Momming Around

Dreams Come True

Posted on by Beth Hull

It’s a sappy title, but just roll with it.

Babies are so small when they come out (although they don’t feel small when they’re coming out, which is another post/rant entirely). And everyone tells you “the baby year goes by so fast,” and you’re thinking, “NOT FAST ENOUGH” because they’re screaming and they want to be attached to your chest twenty-four hours a day. Or they’re a little bigger and kicking you in your Family Bed (Of Pain) and you’re not getting any sleep ever again and you just want to be alone.

Then they get a little bigger. And they want to help. And they drag all the clothes out of the dryer (when the clothes are still wet) or they smear dirt clods around on the floor while you’re trying to a) ignore the dirt clods or b) finally sweep those dirt clods up. They want to help pick tomatoes in the garden, and they pick all the green ones.

But this helping thing. I know it’ll “go by so fast,” but I’m actually kind of digging it. For awhile I felt guilty doing housework (and guilty reading and guilty writing and guilty checking my email and guilty doing anything that wasn’t hanging out with Z when she was awake, which is all the time), but at least now housework is safe, because I can involve her.

So even when she’s rubbing a dirty dishcloth on the clean bowl I asked her to rinse off, or picking perfect seedlings instead of weeds (this hasn’t happened yet but I anticipate the winter garden – or lack thereof), I’m swallowing my impatience (tough pill) and trying to be happy because even in these dinky little chores, she’s learning, and she’s hanging with her mama, and that’s all the little girl really wants.

Bless her heart.

(Okay, so this post was sappy after all. I didn’t plan it.)

Hairstyles of the Poor and Obscure

Posted on by Beth Hull

Long hair is good for going out (this is for a wedding). Notice it does not solve the problem of whiny toddlers.

When people talk about the relief they feel in “letting their hair down” I frown in confusion. For me, relief comes from putting it up, getting it out of the way. Off my neck, away from my ears and forehead.

This came up at a play-date yesterday, and I was relieved to find that I’m not alone in this. I’m not what anyone would call a “hair person.” Once in a blue moon (perhaps less often) I wear my hair down. For about thirty minutes. After which time, in desperation/irritation, I throw it back up into a ponytail/bun/scarf/hat. While reading some parenting magazine I came across a short article on how to liven up your hairstyle so that you’re not wearing “the mom ponytail.” I was a little irritated. I had the mom ponytail going before I was even thinking about children. I don’t think I even knew children existed until after I’d perfected the mom ponytail.

Husband liked my hair long, so I didn’t cut it for awhile…like, eight years. I should also mention that he threatened to let his hair grow out if I cut mine, effectively killing any short-haircut plans I may have entertained. Finally I pointed out that my hair was pleasing no one. I wear it in a ponytail even in sleep – a loose ponytail that, when very long, I could throw past my shoulder on the pillow, sometimes smacking Husband with it at night. Totally an accident. Really.

As I was saying. Since I sleep in a ponytail, keep my hair in a bun all day, every day, the only person to see it down most days is Z. I leave it down to air dry. That’s it. So I finally had a few inches cut off, bringing it to just below my shoulders. I think I lost at least three pounds just from losing that hair.

My friend L, a hairstylist, performed the cut. She did a fabulous job. Sadly, I am still not up to the task of doing anything with my hair. It’s a wavy blond mop that sits in a twisted little sphere at the top of my crown most days, and fluffs out behind me in a Hermione-Granger-esque ponytail when I’m feeling adventurous.

I’m starting to feel desperate. Ann Lamott got dreadlocks because she couldn’t deal with her hair, and I’m thinking that’s a possibility. Or maybe a buzz cut? So, so tempting.

Fantasy Hairstyle Wish List:

1. No flatiron required.

2. Wash, air dry, look fabulous.

3. Off my neck, away from my face.

4. Makes me look ten pounds lighter. (This is a fantasy.)

5. Helps me be a better mother/wife/person.

6. Does the dishes on its own while I sit on the couch reading a good book.

7. Cures writer’s block. All-around inspiring.

8. Magically prevents whining within a 3-mile radius. My own whining excepted, of course. Otherwise, how could I write this blog?

My Kid is a Genius Dot Com

Posted on by Beth Hull

Early on, I knew my child was a genius. It was evident as soon as she made her great escape and joined the rest of us On The Outside (also known as childbirth. There’s no poetry for it, really) (And if you think I’ve forgotten how painful that was, think again.)

But as I was saying. Genius. My daughter…oh yeah. She memorizes like, everything. She can identify a few different species of birds (her father’s influence, naturally). She can have meaningful conversations on the phone with her grandparents. So at her two-year well-baby (fine, well child) visit, I thought I would ask her doctor: “How do you know if your child is a genius?”

I refrained just in time. It’s such a cliche, I-think-my-child-is-a-genius. And why is it a cliche? Because we all think that about our kids! With good reason, too. I don’t know what the statistics are on just how many words they learn every single day, but it’s more than I’m learning, I assure you. [Mental note: add word-a-day calendar to Christmas wish-list.]

So, I shared some of the reasons my Z is a genius. Tell me about your kids (or your niece, nephew, or tiny friends). This is your golden ticket for Genius-Child Bragfest 2010! Share! Mom, feel free to share extra! (Just make sure it’s about me.)

One Small Banana to the Head…

Posted on by Beth Hull

…One Giant Leap for Mommies Everywhere

So I promised I wouldn’t name any names. But I heard the greatest story last week, about a mommy who threw half of a banana at her husband’s head.

First, applause to the mommy, because the banana actually made contact (I would have missed and would have had to clean smeared banana off the microwave door).

Second, I in no way advocate the use of bananas as projectiles in domestic conflicts. And neither does Mommy X (like Madame X, get it? No? Whateva.) (Although, a banana isn’t the worst choice of things to throw.) (A tomato might be better. I’ve got ’em in spades, and some have gotten kinda soggy.)

Mommy X didn’t say why she got so angry she was driven to throw the banana. And it doesn’t matter. Haven’t we all been mad enough to throw a banana at some point? What’s important is that Mommy X was enraged. Enraged enough to hurl something at her husband’s head (lucky she was holding half a banana and not, say, cutlery). We’ve all been there, right?

The rest of the story, if you’re interested (and even if you’re not because this is my blog), is that the Banana’d spouse thought she was joking around at first, and he chuckled a little bit. Then he saw the look on her face and said something along the lines of, “Oh, I get it….”

So, confession time: have you ever been mad enough to chuck something at your Significant Other? Or (I can’t resist) – have you ever gone bananas?

What, you want me to go first? Fine. Yes. I threw my cell phone. But luckily Husband wasn’t actually at home. That was the problem – I was trying to call him at work and couldn’t reach him. I was very upset at the time, obviously.

I was rewarded with a new phone.

(For an interesting Parenting article, “Mad at Dad,” you can click here. And here’s the follow-up article.)

My Tiny Secret

Posted on by Beth Hull

Some of you may know that I don’t like a lot of noise. Most of you probably know that I’m essentially a selfish person. One thing that I always knew about myself was that having children would be a real challenge based on those other two things about myself.

A few years ago, after climbing during a kid’s birthday party at Rocknasium (a climbing gym in Davis), I wrote in a card to Husband: “Children should not be seen or heard.” At that climbing birthday party they were all over the place, shrieking and laughing, having a blast, and nearly getting tangled in our climbing ropes and killing us all.

But it’s the noise that bothers me most, even more than near-death experiences from great heights.

At the baby shower some friends threw for Z, my friend B-Dawg gave me a pack of earplugs as a sort of joke.

There is nothing funny about these earplugs. I depend on them. From her very first day On the Outside, Z’s screams of rage, her cries of pain, and her shouts of joy have been too much for my eardrums to handle. Her mighty roars make my brain tremble inside my head. Whenever it’s too much (which is often), I use earplugs to dull the noise and am able to barely tighten my grip on sanity.

So here’s my secret: At all times I have a pair of earplugs tucked inside my bra.

Sexy? No. Practical? Oh, yes.