My Toddler Plays Soccer Now. OH, MY HEART!

She came down from upstairs, calling to me. "Wook, mom! Wook!"

She swirled her skort around for me, as she jumped and hopped in excitement over wearing actual official soccer cleats and shin-guards. My heart sped up, swelled and died all at once. She's three-and-a-half and yet still a baby. And she wore this smile of pride alongside her jean skort and new cleats like one I've never seen.

Her first soccer practice. And her favoritest person is her coach (daddy).

And, as if that isn't the awesomest thing ever, she practices right before her second-favoritest person ever (her brother), so he's there for her practice, and she's there for his. Anywhere he is, she is, and she likes it that way.

Perfection for her. Heartbreaking reality that time waits for no mom for me.

Oh, my heart.

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The Shower Dance

Sometimes, in the evenings, I have to scheme my way away from Baby Dude in order to get a shower. This never goes well, as I'm sure you can imagine. He's kind-of like the cutest boob-addicted leech you can imagine, but pulling him off of me for 15-minutes for a much-needed shower is like trying to rip duct tape off skin - painful and not something you ever want to have to do, let alone more than once.

My husband was busy doing his best, trying to keep him occupied while I scurried fast-as-I-could upstairs for a quick cleanse, but he must have heard the water start. Even in the loudness of the shower I could hear the wailing happening from down below, slowly increasing as his crying body crawled up the stairs to seek out momma. Sigh.

It wasn't long before I peeked out the shower curtain to see a pajama-ed Baby Dude, full-on crying, red pathetic eyes, arms extended (OHMYDEARGOD the arm-stretching, pick-me-up-I-need-you thing should be illegal), moaning "Mommaaaaa!" over and over again until I picked him up. Double sigh.

I was already sudsy, shampoo in my hair, half shaven, I couldn't get out! So, I came up with a plan - I'd strip him down and have him join me. It used to work, I figured, why not?

Wrong.

Once in the shower, he screamed. It wasn't too hot, but that was so not what he wanted. He yelled, cried, freaked the ever-loving hell out. My husband came in, scooped him up, re-dressed him, much to his dismay (because this child prefers nakedidity) (yeah, I made up that word.) (so what). And of all things, my husband took him out of the bathroom, away from me, again.

Cue the freak. Triple sigh.

(P.S. You don't think anyone's going to care that I have one shaggy leg, and one clean-shaven leg, do you?)

(P.P.S. Guess I'm only showering during nap-time now. When hubby's home. Which is, like, never. Quadruple sigh.)

(P.P.P.S. How many wackos you think are gonna respond to my job ad "Need Babysitter to Take Shower"? Yeah. That's what I thought.)


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Waxing, Where Have You Been All My Life?

I'm probably one of the few women alive that had never been waxed before. Until today. Except maybe that time I tried that fake-wax goop that was sold on late-night infomercials way back when. You know, which ended up causing massive bruising because it wasn't hot enough, or maybe I didn't pull it fast enough. I literally looked like I'd been beaten the crap out of the next morning, all bruised, ugly, and still hairy. Argh! So, if you can call that experience "being waxed" then okay, I've ventured there before. (You really didn't believe me when I told you I'd never gotten anything but a hairstyle done at a spa before, huh?)

But this time, it wasn't any novice (ahem, cheapskate me) attempting some fake-wax fad product, it was a professional doing it to me. I was in pro hands, now. I was already in getting my hair cut, rockin' the uni-brow because I'd lost my awesome tweezers and was too busy mourning the loss to realize the sasquatch patch I had above my eyes. The hairstylist took pity on me. She figured, I was already blowing a gazillion dollars in her salon anyway, why not spend another $10 and have a pro do it?

(And by that I mean, I begged, practically on my knees, for her to take the hair off my eyes. Who the hell cares about a cute, new hairdo when you're eyebrow hair is too busy snarling at you?)

She took me back into this room that had what looked like a torture chair with a dentist-esque table next to it. I was suddenly panicky, it was a small side room with no windows or anything, made of solid bricks or cement. I formulated this was to shield other customers from the screams of having hair ripped out with flaming hot wax? {Gulp}

She popped open this vat-O'-hot-goo and slathered some on a Q-tip, and applied it to my increasingly thick eyebrow mop O' hair, clamping down on some sheet of something, then QUICKRIPOMGWAIT but it didn't hurt. And she did it a few more times, then took out her tweezers to fix a couple stubborn hairs (oh, do I ever know, girl). She wiped and rubbed some magic something-or-other on me, and now I not only have cute pink-skinned eyebrows, they're neat, tidy, and smooth as a baby's butt. I'm serious. I can't top petting my eyebrow skin. (What? Stop looking at me like that.)

How the hell have I not discovered this whole "waxing" phenomenon sooner? Five freaking minutes, and my eyebrows are done, no arching my back into contorted, back-aching ways to tweeze and sneeze and pinch myself with pokey-tweezers that took forever and a day and never looked this good. Oh my goodness, best damn $10 I've spent on myself in a long while. Well, with the exception of my new hair cut. And if you ask me nicely, or offer me chocolate, I might show you a picture of it. Ahem.

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