like their giggles on the lawn
vibrant – just like them
I’ll sit and look at this space
and remember this
I love the movie Hope Floats. It’s one of my favorites, particularly for the moment where the main character says, “You know, I always thought I was gonna be, I don’t know, special. But I’m not. I’m just… I’m just an ordinary person.”
Because I relate to that moment. I live in that moment. I am that moment.
I think one of the hardest things about getting older is that very realization. At least for me. Maybe it’s not for everyone. Madonna probably never felt that way. But I do.
It’s not that I think I’m worthless or empty or meaningless. It’s just that I’m not extraordinary. Well, not to anyone beyond my family. My husband thinks I’m extraordinary. My kids do, too. But their perception is colored with love. And the sugar buzz that comes from the cookies I make them. According to the rest of the world, I’m average. And that’s okay. Most of the time.
There are some days, I wish I was more. Better.
For the past 8 months, I’ve been teaching on Monday mornings. Today, I’m not. I had only taught 30 Mondays out of the 1,716 or so I’ve lived. Maybe it’s silly, but I’m heartbroken. I guess that’s a testament to how much it meant to me. Even Dave’s offer to wake up with the girls to give me a sleep-in day couldn’t make up for what I was missing. All it gave me was the privacy to have a little cry.
I still teach on Saturday. In fact, one of my Monday students will now be coming on Saturday and I even have some new kids starting my new session this weekend. But, I can’t help but feel like a failure for the ones that chose not to come back.
If only my skill for teaching matched my love for doing it.
Maybe it’s not simply the realization that I’m ordinary that’s hard to accept. It’s the fact that I’m ordinary despite my best efforts.
There’s a strange comfort in the delusion that, “I could do it if I applied myself.” There’s no comfort whatsoever in, “I did my best and it wasn’t enough.”
I did my best and it wasn’t enough. Fuck. That sucks.
I’m putting The Immaculate Collection on shuffle and doing a fake Madonna concert in my bathroom.
taking pictures of myself
I prefer kittens
I received a haircut I absolutely love last week. I had it done while I was out of town for my baby doctor appointment, so the stylist was new to me, but her name was Leslie and that made me like her right away. And she met all of my hair stylist criteria, which are the following:
- My hair stylist must have a great haircut. My hair is fine and thinning and requires the work of an illusionist to make it look good. If my stylist can’t make the most with what she’s got, she doesn’t have a chance with me. (And I’m not saying “she” to be sexist. I just haven’t had a male stylist. Not that I wouldn’t. I surely would. They just aren’t in great supply in my area. Don’t be offended. Men can cut hair. I love you!) Leslie had a great haircut. She was really cute.
- If I ask my hair stylist’s opinion, I expect him to have one. (See how I changed it up for you? I love men who cut hair!) Nothing annoys me more than asking a stylist, “What do you think?” and hearing, “I don’t know,” or “Whatever you want.” Well, what I want is your opinion. I’d rather hear an opinion I don’t agree with than “I don’t know.” “I don’t know” translates to “I don’t care.” I don’t tip people who don’t care. Well, that’s not true. I tip everyone. I just won’t tip them as well as I would have and I’ll resent them for the tip they get. That’s almost as powerful as a voodoo curse. Leslie had opinions and pictures to illustrate them! And she was really excited about them! I love Leslie!
- My hair stylist must have good conversation skills. If the stylist cuts my hair in silence, I believe it’s because she hates me. I know people have whole other lives that have nothing to do with me, but if a person is cutting my hair, I’d really like it if they focused on me a little bit. I’m a poor girl. Getting a haircut is a big deal. It’s my chance to feel pampered. I want my stylist to talk to me and ask me questions. Leslie asked lots of questions and even drew the conclusion that, “This cut suits your personality.” I love that! She even explained all the products she used and why she chose them just for me! I want to date Leslie!
- My hair stylist must be flexible and give me options. If my cut is over and I decide I want bangs after all or I want it a little shorter in the back, my stylist should do it for me without getting all huffy and pissy. Pissy is my least favorite adjective, so if my stylist embodies it, she becomes my least favorite person, especially because I am paying her. I’d never pay anyone to be pissy. Leslie wasn’t the least bit pissy when I asked her to go a little shorter in the back. In fact, she told me, “You know, you were right to go a little shorter.” I want to marry Leslie!
- My hair stylist should encourage me to come back to her. I hate those salons that don’t allow you to request a specific stylist because they’re all supposed to be equally skilled and qualified to cut your hair. Because that’s total bullshit. What they’re really telling you is that they’re a nasty place to work and their turnover is so high, the woman you liked probably won’t be there in six weeks, especially if she’s good. Stylists are not created equal. I’m specifically thinking of Ms. Attitude with the skunk highlights that smells like cigarette smoke and rolls her eyes a lot. She is not qualified to cut my hair (see above hair stylist criteria). Leslie gave me her card that included her hours and a coupon for money off my return visit to her. And yesterday? I got a postcard in the mail from Leslie thanking me for my visit and telling me she can’t wait to see me again. So, I called and made my appointment to coincide with my next baby doctor trip where I intend to propose to Leslie. She is the perfect stylist. I want her to be mine forever.
Do you have a regular hair stylist or do you just go wherever, whenever you can get in?
Some People Say They’d Rather Feel Pain Than Have No Feeling At All. These People Did Not Nurse While Pregnant.
I am almost 16 weeks pregnant. I am still nursing Lucy.
Most people don’t really care about this, but those who do seem to subscribe to one of two schools of thought on the subject:
1. I am a saint and a martyr and YOU GO GIRL!
2. I am an evil monster trying to kill my baby and DON’T LEAVE HER ALONE WITH THE BABY WHEN IT IS BORN, SHE MIGHT EAT IT!
Today, at my baby doctor appointment, the subject came up. The nurse I spent about an hour chatting with and giving blood to was a graduate of school number two. She instructed me to STOP NURSING AT ONCE FOR THE SAKE OF MY UNBORN CHILD! My doctor, however, felt differently. I am sure there are laws or at least a lawyer advising her against calling me a monster and suggesting I am desirious of cannibalistic activity, but she genuinely seemed to feel as if what I was doing was okay. She said I was in good health and there’s no reason a woman in good health and with good nutrition cannot nurse while she is pregnant.
She did say I may be motivated to stop in the second trimester because things will likely get uncomfortable. But, I explained to her: THEY ALREADY ARE.
The thing about nursing while pregnant is this: PAIN. PAIN! OH MY FUCKING GOODNESS, THE MOTHER-FUCKING PAIN! And if you think the f-word is vulgar, you know nothing of the pain I’m talking about. It makes fuck sound like hallelujah. Imagine red hot 10 gauge needles being inserted into your nipples until they poke through your back. And then imagine being suspending from those needles. It feels a little like that. But worse. Not while I’m nursing, but while I’m NOT nursing. Or if my breasts get cold. Or touched. Or looked at. Or not.
The heating pad is my best friend. I spend most of my time at home clutching it to my chest and moaning. And when I’m away from home, I’m just soldiering through it. No, I’m not coming on to you and I’m not a pervert – I am touching my breasts because of the pain. Oh for the love of all sugary treats, THE PAIN!
The truth is, I’m not a saint or a martyr. My reasons for continuing with nursing are 20% laziness and 30% cowardice and we all know saints and martyrs are pretty brave go-getters. And I’m not an evil monster, because the remaining 50% of my reasoning is made up of love for my children and the belief of what is best for them. Even the ones that can still fit in my uterus. I’m just a woman in pain. OH MY GOOD LORD, THE PAIN!!!
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