Love in the Time of Neck Hair

My husband, Garrett, is a strong man- physically, mentally, and emotionally solid. He’s stoic and steadfast. He’s not overly animated when telling a story or explaining whatever the hell.

Let our two-year-old find a rogue hair growing out of the back of his neck, twirl it around her bony little finger then yank it, though, and he drops to his knees like he’s just been bitten on the left nut by a rabid meth squirrel.

Me: “What happened?”

Garrett: “Your daughter just did some kind of Vulcan nerve pinch or some shit. What the hell? Is there a hair back there or something?”

Me: “There is! It’s a renegade old man hair… want me to pull it out?”

Garrett: “Yeah but get it out on the first try- it seems to be attached to my soul and every pain receptor in my body.”

And although the sadist in me toyed with the idea of not plucking it as aggressively as I would need to in order to free him of his follicular nemesis, I was efficient and relentless in my attack.

And that restraint I, friends, is how you know you truly love someone.

(Also, I made a mental note of the coordinates of the hair’s location. I mean, hair grows back, he’s bound to piss me off at some point, and I need a reliable, surprise weapon. I love the guy but shit happens and I’m a realist.)

It Was Not My Favorite Way to Start the Day

Being six months pregnant now, sometimes I pee a little bit when I sneeze. It’s just one of the attractive and uncontrollable side effects of growing a human being all up in your uterus. Piss happens.

There is the occasion, though, when out of the clear blue, while your hands are full carrying a robot lunchbox, a sippy cup (actively dripping chocolate almond milk down your knuckles), a threadbare kitten stuffed animal and a toddler on your hip, that a lizard might fall from a great height and land in your hair.

You’ll likely find yourself rapidly dropping everything that you were just holding- including your toddler who doesn’t want to be put down so she holds on tightly to the collar of your shirt, exposing your boob to the world all around you, but you can’t really do anything about that right now because that lizard is stuck in your hair and is struggling mightily to find a way out but as it kicks and wiggles, it winds itself into a cocoon-like structure made out of human hair-YOUR human hair!

And then, holy shit, you can FEEL its wee legs against your neck and your boob is still hanging out of the neck of your shirt and your toddler has no idea that there’s a lizard in a desperate fight for its life in a tangle of YOUR hair and so continues to wail and flail and you don’t want her get a concussion because you’ve got shit to do today oh, and you’d be sad if she got hurt, of course, so you hold onto her all sideways-like so she doesn’t crank her head on the driveway which leaves one hand free to try to get the asshole lizard out of YOUR hair and then suddenly he’s released from his hair prison and off he goes, into the jungle of your front yard and just like that, the entire, traumatic 15 second event is over and you stand up, situate your boob back into your shirt, trek back inside to change your undies, drop off your kids at preschool and then run your damn errands- shaken and running late, but no lizard attack will keep you from Target.

Anyway, something like that might make you pee a little bit too. Just a heads up.

It’s My Gift To You

I suppose it was when I witnessed our daughter crack open an egg by squeezing it into submission that I realized I’m wholly responsible for widening the line that separates my children from the likes of the caveman or the velociraptor or The Hulk.

This weekend, I’ll be lecturing on a wide array of subjects including “Playing with matches = bad”, “Wiping front to back- it’s all in the wrist”, “Green teeth will not get you married”, and, of course, “It’s really simple, dumbass or how to crack an egg.”

Send your kids over. There’s no charge. It’s my gift to humanity.

You’re welcome, civilized society, you’re welcome.

Insert Your Concern Directly Into Your Ass

Just a little friendly banter in the check-out line:

The woman in front of me was surveying my grocery cart filled with $350 worth of stuff.

Lady: “I hope you’ve got coupons for all that!”

Me: “No- I’m not smart enough to figure out the coupon game.”

Lady: “What’s all this for?”

Me: “My family.”

Lady: “My word! Will this last you several weeks?”

Me: “No- this will last most of the week but then I’ll have to come back to pick up a few things that we’re sure to run out of.”

Lady: “You have a bunch of kids?”

Me: “Yes, M’am- we have six kids.”

Lady (clutching her chest): “Good heavens! And you’re pregnant again?!”

Me: “I am!”

Lady: “Well haven’t you learned what causes that by now?”

Me: “I’m guessing it’s because we have a lot of sex and don’t use birth control. Am I right?”

Lady: “Well, yes, I suppose you know. I just hope you can afford them all.”

Seriously, guys, she said “I hope you can afford them all.”

What I WANTED to say is “You can take that douche you’re buying and your opinion and stick them both right up your ass you rude, presumptuous twit.”

But I’m a lady and said “We get along okay. Thank you, though.”

Sheesh. Balls much?

Magic Man

It was only a matter of time….

Leo: “So you’ve got, like, a real baby in your belly?”

Me: “I do, yes.”

Leo: “How long ’til we meet it?”

Me: “Well, it takes 9 months to grow so you’ve got about 6 more months to wait.”

Leo: “How did you get it in there?”

Me: “Mmmmmmm… oh God. What?”

Leo: “The baby- how’d you, like, get it in there?”

Me: “Uhhhhhh….magic?.”

Leo: “That’s so cool. How did you learn magic?”

Me: “It’s your Dad. He has a magic wand but only his wife can see it.”

Leo: “And you’re his wife?”

Me: “That’s right.”

Leo: “Gotcha.”

You’d think that I’d have a better explanation for a 6-year-old but since they seem not to question magic or ninjas, I went the magic route. He’d never believe that his Dad’s a ninja- ninjas don’t nap.

Like a Light Bulb

File this under “Sometimes Kids Can Teach Us Stuff”:

Leo: “You know what Christmas song I don’t like?”

Me: “Which one?”

Leo: “Rudolph. Somebody shoulda stood up for him. You can’t not play with someone ’cause they’re different and you shouldn’t call them names. Where were his ‘real’ friends? Why did Santa not notice that the other reindeers was being mean to him?”

Me: “Well…”

Leo: “Oh God, is this going to be one of your (doing air quotes) “teaching moments”?”

Me: “Nope- sounds like you have it all figured out. I think it’s awesome that you noticed Rudolph needed someone to stand up for him.”

Leo: “And that Santa kinda sucks at taking care of his reindeers…but don’t tell him I said that. I still want presents.”

Dear Santa-

There’s a 6-year-old in Georgia who thinks you need to step up your sensitivity training. This should be taken as constructive criticism and in the most loving way possible. Kid is just looking out for the marginalized among your herd and definitely still deserves that RC car.

Love-

A Proud Mom

That Kid Gets a Bar of Soap

Ronan had all but dropped ‘shit’ and ‘son of a bitch’ out of his vocabulary. There was still the occasional ‘What the shit just happened?’ when he was playing a game on the iPad but, aside from that, there had been no cussing.

On the drive to his preschool a few of days ago, there was a dead deer on the side of the road. “That son of a bitch reindeer didn’t make it”, he said. I cringed a little and hoped that this wasn’t the beginning of another cursing spree.

Later that night, Leo was aggravating Ronan and he responded a well-placed hammer fist and “Stop it- you a shit!”

I reminded him that it’s not okay for a 4-year-old to use those words- although the laughter coming from his siblings completely undermined my gentle reproach- and he seemed to understand.

When Santa came to visit the preschool yesterday, the parents were invited to attend- partly for the photo-op but mostly to corral their kids until it was their turn to sit on Santa’s lap and receive a gift. Ronan and Norah were among the last two names called and their initial excitement at the thought of meeting the fat guy gradually turned into impatience and frustration with me continually telling them “just a few more minutes/you have to wait until you hear your name called.”

When it was their turn, Norah hopped on Santa’s lap and happily smiled for the camera. Ronan, however, started toward Santa but then turned on his heel and ran back to me. Santa, trying to coax him to come closer, shook the gift bag in Ronan’s general direction and said “Come on over and get your gift, young man.”

“It’s okay, buddy- go get your gift. You don’t have to sit in his lap if you don’t want to”, I said.

Ronan hesitantly walked over to Santa but then suddenly, through clenched teeth, grabbed the bag and said “Gimme that shit you son of a bitch.”

Thankfully, another kid’s crying drowned out my son’s profanity and no other parents were close enough to hear it either. Nonetheless, I was mortified and packed it up real quick-like and hit the road.

Sorry, kind and gentle Santa. I have no idea where the shit this little son of a bitch gets it from. It’s a real shame.

I blame his father.