The hair

I’m 4 months postpartum now, and my hair is falling out like crazy. Clumps of it in the shower. Clumps. It’s all natural of course, payback from the “nice” hair I had while I was pregnant.

I’ve read — in a few places — that around this time, babies can get hairs wrapped around their toes. Mommy sheds, the hair gets in the laundry, then inside the sleeper, then ends up on a tiny digit which sometimes has to be amputated. I’ve kept this in the back of my mind for some time, but always assumed it was a “freak” thing. I mean, what kind of mother would let that happen?

What kind of mother, indeed. I took The Boy out of his pyjamas this morning, and there it was. A big ol’ hair wrapped SO tight around his middle toe, it had already made an indent. I mean, that sucker was ON there. And I freaked. I couldn’t just roll it off, as it was in a tight little ring. I frantically tried to think of what might remove it quickly and with no pain. He was squirming and crying a little as I picked at it. I knew a nail clipper or scissors would be a bad idea (and lead to even earlier amputation), and wished I’d paid more attention in organic chemistry so I could think of something that might chemically remove or soften the hair while leaving the toe relatively unscathed. I thought about calling the Nurse’s Hotline, where you can wait on hold for about an hour while your son or daughter has a medical emergency that might be solved on the phone by someone with a nursing degree.

All the while, pick, pick, pick, and it FINALLY came off. I’m traumatized. Now we’ll add that to our bedtime routine: bath, diaper, bottle, and flip-the-jammies-inside-out to look for hair before we put em on.

In other news, the swing broke.

 

Clean up, clean up.

When I was five, I was finally old enough to change the sheets on my own bed. I would take all the blankets off, then play for a bit. Flip through a book, pick up a doll. Then I’d take the sheets off, spin around, look out the window. Then put the bottom sheet on, try on my shoes, etc etc. I knew I couldn’t leave my room til it was done, and what should have taken seven minutes at most turned into a weekly hour-and-a-half marathon.

The Girl is the same way. I’m not a good housekeeper a slob, but I asked her to clean her room. Because it looked like this:

 

… and I would have nightmares about a fire breaking out in the night and me not being able to even FIND her through all that crap. She spent probably four hours in her room today. Trying on hats and shoes, playing with dolls, laughing at imaginary friends. Kept running out to give me a hug and tell me I’m the bestest Mommy ever. (How do you get mad at that?) Eventually, the clothes got picked up, at least.

Um, and incidentally, if you have any tips on how to get hot pink Silly Putty out of bed linen, I’d really appreciate it.

 

Pick on someone your own size

Had a longer post written, and scrapped it. This speaks for itself:

 

When I grow up

The Girl and I have been having some serious talks lately. Now that she’s all of 5 years old, I asked her what she wants to be when she grows up (because someone eventually will need to get a job around here). I told her she can be anything she wants: a doctor, lawyer, hairdresser, firefighter, farmer.. etc etc.

So she picked. And I don’t know what her official title would be, or what the pension plan looks like on this sort of thing, but she wants to “help people get through mazes.”

This little piggy…

I’ve been a vegetarian for 15 years now, and a lazy one at that. I wonder if PETA would frown on me using that word. Probably. Maybe I just “don’t eat meat.” At any rate, it works for me.

I say I’m lazy about it because I enjoy all the things that true vegetarians and vegans try to avoid: Caesar salad (contains anchovy paste), cheese and yogurt (contain rennet — look it up, it’s gross — but it’s so tasty!), Jello (crushed up horse hooves n’ such.. I did boycott this one for a few years), and eggs (but only if they’re an ingredient in something store-bought, because I’m lazy). And I love milk. I would suck it straight from the cow, if this was plausible. Sigh.. I’ve cheated with chicken (no bones, cut up, and “hidden”) but ONLY when I’m pregnant and really craving it. Honey and wool are ok, but leather is a big no-no.

I read that list and wonder if I’m even truly a “non-meateater” or if I should just hang my head in shame and call myself “picky” instead. I don’t like meat. I don’t like the thought of chewing veins and muscles and swallowing them. But I’m not a big advocate for it either. My kids eat meat (well, The Girl does, so far) and love it. I prepare it, and quietly go about my own meal. I couldn’t care less if the person next to me is eating a steak, as long as they say nothing about me not eating it. Live and let eat, I guess.

Fruititarianism is interesting: eating only raw food. Typically a vegan menu (which again, I could never do), it would require a complete lifestyle overhaul, but I would consider it if everything magically came on platters I could pick at . Fresh stuff rots in my fridge. No reason, just lazy. So we eat a lot of canned stuff. And I think if I ever went to jail or Mexico or Mexican jail, and all there was to eat was canned peas and boiled toast, I’d be pretty happy.

Childhood revisited

Some days, I’m surprised I survived infancy. My crib had slats wide enough to pass a Coke can through, I slept on my stomach, never EVER used a carseat (or even a seatbelt!), and when I was a whopping three days old, the hospital sent me home wearing a bracelet with a lead bead.

Now that I have my own children, I am a safety fanatic. I try to follow all the carseat, nutrition, and sleeping recommendations. When The Girl was born, I only ever used Avent bottles because the lactation consultants recommended them. The Boy is three months old now, and I’d stocked up on Avent bottles, soothers, pump, and sterilizer soon after he was born.

And suddenly they’re not “safe.” I’m panicked, really. Have I really, truly been poisoning my children? Every time I’ve cleaned and sterilized those little plastic bottles and nipples, miniscule amounts of Bisphenol A have been seeping into their little bodies. At first I thought what was good for The Girl must be good for The Boy as well, but I finally broke down today and returned all 19 bottles and the sterilizer. I suppose $7.99 per bottle is restitution enough should they develop cancer or tumours or poor math skills because of all the chemicals.

It makes me think of other things though. What else isn’t “safe” in their little lives? Lead paint in toys. Deet in bugspray. Even nightlights apparently cause cancer now. We may wake up tomorrow and learn that laundry soap causes Alzheimers. Or that the white dye in diapers causes prostate cancer. Who’s to know?  There must be a middle ground between paranoia and denial, usually referred to as common sense, which sometimes is not as common as it should be. So for now, we’ll use the new plastic bottles. And skip the nightlights. And tighten those seatbelts just a little more snugly.