Friday, February 12, 2010

Mama, Nooooooooo! Keep Your Face On!

It tickles me that I learn something new about parenting every day. And by "tickles me" I really mean that in the heat of the moment I want scream and throw things, but later I manage to find some semblance of humor in the situation.

Today, like many days, I dragged Noah somewhere we wasn't too excited to go. After a week of dark circles and the discovery of yet more fine lines (nothing "fine" about those jerks), I was in serious need of some beautifying. Since Botox scares me and is a bit out of my price range, I decided a nice brow wax would suffice. I think I read in Cosmo once that brow waxes are like a mini-face lift. Sure if your brows look like this, I guess...

But mine was nothing so dramatic. I just wanted a little pampering before a Valentine's Day date this weekend.

Anyhoo, off to the spa we went. I came armed with cookies, milk and a download of the Wiggles on my iPhone. (This is the part where I am supposed to seem experienced and wise as a parent).
I mean a brow wax is what, like 15 minutes? Surely he couldn't cause that much damage in such a short amount of time.

I waited until we were going down the hall to the spa to pull out the goodies and Noah began to wolf down the cookies as soon as the treatment door closed. 45 seconds after he finished the cookies (seriously there was a whole freaking bag of them. gone in less than a minute) he began to pay more and more attention to what was going on.

Noah: What Mama doing?

Me: Don't worry about it sweetie. Here, check out this video. It has Captain Feathersword, your fav-or-ite!!!

Noah: Hmmm. No thanks. What Mama doing?

Me: Well honey, Mama's getting her eyebrows done. I want to look nice for Papa.

*first strip is ripped off*

Noah (voice elevating): Noooo! I don't like it. Don't do it anymore!!!



This lead to inconsolable crying and screaming, which may have put a damper on the woman in the next room's therapeutic massage. The poor girl working on my brows is so freaked at the intensity of the crying that she actually backs up into the corner with her hands up.

So, yeah, I left with one eyebrow done.

Currently, I look less like Freida, and more like this:

But at least I kept most of my "face on."

Lesson learned. Good thing I didn't go in for a bikini wax.

Thursday, February 11, 2010

Ya Scummy Scab Scraper!

After thinking about Kat's writing prompts this week, I decided to be bold, to be fierce, and to be more than a little gross. I have chosen to tell you about that scar. Or in my case, the many little scars.

(If you have an easily excitable gag-reflex, just know, you've been warned.)

It all started at the tender of I really don't remember. I must have been around 5? I remember doing a lot of running around at that age. You know, chasing boys around the playground in kindergarten, saying, "now you have cooties!" One of those times, in my attempt to spread my girly disease, I must have taken a tumble and ended up with a large scrape on my knee.

I was in love! No, not with the boys, but with my scab! It was fantastic! I was amazed that red liquid has slowly turned to a solid chunky mass; a band aid my body had made on its very own! I was so intrigued that i thought, this phenomenon must be studied. So I peeled that sucker off and put it in an empty baby jar.

Can you guess what happened next? (Well, after the initial tears and more blood) It came back!!! What resilience! This one wanted to hold on a bit longer, it must have known what was coming, but with the help of mommy's tweezers, it ended up in the jar too. (ha, ya bastard!)

Over the years the jar grew from baby jar to jelly jar. Sometimes, I would take it out from under my bed and stare at all the unique and amazing forms my scabs have taken. They were my badges of honor! This one from falling of my bike, that one from the corner of the coffee table (that one was long and straight!) Each time I would find one, off he would come, into the jar to join the others.

As you can imagine, all this "scientific exploration" had some backlash. I ended up with tiny scars from the places I picked, then picked again and again. I'd take a picture for you, but most have faded with the help of years and a little Mederma.

At this point you have lost a little faith in me. You are scratching your head wondering if I purposely injured myself. Keep heart. I never became a cutter. I never turned into a sociopath. I just kept a jar of scabs. Now that's not too weird is it? :P