Motherhood Uncensored

Apparently We're Channeling the Beatles

I'll let you decide who's who.

Here's What You Missed This Week:

I'm going gray.

My son's first word.

My disdain for tap dancing.

New Blog to Me (and maybe you): Notes to Self (my now fellow Little Rock-ish blogger -- she does indeed rock, but more than a little).

Pick of the Week: Re-run Bag (God I love this bag and it saves 10 water bottles from hitting the landfills)

Podcast this week: Safemama

Hilarious Article of the Day: Lindsay Sees Dead People (not sure why, but this makes me chuckle. Okay, I know why. HA.)

Taps

I spent all morning trying to find something for Quinlan to do while we're here.

And all I came up with is tap.

Tap dancing, that is.

I don't really like tap dancing. I know... Savion Glover, Shirley Temple, hell 42nd Street bla bla bla. How can you hate on Gene Kelly in "Singin' in the Rain" you ask? Sorry. It's like learning to play an instrument without getting the music theory. Tap as an offshoot of dancing is fantastic. But as the thing that starts my daughter on her career as a famous dancer?

Not so much.

I admit that as a young three year old ballet dancer, I envied the tappers. They always had better costumes, complete with swingy fringe and a plastic hat. Plus they got to wear those loud shiny black shoes and slide around the floor. And their music was insanely catchier.

Damn you Good Ship Lollipop! I WISH.

But it always seemed like the girls that were in tap were the ones whose parents just wanted to put them in something to keep them busy and burn off some energy bouncing around in their little clappity clappity shoes doing steps that just looked like they had lost complete control of their feet.

But ballet? That was where the serious three year old dance types were. Hair in a bun, black leotard and pink tights, and pink ballet shoes.

None of those shiny blue leggings, crazy skirts, or ponytails.

Honestly, I still remember my first ballet class. In fact, my daughter is hopping around in my actual first pair of ballet shoes right now. I loved every single thing about my classes -- Miss Charlene, the beautiful overly made up anorexic ballerina turned teacher. My pink polyester leotard that my mom sewed my name in that I later accidentally-on-purpose pooped in.

After years as a semi-professional ballet dancer (didn't you know?), ballet was and still is, the love of my life.

So, it can't be tap. It just can't. My child will not shuffle off to buffalo before she learns first position. And she won't time step before she jete's. 

But considering it's the ONLY thing I've found (no Music Together, no art classes, no nothing), I might have to suck it up. Because in these parts, I hear it's either that or Tae Kwan Do.

And since I'm already getting my ass kicked by my preschooler AND my near-one-year-old (can you believe it?) on a daily basis, I don't want to give them any more opportunities to hone their skills.

Who's to Blame?

I left my razor (protective cap on) on the bathtub. The huz puts the kids in the tub without checking.

Drew grabs the razor.

Whose fault is it?

(Coincidentally, Drew is perfectly fine, but as you might have guessed, I'm getting blamed for reckless shaver usage).

And That's His First Official Word. Dog.

That hella stinky, overgrown, baby-snapping, hog-breathed, poop wiffin', wanger licking, ball sniffing dog.

Eh. Mom. Dog. I can see how he got confused.

I Just Can't Spare a Hair

I have been standing strong against the hostile takeover by my gray hair for some time now. I was managing the red-now-white streak fairly well, with strategic hair styles and occasional dye jobs. And I kept trying to tell myself that if Stacy London sports a gray streak, then by golly it must be what to wear.

But now those little white fuckers are popping up outside of the confines of the aforementioned streak and I fear that the salt and pepper look is imminent.

It's sexy on a 55 year old. Maybe. But on a 31-year-old, it's just never good.

It would be one thing if I left the house each day decked out in a way that could sell the graying hair as part of my fashion forward style sense.

Didn't you know? Gray is the new black, people!

[comma added so my black friends don't think I'm trying to turn them all gray. heh]

But thanks to my "mother-on-the-go" look, which often includes wearing the same shirt two days in a row since it doesn't have food stuck to it, the extra gray just makes me look like I can't afford to get my hair done.

And worse, it just screams "pity."

Having a rough go at it, huh sweetie?

It wasn't such a huge issue when I had tons of hair to spare. I'd just grab the tweezers and remove them. And even if I didn't get a chance to twirl my tweezers, you'd have to be a parasite-seeking mommy monkey to find them.

But now they're popping up everywhere. And I'm sorry people but I just don't have a hair to spare.

I've even considered going blonde since apparently intentional dark roots are cool, but the truth is, a regular hair dye regimen just doesn't fit into my fairly low maintenance lifestyle. Besides, considering the amount of hair dye that I will have to use, I want to actually have hair in a few years.

Because if the salt-n-pepper 'do brings pity, we all know what comes with a bald head.

Apparently it's a bunch of terrible hair pieces and a whole lot of crazy.

(Any hairemedies are welcome. I think.)