margaritas and scissors

If pressed, and if I'm being honest, I'd have to say it was the fault the margaritas. 3 margaritas. 3 margaritas that I foolishly permitted Sean to make, rather than myself.

Alternately, I could blame the decision on my running into my hairdresser in a coffee shop the other day, who I hadn't been to see since last May. Which got me thinking about how much my hair is the pits. THE PITS.

Be it the Sean-made margaritas scenario, be it the fateful meeting of the hairdresser in the coffee shop scenario, something happened this weekend:

Let's start at the beginning. Once upon a time, Sean and Jessie wanted to be prudent with their spending and with their public exposure of their children to unsuspecting fellow restaurant go-ers. Both were quite keen to hit the local Mexican restaurant for endless chips and salsa and, more importantly, salted & rocked margaritas. They decided to use their better judgement (ironic snort reserved for a few paragraphs down) and have a patio date. As fate - for better or more likely for worse - would have it, a CVS run yielded the discovery of Sean's favorite tequila on sale. It further produced Tostitos and that kind of gross queso dip that Sean's obsessed with; the one that I strangely can't stop eating despite being perturbed by every bite I take.

It's 75 degrees. The kids are being oddly simpatico - simultaneously. A couple hours of talking and beveraging go by. We hit the hot tub, and I'm pretty sure this is where it went wrong. I dunked my head, you see, thus making my hair wet and manageable. By the time the errant whiff of a not-great idea penetrated my foggy brainwaves, it was too late. Even Sean doubted my judgement - and that means something's really off.

I'll paint the scene here: still sopping from the pool and clad in my "bathing suit" (track shorts and sports tank) I sought out the scissors at the back of the medicine cabinet. I did my best to remain stationary as I held a struggling Weston in my right arm and Jordan stripped down to nakedness at my left (see pink tutu'd bathing suit splashed in split ends, above). And here, here  is where I should have stopped the whole thing:

when I realized that this was the face of my soon-to-be hair-shearer. As Sean brushed my hair out (leaving what I'm pretty sure are permanent track marks down my back from the brush because OW, it's not an Iron Man competition, Sean, it's my frail straggly hairs) I realized I could still stop this, but Tequila said "sh, it'll be fine."

Snip. 

"Oh, Mom, why you doing? Why your hairs cutting?" 

Snip. 

"Don't worry about it, Jess, I think it's a straight line." (<----DIRECT QUOTE)

Snip.

"Maybe I shouldn't have let you do this."

Snip.

Snip.

So I saved about $60. I cheated on my hairdresser (with my husband). It's way way shorter than I instructed and it'll take roughly a year to recoup those losses (slowest growing hair in the land). But it's actually only approximately half-bad.

Oh and I just realized Weston makes that face in that last picture. I always wondered where he got it from.

There's a moral here somewhere. Don't make decisions - weighty or flighty or otherwise - when you're on tequila? Don't keep scissors lying around? Don't quaff & coif? Learn from me, friends.

I'll see you sometime next year, hair. I miss you.

craps

I wasn't anticipating being one of those. One of those mommy bloggers that feels compelled to write about her child's every ache, pain, and bowel movement. Ok, I'm still not one of those but I guess when something like Saturday morning happens, a pregnant fat chick has to vent a little. I do what I want. Except, I had actually wanted to title this post "sh*tshow" but I thought that skirted a little more into the inappropriate than I should venture.

All I can say, without revealing details reserved only for my mom and siblings (to whom I recounted in blow-by-blow format) is that, had Jordan performed this tutorial in fecal abstract art with her macabre my-crib/body-is-my-canvas approach on a weekday when there was no one about to help me with the aftermath, I would have pulled a Jordan-in-trouble, hid under the table, and pretended nothing had happened. Lucky for Sean, Jordan timed her Jackson Pollock-esque debut for bright and early Saturday morning.

My keen and astute instincts tell me that Saturday morning may have been linked to Friday morning. On Friday morning, out of the clearest blue sky, I was walking Jordan up to her sitter's when she paused, upchucked her breakfast of fresh cherries on the pathway, turned a half-step so that my skirt could share in the path's unfortunate fate, then proceeded to greet her friends in her signature "haaaaaaayyyy! hiiiii!" manner. No sweat. First time throwing up in her whole life, and I'm the one squawking and flapping about like a rooster on crack. Jordan was just kind of like "well that was weird" and I was "aaa!? are you ok? what's wrong?! answer me!"

I didn't go to work on Friday (save for a couple of hours when Jordan took a nap and my sister watched her) and despite my hovering prowess, Jordan displayed no further symptoms. Until.

Saturday morning. Jordan started whining around 8:30 like she was super annoyed about something. Sean went in to greet her with a signature "Good MOOOR-" interrupted by machine gun "Jess! Jess! Jess! Jess! Jess! Jess!" (I'm gonna go out on a limb here and just state that he needs to work on bad news delivery.) Jordan was understandably upset that the contents of what rightfully should have been split up into seven diapers was in her hair, on her favorite Dr. Suess blanket (that one is no longer with us...that sucker used to be white, but now...), on several board books, on every slat in her crib, and in her eyebrows. Honestly, I was defeated as soon as I walked in the room. The only words I could summon were slow, defeated, whimpering "Oh no.... oh no..... oh no....."'s on repeat for pretty much the duration of clean-up.

A little teamwork, a lot of breath-holding, a literal hose-down, bath and shower (in which Sean used two different types of body washes, because he said that would make her cleaner?) and much disgusting laundry later, and Jordan seems to be juuuust fine. Proud even. I relayed the events to my family in person as we descended upon them to use their laundry machine, and my brother quipped "Was she just in a shitty mood?" and I'm sorry for the language, but that was the first lip-twitch I had produced all day and I can't help but share the type of humor I appreciate.

Apologies for the wordy, pictureless post but, given the content, do you really want to see? I'll show you instead how we punished Jordan for her crappy endeavors:

Sand Prison. Inescapable - mwah ah ah ah ah

The rest of our weekend went smoothly. We actually did some other fun things aside from our beach excursion above. Perhaps I'll tell you about it sometime. Tomorrow shall we say? Happy Monday. (<----- cruelest oxymoron ever invented.)

i guess that makes me helena bonham-carter

Yesterday was a simultaneously tragic and jubilant day. Sean and I finally freed our daughter of her '80s hair affiliation, which I'm sure is something of a relief to her, as it must get exhausting to constantly channel a young Bret Michaels. From the other side of things, however, Jordan worked so hard for that hair her whole life. Let's consider:

 zero years old and balding. what an ominous prospect.

 sixish months old and pates to show for it.

she wanted hair for her birthday and all she got was this sprinkle doughnut.

I finally put my foot down yesterday though. Jordan's hair is such that she still has basically nothing on top, but it's flowing like a stallion's mane behind her, and I can't let my daughter be subject to ridicule (via mostly my family, but occasionally my own self) any longer. This is why Sean and I got our Sweeney Todd on; but to be clear, we weren't out to butcher anything. Well, not intentionally but we may have murdered fashion and a little bit of Jordan's self esteem with our botch job.

 compliant in her own demise

 the grave offender

 take a good look

Sampson and Delilah

"why didn't the brush get stuck on a huge crib-woven rat's nest?"

I feel that maybe I was on the brink of hysteria over this decision. I was laughing and laughing for the duration of the haircut, and as soon as I held that defeated little pigtail in my hand, I nearly had a tearfest of epic proportions. I think I'll chalk this one up to pregnancy too because I refuse to believe I've become this sentimental. I saved the pigtail as only super-creeps and moms will do, and I take comfort in the fact that I can still admire Jordan's 20 months of hard work.

Sean snatched the scissors and "evened out her bangs." """"""""""""" 

But you know, now that my eyes have had time to adjust and to mentally erase all the flaws and oversights, I think Jordan rather channels a chic, young Shirley Maclaine a la The Apartment.

But then...I look at it from a different angle and she also slightly echoes King Curtis

Bacon is good for me

Chicken nuggets is like my family.

Yeah...you see it too.

raining and pouring and silver lining

As fate would have it, we've had a series of unfortunate events around here in the last few weeks. They all seemed to come at once, as mishaps will do. Instead of weeping over the spilt milk (which there is quite a bit of around here because Jordan likes to dance really enthusiastically with bottle in hand - please see below - and inevitably gets her expensive organic milk more on the ceiling than in her fat belly) I'm trying to find the upshot. Very Anne of Green Gables of me, yes? Every day is fresh..with no mistakes in it.

I think the soundtrack to this epic moment was "It's My Life" by bon Jove

Stormcloud the First:
Sean's Mustang, which he must must have because it's the most awesome most badass most manly car and who cares if it takes 20 minutes to get Jordan's carseat in and out of it because it's a sporty two-door?, suffered cardiac arrest this last week. The engine just....exploded. Or something. If you don't know, engine replacement is just about the biggest b of an expense. You'd think the flippin' engine was made of diamond, but we have managed to find a "deal" (let's just say, a deal compared to the $6500 we were originally quoted).

Silver Linings Playbook
Sean has been driving my sassy little Toyota since his car's out of comish for the week. My mama was good enough to let me commandeer her Subaru, and guess what: it's a fantastically convenient little SUV for Jordans. No stooping to buckle, which is getting much harder with the ever-expanding belly (mine and hers) and oh so much more leg room. But the BEST part: XM radio. No commercials! I have sooo been bustin' out the "'50s on 5" and "'60s on 6" channels because those songs bring me back. As a born and raised homeschooler, I grew up on K-Earth 101 oldies and my dad's old mixed tapes. I heard Silhouettes! Oh my gosh, it kills me. The '50s were totally formulaic, but it's the type of chemistry I can get behind. And Just Dropped In by Kenny Rogers (such a good jam), which obvi just conjures up classic clips of Lebowski

The Dude Abides

Stormcloud the Second

I've been doing this mothering thing for what, twenty months now? In a shocking turn of events that no one saw coming, it turns out I'm still a TOTAL NEWB. Jordan really likes to "talk" on the phone. But here's the thing: to Jordan, anything is a phone. My glasses case is a phone. The remote control is a phone. My cream colored flat has been known to be a phone, as has my gold flip flop.

"beebee" can be a phone too

So does an actual iPhone have to be a phone? No, it does not. I could have handed her a golden retriever and it would have sufficed. And yet I trusted my toddler enough to let her "talk" on it while I obliviously chatted away with my mom in my parents' backyard. If you'll refer to my first photo of the post, you'll remember that Jordan likes/loves/is obsessed with dancing. When things get crazy to the tune inside her head, you don't know what's going to happen. But in this case, what happened was Jordan twirled and twirled and twirled my $??? phone right out of her hand and firmly onto the concrete. The thing shattered. You won't believe it, but it still works. The case is in a million tiny shards though, and I don't think I'd have fingerprints anymore if I had continued to try and use it.

Silver Lining

My mom is like my pimp. She immediately phoned up her "connection" and is bringing my phone in to be replaced for about 1/5 of what it would have cost me through Apple. I'll be without an iFix for four days, but this is a further silver lining: I'm detoxing. No more checking the 'gram every 46 seconds. No more blog rounds on bathroom breaks. I'm using Sean's old phone for straight up communication - what a concept...

Stormcloud the Third

Sean and I have been passing a cough back and forth to each other for weeks. It's obnoxious. It's the most unsatisfactory cough too. It's just dry and hacking, and to cough doesn't provide any relief - that scratchy itch   still lingers in your throat. Do you know the one? It has invaded our sleep patterns too. Right now, I'm the one with the cough, and I have been hacking a lung every night since Thursday. Consequently, poor exhausted Sean has dragged himself out on to the couch so as to escape my interruptive tri-hourly cough episodes for the last three nights. And I'm not really sleeping much either.

Silver Lining
Yeah, you got me. This one just sucks. Maybe that I've been buying the crazy expensive just-squeezed-from-the-oranges-in-the-backyard orange juice and I'm using this cough to justify it? Vitamin C yo.

Stormcloud the Fourth
Jordan is in love with her cousin.

All I want for Easter is you. And mayyyybe that Tootsie Roll pop you're clutching.

Silver Lining

They make a cute couple.

See? I did it. I made lemonade.

Sometimes

it's one of those mornings. Such was Friday.
It was my fault really, I didn't recognize the signs. If I had, I would have embraced the inevitability of downward spiral.

I woke up voraciously hungry, which is rare for me, and we were out of zucchini which is my usual brekkers. Bust. Ok.

I heard Jordan complaining immediately upon waking - also a rarity, as she usually likes a good half hour of alone time in the morning (for singing her rendition of the Indiana Jones  theme song - no really, Sean's been teaching her - and chatting with Sockmonkey and flipping through The Napping House) before I invade her privacy. But that's alright, I like to hang out with Jordan. I'll just whip up her morning cup of milk and we can commence with our chillfest.

Nope, I forgot to get milk after Sean drained the last of it making his 27th latte of the day the previous evening, with his new Christmas present IncrediCoffee 2000. (I don't really know the name of the machine so I subbed in this badass title. Patent pending.) And I'm pretty sure Jordan is going to notice my not-sly waterbaba decoy.

I walked into the smell of a thousand souls shedding their searing tears for the demise of the universe in The Event that was Jordan's Diaper. So much for that onesie. Well, the contents of the diaper that had found their way up her back nearly to her rat-tail explained her unwillingness to play in her cell for any duration. Mystery solved.

After a wipe bath - and to offset the distinctly unfeminine affair we had both just been party to - I dressed Jordan in a tutu, because ridicule is my favorite. And because she can say "tutu" which is super entertaining. But I'd regret that decision in a minute too.

Jordan didn't want to be Ms. Independence of the Kelly Clarkson variety this particular morning, she opted for the Clingy McSaranWrap persona. Hey ya know, that happens sometimes, and while it slows my preparation-for-work process, it's kind of funny getting ready with her sitting on the counter while I pretend to apply mascara to her lashes and pluck her eyebrows. She tried a sneak attack reach for the open glass container of homemade bath salts that Kimmy gave me for Christmas, so I quickly latched the lid back on, narrowly avoiding a catastrophe that I didn't have time for.

Upon finishing our makeup routine I lifted Jordan off the counter, and what oh what  should her tutu be caught in but the huge, heavy, breakable Ball jar of bath salts. I freaked out until I realized it was very tightly caught, and did not detach and shatter all over the bathroom floor, but swung whimsically from Jordan's delicate ensemble.

I really need to amend my resolutions to be headed up at the tippy tip top with: THINK BEFORE YOU ACT JESS. I made a feeble and ill-advised attempt at athleticism in unlatching the lid with one hand while keeping Jordan pinned to my hip and yep. You guessed it. The whole flippin' thing clunked to the floor. Bath salts broke into a thousand pieces and they all went skipping about, and that was the beginning of fairies.

The jar did not actually break (shout out to the patron saint of clumsy), but I was on all fours scraping my beloved peppermint-scented granules from long since deserted corners of the bathroom, while Jordan berated me for my audacity in releasing her from my grasp, all while I should have been ten minutes down the freeway.

Wouldn't ya know it? I was slammed nearly to the degree of death by drowning in work, and got a particularly rude phone call from the condescendingest* of condescending customers. It was nearly 5 by then and this dang day had me itching to be sarcastic and passive aggressive right on back to him, but that's not what they pay me for, so I merely added an extra layer of saccharine to my already Mary Poppin'd professional voice. HA. That'll show him.
*fake superlatives make me feel better.

Now just look at that: I made it all the way through this much too complainy narrative with nary a snapshot and aren't you proud? However, it's affecting my psyche so I'm not going to let you off the hook.

Jordan's gleeful leer (gleer, if you will) is clearly enunciating:

"You can be kinda dumb sometimes, Mom."

No Jordan. Fridays can be kinda dumb sometimes.

Rules of the Playground

there are none.

The jungle theme of our neighborhood indoor playground is wildly appropriate (pun so very very intended). Usually when I chaperone Jordan to this metropolis of chaos and smelly socks there are few kiddos with which to share it. We're part of the early bird crowd you see.

Yet 3:30 on New Year's Eve afternoon presented itself as an appealing time slot because hey, Jordan had awoken from her beauty sleep; I had the day off of work; I'm an idiot. Post Christmas sales? Mall crawlers armed with newly acquired gift cards? Lots of people have New Year's Eve off? Why no, these hadn't occurred to me.

You may have surmised by now that we encountered a jungle gym (totally just put the "jungle" theme connection together. Clever.) teeming with toddlers of all shapes, sizes and genders.

 Where's Jordo

First off, may I say that there is no firmer believer than I in the power of nurture over nature, but it is hilarious  how Nature can present itself in the very young. Say what you will, anthropologists and social experimenters and observers of the human animal, but little girls are generally hovering and protective, and little boys are generally aggressive and dominant. Generally. It is survival of the fittest on the playground.

Jordan is familiar with this park and, for as many times as we've been there, you'd think she would want to explore other options than the slide. Nothing can keep her from it.

 Round 823

Sometimes there is a little congestion in the slide traffic - which is the type of inefficiency that Jordan does not tolerate in the least - so she has learned to methodically maneuver her way around the inexperienced offenders who block her monomania because of their mystification with the concept of stairs. This is where, on this fateful trip, we encountered the slide terrorist AKA Nature: 1, Nurture: 0 AKA ma'am, do you know that your son is making attempts on my child's life.

As Jordan sped around the corner from slide to stairs for the umpteenth time and expertly managed the kiddie pileup, she encountered the source of today's traffic: Slide Ruler. There was a young man of about three perched on the top step, mother nowhere to be found, scaring fellow slidegoers from any attempts at downward-gravitational amusement. Jordan of Seventeen Months has an utterly trusting and predictably naive nature and wouldn't recognize malignant intent if he placed his foot squarely in the middle of her chest and got ready to plunge her to the depths of animal-cracker-matted carpets. Oh wait. That's what I had to break my "don't intervene with the kids' playtime" rule to go and prevent.

The aftermath of this little scene had slightly older girls (6 or 7 maybe) flying to a confused but not visibly upset Jordan's aid. The slide criminal was lifted off and chided by his older but still very young sister, and Jordan acquired an omnipresent playground protectress who followed her around incessantly.

that's her bodyguard on the right.

Sweet little Ms. Hover quickly picked up on the name I was calling my child and, after each slide revolution, would report: "that little boy tried to trip Jordan but I caught her before she fell"..."it was so cute, Jordan went and gave that baby a hug"..."that boy over there was mean to Jordan roared like a lion in her face, but I told him to stop" Jordan was mostly oblivious to her entourage of one and went about her sliding as quickly as possible.

So if park = socialization, I think Jordan's current impression of society is: tyranny from the top step + animal roars in the faces of similar sized humans + stalking your prey another child = jungle gym harmony. Perfect. I love life lessons via mall park.

The Good, the Bad, and the Grimy

Bath time. A rapturous time. A time in which mother and daughter share a slew of emotions together, including but not limited to: frustration, defiance, tearfulness, disdain, animosity, chagrin, despair, distress, agitation, fear and loathing (not in Las Vegas, in Las Bathtub). Alright so some of these are physical rather than emotional states but you say potato. and I say potato too.

Here's the rub a dub dub: Jordan loves the water. Loves it.

Ocean Water? Check.

She's mostly naked too, so it's like a humongous, salty, freezing cold bath.

Lake Water? Check check.

It comes with a huge floating couch - what is not to love, pray tell.

Sink water circa age 1 month?

Soothing, comfortable, paradisiacal - check, check, check.

But bath time these days is a veritable battle of wills. We start off ok if Jordan's left to her devices. Her devices are named Rubber Ducky, Rubber Seahorse, Rubber Blowfish, and Rubbermaid Tupperware. They all get along swimmingly if you'll excuse the pun, but I don't blame you if you won't. It used to be that I would let Jordan play leisurely for twenty, twenty-five minutes at a time while I sat cross-legged on the bath mat making my blog rounds. Only after she and her bathmates had tired of Marco Polo would I pull out the dreaded shampoo and get down to the business of making clean.

Then, It Happened One Night.

If you're a mom I'm pretty sure you can handle this story, but if you're included in the clan of easily nauseated I'll let you see yourself out. I was minding my own business. I was poring over my stories. Jordan was filling her Rubbermaid with bath water then dumping it out repeatedly and without losing enthusiasm. She sweetly started sing-songing her favorite phrase "uh-oh." But Jordan doesn't know too many phrases and this one is applied to most situations, including the one where she chucks her binky the length of the room (she hasn't figured out the connotation of "unintentional" that is usually attached to the expression). So I kept on with my affairs with nary a glance up, while mindlessly repeating back "uh-oh" to her. Until. One of the uh-oh's was accompanied by a something landing on my lamb-appliqued pj bottoms. My daughter had flung poop on my lambjamas.

There was an emergency evacuation from the tub. The rubber bathmates were subjected to a bio radiation decontamination soak in a sinkful of hydrogen peroxide. We lost Rubber Hammerhead in the Event, as his tail was used to corral toxic waste down the drain. After a vinegar-baking soda scrubdown of the tub-potty - all carefully supervised by a very naked Jordan - the Offender was plopped in a fresh vat of the bubbly and aggressively and effectively washed by the Offendee.

I'm sure you can understand why bath time is no longer fun and games around here. We're in there to degermify, and fast. These days Dirty Harry greets both bath and bather as such

Don't come at me with that Aveeno, bro.

And I sneer

You've gotta ask yourself one question: Do you feel clean?

Well do ya...punk?

For a good fifteen minutes after each disinfection, Jordan and I aren't on speaking terms. She flirts with Sean, tries to make me jealous, shoots glances in my direction to make sure I'm paying attention, and it's all very convincing until I pull the milk carton out. The "baba" makes all things new again; we kiss (Jordan kiss = foreheads bonk) and make up, I give her a little extra toothpaste on her brush by way of an apology, and we turn in for the night amicably.

In true toddler fashion: one millisecond you're in, and the next...you're out. I'll just keep the milk handy.