Hair Removal

***DISCLAIMER: If you are at all squeamish reading about my armpits or Nair, then please do not read past this point***

Since the second I started shaving, my armpits have waged war against me. Never did I have those seamless, beautiful under-arms that girls would proudly display by waving at a friend in a tank-top or raising their arms for a high five.

Instead, I was bestowed with red, angry, bumpy, splotchy armpits. At the ripe old age of eleven and a half, I spread shaving cream on them, applied the razor and voila: instant horror movie. They broke out within an hour and caused me such pain that I almost decided that shaving there was definitely against some Biblical rule.

As a result, I do not wave at anybody in a tank top. I have never high-fived anyone unless I was wearing sleeves.

I had the bright idea yesterday to attempt Nair, a special gel that was made for "super sensitive skin" like mine!!! It said, "Apply a thin layer, wait for five minutes, wipe the hair off." Sweet! Simple, right? And my armpits wouldn't get the chance to be freaked out by a razor! Finally, I would be able to raise my arms freely!

I showered. I squeezed a dollop of creme into my hand. I applied.

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!

The burning was unbearable!!!!!!! Sensitive skin, my butt!!! I thought. In my agony, my husband though he'd help by reading the label. "It says not to put on broken or irritated skin," he offered. When exactly was my skin there NOT irritated? I wondered.

I bravely waited the five minutes, and then screamed as I wiped it off. It was okay- a necessary step in my quest to have beautiful armpits, right? In a second I was going to look and see that it had all been worth it......

When I looked, the first thing I noticed was that the hair was.....still there. Then, I saw the angry red bumps that were now sprouting....way redder and angrier than I'd ever had. I reached for the lotion. Didn't help. I finally applied Neosporin+pain relief.

Today, I still have angry, red armpits. And hair. And I'm getting my wish for "waving at my friends" because I can't put my arm down.

The hidden meaning behind the actions of Ivy

Ivy came downstairs from the playroom and curled up next to me on the chaise. "Mommy, I'm hungry." I looked at the clock and realized that yes, it was dinnertime for them.

"What do you want?" I asked.

"I dunno," she replied halfheartedly.

"Pizza? The kind you like?"

"Yeah." Ivy was apparently not her 1678038476 decibel self.

I went to the kitchen and pulled a frozen pizza out of the freezer. It baked, and I observed Ivy. She was laying placidly on the chaise where I had left her watching my shows and not complaining one bit. She looked sleepy, and I thought for a minute she might be trying to nap. So, I started babbling to her inanely about the TV, the playroom, anything to keep her awake. Dinner naps are NOT conducive to Mommy's good night sleep.

The oven dinged and I got the pizza out and sliced it. I would like to say that I served it up immediately, but I was distracted by a facebook friend who really needed my help with Fast Money. So, I did that, and then I served up the pizza. I made two plates complete with drinks in sippy cups, and yelled for Ivy to follow me upstairs. She didn't come. I was thinking, Oh no! Is she asleep?? I rushed, still carrying pizza laden plates, to the chaise where I saw for myself that she wasn't asleep, but she was defintiely zoning out. "COme on!" I urged. She followed me listlessly up the stairs to the playroom. I sat the plates down, and Ivy didn't sit behind hers. She went straight for the little Dora the Explorer couch and laid down.

"Ivy! What's wrong?"

"I'm sleepy."

"Honey, you have to eat! We can't go outside if you go to sleep!"

"Mommy, I don't wanna go outside." It was at that point that I knew something was seriously wrong. Ivy would go outside in the middle of a 115 degree heat wave. She go outside during a blizzard. She loves outside!

I asked a series of random questions that would tell me what was wrong. She finally said her stomach hurt. "Bad enough to 'spill hot dogs'?" I asked, using the "special code" for puking. She shook her head no, but I knew that didn't mean anything. Ivy would never admit she felt like puking because that might mean she would puke.

And I get so scared when the kids have the vomit-bug. not for them, but for me! I hate puking! When they feel like puking, they puke twice and are done with it. They run around and act like nothing was ever wrong. When I get the same bug, I spend 12 hours laying next to a toilet puking up everything I've eaten in the past month, followed by another 24 hours of being so dehydrated that I can't lift my head off of the couch. The entire house goes to heck around me and I can't do anything to stop it. The kids bounce on me, nobody knows where anything is, and I end up having to crawl to the kitchen to look for osmething.....nasty. So, it's terrible when I think she's getting a bug.

I brought her to the couch and made her lay down on topf of two layers of towels and blankets. I put a bowl on the floor on top of another towel. Maybe if she puked in the bowl, and I just didn't touch it except to dump it in the toilet I might be spared?

As she laid down, she asked, "Mommy, where's my pizza?"

"What? Ivy, you're sick!"

"But I'm hungry!"

So I gave it to her. Maybe I'll get puked on later. Maybe not. But I desperately do not want to spend my evening scrubbing pizza stains out of blankets and clothes....nor am I looking forward to my 36 hours of agony a couple days later.

Closet Migration

When I had just Ivy, closet migration was easy. Babies generally have to move up in size every three months. I'd pull out the old size, pack it up, insert the new size in the closet and drawers, and the job was done. After she turned a year old, closet migration happened every 6 months.....then she was two and it was only going to happen once a year. In the summer and the winter, I would replace the clothes that were too small.

But then I had Story. In a different season than I'd had Ivy. It was a mad dash for all those old boxes of clothes that I remember carefully labeling and placing gently in the attic. Unfortunately, when I got them down, I realized that I had gremlins in the attic or I'd done a really bad job of labeling and placing the same sizes in the box.

They shared a closet in our old house, so it was a matter of pulling stuff out, placing the new size in, rearranging where the clothes were, and going out to buy stuff to replace the stuff I thought I had but never found. And by purchasing new clothes, I inspired the baby clothes gods to make the box of what I was missing materialize seconds after I didn't need it anymore.

Now they have separate closets. And where Ivy is generally the size of whatever age she is, Story is NOT. (How did I get such a difficult child?) I pull out all of Story's clothes in the closet and drawers. I go through each item, and most of them I have to try on her. By the way, having a three year old at the ready for 2 hours to try on clothes is not conducive to a peaceful day.

When I have made the keep and attic piles, I put everything away. All of the clothes fit, and the closet looks empty.

Then, I move to Ivy's closet. I take everything out and assess what fits and what does not. I put things into three piles: keep, move to Story's closet, and OMG I can't send my child out in this nor can I give it away.

All of the clothes that Story might grow in to in the next ten years are placed in bags and boxes and stored in the top of her closet, waiting for me to look at 6 months from now and say, "What the heck are those clothes up there for?"

The clothes that still fit Ivy are placed back in her closet and dresser (which look really bare now!) and reorganized.

And I'm left with a small pile that I have no idea what to do with. If I was crafty, I'd make purses or doll clothes or something. But I'm not. I always think I could use them for dusting, but I have plenty of old underwear dust rags. Who needs a pair of khakis with grass-stained knees to clean? I eventually throw them away, but I almost cry doing it. I hate wasting stuff.

And I'm left with a really clean, minimal closet, a closet that's stuffed full of future clothes, and four thousand boxes and bags to haul up to the office where they will sit for a month before I get up the courage-nerve-gumption to tackle finding a place for them in the attic.

And so ends closet migration.

The Longest Day of the Year

June 21st freaks me out.

Okay, it's my Dad's birthday, but it is also the SUMMER SOLSTICE, and the sunlight lasts longer than any other day of the year.

I am sitting on my couch squinting through the sunlight that is streaming in my windows like it's 4 p.m. I look at the clock and it's eight o'clock!!!!

If I was a good parent, my kids would be going to bed right now! How on earth could I get them to bed when it's as bright as Alaska in June at 3 a.m.? There aren't curtains enough at Walmart to trick them! (Speaking of which, how on earth DO those Alaskans get their 5 year olds to bed?)

Not to mention that after today, we'll lose a little bt of sunlight each day. This does not seem possible because my summer just started!!!!!! And now it's going to get slowly darker until on December 21st, I will be sitting in my kitchen blogging about how dark it is at 3 p.m. (Yes, you're right, I'm never happy).

And you know what really stinks? There's no Stonehenge or Craig na Dun here at the golf course!!! (You should click on my link to Outlander and buy it if you want to know what that means).

Empathy

A long time ago in college while studying Piaget or some other dude that wrote stuff about kids, I learned that young kids don't feel bad for others until a certain age. They can't imagine what something would feel like to them. This really didn't hit me until I had kids myself.

I soon realized when I said, "Ivy, how would you feel if Mommy pinched you like you did Story?" that when she said, "Bad," she was just telling me what I wanted to hear. She really had no clue what she did to Story or anybody.

Now I am starting to witness her empathetic growth. (I could pretend that its something mystical and meaningful we did for her to realize this, but if you know me at all, you'd know I was lying). She is starting to show empathy through DVDs.

We used to watch things like Beauty and the Beast or Monsters, Inc. without any emotion whatsoever except a laugh when appropriate (and sometimes not). Now, when we watch a kind of sad part of  movie, Ivy starts to cry.

It began when we watched Up. About halfway through the movie, long after Daddy and Story had gone to sleep, Ivy had this puzzled look on her face. I asked her what was wrong. "Mommy, where's the old woman in the pictures?" she asked with a hint of suspiciousness in her voice.

What to do? "Uh, that's the old man's wife."

"But where is she?" Crap.

"Ivy, she died and went to live with Jesus."

Ivy contemplated this for a minute, and then turned her innocent, shining face to mine, tears spilling out of her eyes and said, "But will he ever see her again?"

The truth hurts, but I try if at all possible not to lie to her. "He will when he dies and goes to live with Jesus."

She shuddered  little and said, "Is he lonely?"

"Maybe a little." Then the sobbing began. She sobbed intermittently throughout the rest of the movie, and cried fresh tears at the end when they were playing all of the pictures of the old man and the boy scout. I tried to explain to her that the old man wasn't lonely anymore, but she wasn't buying it.

It hurt me inside to have her so upset and not able to do a thing about it. But on the other hand, it was wondrous to see her finally starting to feel people's emotions.

The other night, we watched  The Princess and the Frog. **spoiler alert** When the lightning bug died, boy was she upset. Not only because he was a lightning bug, but she was outraged that someone had stepped on him! She cried again, and I held her, helpless.

As excited as I am about this change in her emotional intelligence, I have decided that this summer, we will stay away from such cinematic delights as  Bambi, Old Yeller, and E.T.  I just think that I need to be  little bit more emotionally mature to handle it. =P

Ink on my face....literally

On Wednesday, we had a day long teacher meeting at the high school. Luckily, I was in a room with other music teachers, so I felt right at home...I knew almost everyone in there.

We got ready to start, and I pulled my new favorite Go Army pen out of my purse. I was pretty excited about writing with it (sad, right?).

I clicked it a couple times. I put it next to my face. I chewed on the end a little bit. I got worried that I had lipstick running off my lips, so I took my fingers and wiped the sides of my lips. I put the pen down on the desk.

And then I saw my hands.

They were BLACK. It took me a minute to decipher why.....and when I realized that the Go Army pen was also black, I knew that it had leaked ink on my hands.

I sat for a minute before I remembered wiping my mouth with my fingers. Had the pen leaked before I did that? I had no mirror. No one had looked at me yet.....so I snuck out of my seat and headed for the door, destination bathroom.

Except I had no idea where the bathroom was. Crap! I was in the hallway and people were all around, but I didn't want to ask anyone to draw attention to my possibly black face. So, I peeked my upper face back in the room and said, "Hey! Where's the bathroom?" The presenter told me, but I had to repeat the direction twice before I understood (of course, it was just around the corner. In my state, I could not comprehend that).

I walked quickly to the bathroom, trying to shield my face with my white jacket. I went in and luckily there was no one present. I looked in the mirror and it was as bad as I feared. There was ink all over the bottom half of my face! Geez, how much ink could one free pen hold?? I ran water and reached for the paper towels, coming away with one very very small towel, about the size of an ink pen itself.

I thought to myself: you mean, here I am with a ton of ink on my face and I only have one very tiny paper towel?? Who else would this happen to???

So, I dunked my face, soaped it up, and scrubbed with my fingers. I rinsed and took my still white jacket and rubbed. The ink smeared. I think a milli-gram of it came off, but the rest had been rubbed around until it looked like I had 5 o'clock shadow. I scrubbed again and again, each time soiling the inside of my jacket with black ink. Finally, although I couldn't tell really well because my skin had been rubbed so hard it was fire engine red, I thought I had rubbed enough of the ink off to only give me a slight shadow from the nose down.

For the rest of the day, I kept absentmindedly rubbing my face, and then getting scared that I had ink on my hands again. I felt pretty bad about myself because I had no make-up left on the bottom half, so I was pretty sure one half of my face was a nice golden color and the other half was a cross between grey and red......and when in a big group of people I don;t know, I feel a lot better when I at least look good. That had gone out the window.

Only me, right??

Ivy meltdown

Ivy has an unhealthy obsession with our neighbor's child. If it were up to her, they would play together every day for 6 hours. In fact, if she plays with her in the evening and they play for an hour (which I think is a long time) and I tell her to come in, she throws the most ridiculous fit. One time I had to chase her around the neighborhood and she ran and screamed and stomped away because I told her it was dark and we were going in.

The other night she saw the little girl and some of the girl's friends behind our house at the pond and demanded to go out. I said, "No, Ivy, she's playing with her school friends." You can imagine the trauma that caused. Of course, when Ivy is upset, Story has to chime in...she either picks on Ivy for crying or she cries herself. She chose the latter.

So, what does a mom like me do when her kids are both screaming? Divert! When diverting their attention, I must sometimes do things that I would never allow them to do on a regular day. So, I ran to the living room floor, laid down on my back, and shouted, "Who wants to jump on the Mommy??" Story ran right to me and body slammed into my stomach. Ivy was a little harder to convince, but she eventually blew a raspberry on my tummy and that warmed her up.

Twenty minutes later, I was pretty sure that: my cornea was scratched, my stomach was covered in kid drool from raspberries, I had bruises up and down my legs, and a big chunk of my hair was missing. Daddy came in from a round of golf and said, "Hey, Kellie is outside on the swingset!" (Another neighbor with a son a little younger than Story.) The kids rushed off of me and ran to their bedrooms to change into outside clothes. I limped into the kitchen and looked for flip flops.

We went outside. Luckily, the other little girl was inside with her friends. We swang, Kellie and I chatted, the kids played. Then, Ivy spotted the other girl on her back porch and immediately tried to catapult herself into their yard. I grabbed her in mid flight, pulled her back to the swingset and said, "Ivy, Mommy said no!" This caused an explosion of tears, screaming, kicking, and biting. I tried to push her on the swing. No. Convince her to slide. No. She kept trying to sneak out of the yard.

So, I pulled the last straw. "Ivy, if you don't stop crying, you will go back in the house and straight to your room." She didn't even try, so I was forced to follow through. She stomped inside, screaming more and more. Story started too, so I took her inside with a sad wave to my friend.

I tried to talk to Ivy, reason with her.....but nothing was working. I ran a tub of water, took her clothes off by force and made her take a bath.

It made me sad to see her so sad. How do you teach kids to hide their emotions? And is that really what we should teach them?