves or some such thing; I don't know, I took another nap.

That's the beginning of day 16, folks. Life is good so far.

Mommy's Post-Road-Trip Prayer

 Dear Lord,

First, thank you many times over for my precious son, who is so dear to me he is life. Second, thank you that my husband and I survived many, many hours in the car with him and still hold-fast to our sanity.

That one small child can talk so much is a truly astounding. A number of times I questioned whether he was still breathing, the words were spilling fourth with such rapidity. How can he think of so much to say, so much to ask, and not tire of asking it? (Why is milk white? What letter does Grammy start with? What does that sign say? Who made the world? Is soda healthy? When's the sun coming back out? Can we look for some more trucks? Where do grapes come from?...)

Please forgive me that I occasionally wanted to stick my head out of an open window for the refreshing wash of wind to drown out his unceasing little voice. And please forgive my spouse and I for possibly overindulging him in snack foods as a means of entertainment and a source of quiet during the intervals of chewing and swallowing that stemmed word formation.

His growing brain is without a doubt a marvel. But I thank you that, on these many hours trapped together in our seats, we didn't blow a gasket, overheat, or run out of gas. Oh, and thank you that the car didn't either.

I admit, at times I thought I was being punished. But now I see I was being loved.

Thank you for our yammering ball of energy who blesses our lives daily and allows us to experience a love so deep that, when he finally falls asleep at night and gives us a break, we often spend our alone time talking about him - the endearing or hilarious things he did that day, how much we love him.

With only-very-slightly-wavering gratitude,
Amen.

Let's Laugh: Radiation Humor

Fantastic cartoon from http://xkcd.com

Let's Rock: Part II

Eventually, we step outside the studio to give the producer and camera men a couple minutes to decide what else they need. Thankfully, it’s cooler now, as the sun has ducked behind the buildings.

A hip-hop group has vacated one of the smaller studios and is lounging around the picnic table where the remnants of our earlier wait still litter the tabletop. Little H immediately notices the boxes of juice pouches and takes off toward them. I’m banking on them being empty by now and remain a few paces back, observing him circle the table and then squeeze his way into the center. He’s like a parched hyena on a calculated mission to wedge himself between the massive rhinoceroses for a place at the pond.

After successfully procuring access, he makes his lunge for the box, fully confident the sustenance he desires is within. Oh, but it’s just out of his reach; he can’t quite get his claws on the coveted box across the table. Fortunately for him, his determination will not go unrewarded. The roughly 300-pound man (perhaps rapper, perhaps bouncer) with tree-trunk arms seated to his left has decided to help him out. Tree-Trunk has found a remaining juice pouch and is carefully removing the plastic and inserting the straw. It looks miniature in his palms.

“I hooked a Brother up,” he says to the little hyena next to him, who suddenly looks very tiny and very white. With straw in mouth, Little H reaches his small fist up in a perfect gesture of gratitude: he fist bumps Tree-Trunk casually. My content little hyena then proceeds to seat himself, completely oblivious to how out of place he is, between his new pal and a beautiful woman with huge hoop earrings who has just erupted into laughter.

Success for the little guy: he has acquired yet another juice pouch, which I’m pretty sure is his sixth.

Not surprisingly, in his conversation with his daddy that night about his day, Little H will remember that he “went to the music place” and that “they had juice there.” Simple as that. I’m broadening his range of experiences and impressing him with bountifully flowing juice.

 

The music video will come out a couple of months later. There will be glimpses of my Little H and a few shots that include our blurry heads. Nonetheless, the hot day at the studio with my ladies and my hyena made for an interesting experience - and supported a cause that is, quite literally, near to my heart.
 

 

So, So True

I'm afraid I don't know where to credit this, as I haven't found the original source. But it's too hilariously true to not share.

The Night I Almost Melted My "Hair"

Sometimes it's good to get out. 

My husband was just hired as a visiting professor; day 3 of my 2nd chemo cycle was the welcome dinner for new faculty and their spouses. I was determined to make this occasion, to enjoy the red snapper and to participate in our lives as normally as possible. 

Plus, this afforded an excellent first opportunity to don my new wig, “bangs” bobby-pinned neatly to the side and all.

You know the outfit you conjure in your head when you’re trying to decide what to wear to a special function?  I was so out of energy when it came time to get ready for the dinner that I dressed in what I had envisioned, (of course) didn’t like it once it was actually on, but proceeded to wear it out the door anyway. Completing my look, I also didn’t wear any makeup, which was due to two simple facts: (1) my wig is so over-the-top styled, primped and highlighted (my girlfriend calls it “High Maintenance Jen”) that I feel the need to tone it down with a plain face and (2) I’m afraid to touch my eyes because I’m holding fast to the delusion that my eyelashes will remain firmly implanted through the balding process if I simply don’t touch them. 

So, it seems, all you need to get yourself ready and out the door promptly and without fuss is cancer. A little nausea, a little hair loss, you’re ready to go in no time flat.

I arrived at campus on time, even a little early, and met my husband, who was just finishing up a long first day of orientation. We meandered together over to the reception location, taking our time and enjoying the very well-manicured landscapes of the campus. I was trying to appreciate the two of us being out together without our son, a rare occasion to be sure. I want to hold his hand and relish the togetherness but felt a bit like I am about to vomit in those lovely bushes and my head is throbbing. Dang this wig is tight. I’d only had it on for the half hour drive there and was already contemplating ripping my head off my shoulders. Well, that or sporting a bald head, which seemed like equally appealing options. How in the world do people wear these things all day?

As I’m increasingly losing focus on what my husband is talking about, it occurs to me that the head cap, underneath the wig, may be what is causing the crushing tightness. We duck into an open building so I can pull my hair off in privacy. There, that’s better. The wig alone is a much more manageable discomfort.

Even feeling ill and shabby, the lovely garden setting of our campus soiree was not lost on me. I love special occasions and events; noticing details and appreciating nuances is part of who I am. The well-shaped floral centerpieces, the bright table linens and readily available waiters, it is all simply lovely.  

Shortly after I was cutting myself off from finishing my entrée, recalling a punishing chemo-heartburn from an evening prior, a waiter came by and lit the outdoor heat lamps. I lean back, only slightly bored by my husband telling stores I’ve heard many times before, and enjoy the warmth emanating down on me as the evening chill sets in. How convenient that I’m seated just below this heater of the out-of-doors.  

Then it hits me. My peaceful moment is ruptured with the frightening realization that I’m like a marshmallow under a flame. I’m wearing a synthetic wig that is so intolerant of heat that I’m not even supposed to eat soup while wearing it!

Dear Lord, I’m about to melt in front of 65 strangers that just became my husband’s colleagues.

There are no empty seats on the other side of the table, so I’m wedging my chair away from the heat with as much discretion as possible. I’m leaning my upper torso and neck to the opposite side, trying to make the strained position look natural and subtle. Yes, I’m just swan-like; craning my neck like this is perfectly normal and ordinary. I’m stroking the top of my head and running my fingers through the “hair” repeatedly, which I’m sure is doing wonders for the high-maintenance aura the wig itself provides me. But I can’t stop touching it.  If it’s starting to sear, I would like to be the first to know.

My husband is completely oblivious. He’s droning on about some way academia can relate to the outer world as I’m trying to make a snap, but very important decision as to whether I’ll be using the soiled napkin in my lap or the one in the breadbasket to hastily create a headscarf over my singed scalp before I make a mad dash to the car. The one in my lap, definitely. The breadbasket is two people over; I might have to say, “Pardon me, would you please pass the bread” while smoke is encircling my scalp. 

Apparently, a scarf is to a cancer patient what a diaper is to a new mom – leaving home without a spare could be disastrous.

Another couple minutes and a few dozen more attemptedly-discrete strokes across the sandy-blonde strands and I started to calm down. It's only mildly warm to the touch. I realize my do will hold-up and I am gradually able to stop eyeing the lovely silk napkins with plans of making a master escape. 

My bizarre inner monologue concludes as I digest that the situation is controlled; my facade of normalcy will hold for the evening. I’m out; I’m here; I’m not on fire. 

It's a good night.

Call Me a Wig Amateur

That wig I ordered a couple of weeks ago from The Golden Girls Wig Shop just came in, in a timely and apropos arrival. I cheerily picked it up, brought it home, tried it on, and... realized I should have spent longer wig shopping. 

Going with my husband, Mr. Patient, at the tail-end of a long afternoon of appointments at the medical center was a mistake. He was simply ready to get the h-e-double-hockey-sticks out of there, as his body language so easily told me while he paced around the tiny shop next to the pharmacy. In response, I’m afraid I made my selection a little hastily. 

Upon giving it a good look, with it now under my ownership, I became keenly aware of one rather glaring flaw: the front hung over my eyes. It's a take a on the sideswept-bang look, but I would call it more of a vision-impairing sweep.

Unlike natural hair, there is no pushing synthetic stuff to the side; no sweeping it off your forehead or tucking it behind an ear. Every strand is made to stay in exactly the original position and style. 

I'm afraid I can also tell you there is no trimming synthetic hair. Well, no trimming it by an amateur anyway - which is precisely what I am, a wig amateur. I mistakenly thought I could turn those pesky strands into shorter bangs with a few snips.

I suppose you could call what is now the visor of sticking-straight-out hair at the top of my wigged forehead “bangs” but that would be awfully generous.  

Well, Bangs-Visor, meet Bobby-Pins.