Oh, so many things are happening right now... and it feels so horrid not to be able to share freely. It's as though I've embarked upon a covert mission, and cannot divulge the specifics of my movements on penalty of death. Or, like one of my favorite shows [poTledoM] has proven of late, perhaps I have signed some iron-clad confidentiality agreement and to reveal information prematurely would thwart my chances at winning a title?
I'm still out in the universe... still writing... still dreaming... but right now I'm living in the moment instead of chronicling it.
But I miss you.
Showing posts with label single life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label single life. Show all posts
Thursday, December 8, 2011
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Skittles: quite the contradiction
I'm not spontaneous, but I'm not a planner, either. I think I might just be a skittle.
As a child, my vision of marriage was skewed. Most of the adults I was close to had husbands or wives and yet the distance between them and their other halves seemed contradictory to the union. Disrespect, infidelity, and physical distance seemed the norm. There weren't a lot of positive examples of marital bliss I'd witnessed - save the Huxtables, of course. It seemed like marriage, as I knew it then, was more comparable to Peg and Al Bundy's: a contractual trap that was too hard to get out of, so the couple merely endured. Everything I'd witnessed made me dread the very idea of exchanging vows.
It took a high school sociology project to get me thinking about weddings. The assignment required me to set a budget based on my family's income. Then I was supposed to plan everything for my big day. As I often was the case with school work, I was consumed by the assignment. I purchased every wedding and bride related magazine on the shelves of the bookstore. I poured through brochures, called (or wrote) companies for samples, and dedicated my sparse free time to sketching out the ideal wedding dress. That dress was a corset-style top akin to those worn by Renaissance aristocrats, but was full of vibrant colors across the bodice and featured a straight skirt rather than the ball gown flair variety. It was divine. Suddenly I could envision myself a bride. I was obsessed with preparing the perfect event - right down to a tentative seating chart to scale with the venue's dimensions. I actually thought I might like to have a wedding, but the husband was optional.
[Narrator interrupts: She began to think, "Dare I say that I had much the same thought about children: pregnancy as an experience might be interesting, but I didn't fancy being a mother?"]
By college I had a simple time line: married by 24 - finding a husband is the main purpose for higher education, right? And kids - three of them - before age 30.
In the years since that project - quite a few more quickly elapsing than I cared to admit - the time line became a measure of failure. Despite several promising adult relationships, I found myself becoming the girlfriend just before the wife. But I wasn't worthy, it seemed of being propositioned with forever.
It can make a person somewhat guarded, this history of being the unchosen. If I commit unabashedly to a theory of "this is the one" in each new beginning, it could become the set up for a terribly heartwrenching break up (or worse, an obsession akin to "The Cable Guy" fame). But if I move at a snails' pace and keep a distance of at least two car lengths between myself and Mr. Maybe, am I dooming it from the start? It's relationship skittles: How can I be the devoted one in a relationship if it is "likely" to end in nothing but an experience to file away in memory? But how can I not give all?
I have relished in a not-so-secret obsession for watching "My Fair Wedding with David Tutera." Occasionally, I catch myself hypothesizing my own "I do," dreaming up themes and motifs and envisioning the photographs of my happiness yet to be created.
Insert big flashing "DANGER" sign: I suspect this could be a bit scary for someone not ready to plunge into a marriage even if my musing wasn't a sign that I was...
Mr. Right At the Time, I think, suffered countless bouts of agita from my frequent rap sessions with my almost-sister-in-law during the planning of her ceremony. I was taken to bridal shows, given magazines of ideas, and sucked into the vortex of the business of weddings. In being her sidekick, I had unintentionally created a ticking clock - a time bomb of sorts - for him. A trail of skittles led from my house to his car as he sped away slowly from fear that I might give subtle hints or grandiose ultimatums about "us."
Throughout the years, my visions of the pomp and circumstance of becoming Missus DotDotDot has become a vague nod to the teenage dream. Skittle that I am, I have the framework of the ideal and no doubt meticulously plot the details if given the opportunity. But planning the big event?
[Narrator interrupts: Her chest rose and fell as she sucked in a deep breath and released it slowly in a sigh.]
I want it amazing. I want it something to talk about. I want to be the center of attention. But I don't like playing hostess with the mostest.
Friday, October 21, 2011
Battle 'fro hawk: Bring it on!
The inadvertent war between these ‘parenting partners’ continues. It is, indeed, an epic saga marked by periods of peace and prosperity and poignant battles of little importance to the larger scheme of this child-rearing project.
It began with issues of tradition. My son’s once soft, curly locks soon shed from his infant head and left him with a baby Mohawk. I thought it was adorable. How could I not? Everything about my son is jaw-droppingly, sickening-sweet cute - - even his mean looking frowns with the downcast eyes and furrowed brow. I’m not biased, I speak truth : :wink:: The debate was whether or not we should trim the left over locks and give him a more modest, even do. I refused.
When he turned two, I was so devoted to his baby ‘fro that I was afraid to sheer much of it off. His first cut, then, was a scissor trim that left a rather high, totally cool high top that suited Ya’s over-the-top personality.
Daddy M disliked it and the first chance he got, shaved it all. I received my son with a nearly-bald big boy sheer that I was not prepared to see and was predisposed to hate. I did.
The next cut was a necessity. In the midst of growing out his too-shorn hair, the school announced it was readying for school picture day. Uggh! Well, my child wasn’t going to be the one with the funky, unkempt hair, so I had to have it cut again. I sent PopPop to the barber (any barber) with simple instructions: short sides, keep the top, but shape it. The cut was incredible. I loved it! Suddenly, I was okay with my little boy’s ‘big boy’ look.
Daddy M, however, was not. You don’t, apparently, under any circumstances, “edge up” a child’s hairline. Disgruntled, I inquired “And why? It looks well-groomed.”
The reply? Because it causes the hairline to recede; and, as a result of my awesome, well-received haircut, my son will be bald.
I retorted: Balding is a trait passed from Mama*. If you look at my grandfather Poppy, Ya is going to bald right across the top of his head and look much like an owl with hair along the edges.
I knew I was right. My brothers, still in their twenties, have been seeing their heads thin for some time. They’ve coped with short haircuts or shaved heads. We pretend not to notice the progression. And really, who cares if they are bald? Bald can be sexy.
I continued to get cuts, searching for barbers who could handle my son’s short patience. He’ll sit only so long before beginning to shake his head, twist to look in every direction - - except the one the guiding barber’s hand has tried to set, and will even slide so low on the barber’s chair that he can no longer be reached from behind the back of the seat (with the booster in place). A few times to appease Daddy M, I skipped the offered edge-up. Most times, however, the cut just didn’t look polished without it. So I let them finish the style with lollipop bribes holding Ya impatiently in place.
Most recently, however, I decided to be a little frugal. I borrowed my brother’s clippers. I asked Ya if he minded Mommy cutting his hair. He said I could. I did.
[caption id="attachment_2662" align="alignleft" width="200" caption="Ya passing time in the vacant lot waiting for big sister to finish practice."]
[/caption]
What resulted was what I consider a fantabulous Iro (aka frohawk) of über cute appeal. It suits my little star perfectly and he’s rocking it.
Daddy M’s reaction came by text shortly after he picked Ya up from school: “Looks bad. U do not cut hair.”
Now, I suppose, that when challenged on points relating to my parental judgment, I am a bit defensive. I live for my kids and would never purposely cause either harm. So what may have been a mere statement of hair preference initiated a textual onslaught.
Ya’s Iro will, apparently, cause ignominious judgment to be cast upon him. (Though the term ignominy did not enter into his commentary.)
Is it wrong that I don’t care? He is, after all, only three. And this is not really a point of debate that will gravely affect our child's upbringing, or his future prospects.
It began with issues of tradition. My son’s once soft, curly locks soon shed from his infant head and left him with a baby Mohawk. I thought it was adorable. How could I not? Everything about my son is jaw-droppingly, sickening-sweet cute - - even his mean looking frowns with the downcast eyes and furrowed brow. I’m not biased, I speak truth : :wink:: The debate was whether or not we should trim the left over locks and give him a more modest, even do. I refused.
When he turned two, I was so devoted to his baby ‘fro that I was afraid to sheer much of it off. His first cut, then, was a scissor trim that left a rather high, totally cool high top that suited Ya’s over-the-top personality.
Daddy M disliked it and the first chance he got, shaved it all. I received my son with a nearly-bald big boy sheer that I was not prepared to see and was predisposed to hate. I did.
The next cut was a necessity. In the midst of growing out his too-shorn hair, the school announced it was readying for school picture day. Uggh! Well, my child wasn’t going to be the one with the funky, unkempt hair, so I had to have it cut again. I sent PopPop to the barber (any barber) with simple instructions: short sides, keep the top, but shape it. The cut was incredible. I loved it! Suddenly, I was okay with my little boy’s ‘big boy’ look.
Daddy M, however, was not. You don’t, apparently, under any circumstances, “edge up” a child’s hairline. Disgruntled, I inquired “And why? It looks well-groomed.”
The reply? Because it causes the hairline to recede; and, as a result of my awesome, well-received haircut, my son will be bald.
I retorted: Balding is a trait passed from Mama*. If you look at my grandfather Poppy, Ya is going to bald right across the top of his head and look much like an owl with hair along the edges.
I knew I was right. My brothers, still in their twenties, have been seeing their heads thin for some time. They’ve coped with short haircuts or shaved heads. We pretend not to notice the progression. And really, who cares if they are bald? Bald can be sexy.
I continued to get cuts, searching for barbers who could handle my son’s short patience. He’ll sit only so long before beginning to shake his head, twist to look in every direction - - except the one the guiding barber’s hand has tried to set, and will even slide so low on the barber’s chair that he can no longer be reached from behind the back of the seat (with the booster in place). A few times to appease Daddy M, I skipped the offered edge-up. Most times, however, the cut just didn’t look polished without it. So I let them finish the style with lollipop bribes holding Ya impatiently in place.
Most recently, however, I decided to be a little frugal. I borrowed my brother’s clippers. I asked Ya if he minded Mommy cutting his hair. He said I could. I did.
[caption id="attachment_2662" align="alignleft" width="200" caption="Ya passing time in the vacant lot waiting for big sister to finish practice."][/caption]What resulted was what I consider a fantabulous Iro (aka frohawk) of über cute appeal. It suits my little star perfectly and he’s rocking it.
Daddy M’s reaction came by text shortly after he picked Ya up from school: “Looks bad. U do not cut hair.”
Now, I suppose, that when challenged on points relating to my parental judgment, I am a bit defensive. I live for my kids and would never purposely cause either harm. So what may have been a mere statement of hair preference initiated a textual onslaught.
Ya’s Iro will, apparently, cause ignominious judgment to be cast upon him. (Though the term ignominy did not enter into his commentary.)
Is it wrong that I don’t care? He is, after all, only three. And this is not really a point of debate that will gravely affect our child's upbringing, or his future prospects.
It is important, I think, to note that I've looked up "receeding hairlines resulting from edging a child's hair" as well as "hereditary balding." Retired journalist faultered here and did not write down the resulting sites I consulted, but I found information. My father's hair is the best indicator of my son's adult hairline. And PopPop has an amazing head of hair that even now is pretty thick and resembles his boyhood hairline closely. If the resources presenting genetic research on hair trends and loss is correct, Ya has been blessed with some good hair genes and will enjoy his tresses well into a mature retirement age.
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