Missing the Little Man

My son is gone. 

Ok, I know that is dramatic and only part of the truth, but I am in a dramatic type of mood. Darren is actually visiting his grandma in Milwaukee. 

So he isn’t gone, but temporarily absent. Either way I have to deal with being just a wife for three more days, and who wants to do that?

Me, and not me. When I left for work yesterday I was proud of myself. I was teary-eyed, but no tears were shed. I made it through work without crying or excessive calling or texting. I gave myself a big pat on the back.

The dread set in on the drive home; twenty-five minutes to contemplate how I was going to spend a night (and the next several nights) alone with the hubby? So I tried to keep positive. He’s not that bad of a fellow to hang out with. He has a sense of humor, he a good, if sometimes frustrating, conversationalist, and when we go to sleep he doesn’t snore too loudly. 

So under my anxiety and worry I am looking forward to spending quality time with him.

That’s doesn’t explain why when I arrived home I couldn’t sum up the energy to go inside.

The dread I had been feeling had transformed in to quiet panic. What was it going to feel like walking into a house without my baby boy?  Whatever that feeling was I did not want to feel it. Nope, I would just have to sit here until I had to go to work in the morning. 

Then I got a picture text. My baby boy had officially arrived and he was smiling framed by a heart of rose. My jealousy spiked. Two seconds later I was bawling.

And that is how the hubby found me ten minutes later. 

“Why are you crying?”

“I’m fine.” Sniff.

“If it’s that bad we can go pick him up tomorrow.”

“No, that’s not the point.” I wipe my face. It really isn’t the point at all. Honestly, I do want Darren to have bonding time with his fraternal family.  I just don’t want to be six hours away when he does it. 

“You’re not going to be depressed like this all week are you?” The things men say that don’t make situations better.

“No, I’m fine.” I just need time to adjust. Please.

A little over twenty-four hours later I am partially adjusted. Thanks to some retail therapy in the form of a gift card; provided by the hubby (thank you very much) last week in anticipation of a possible meltdown on my part. He knows how to take my mind off of things.

Two days and a dozen hours until I see my little man again.

I can do this.

This is the picture his Uncle Rodney took today of him.  I so miss that face!

Good Hair

This is how I can tell I am a mom. I walk into work with my hair straightened and down, with the comments I get you would think I look like a gremlin on a regular basis.

“Hey, superstar” My boss.

“Hey, girly! Look at you!” Cindalicous.

“You’re hair looks nice.” That kitchen girl.

“I don’t know when I last saw you with your hair down. It looks good!” some random co-work from another store.

What a boot of confidence, but do I really look that bad on all the other days?  Don’t answer that.

The hubby is always telling me “you need to get your hair done.” (sad right?)

Well here’s the skinny everyone, I am going to be taking the biggest hair adventure over the next year. Are you ready? I am going NATURAL!

I know a big question mark may be forming your heads, so let me explain. From now until I decide I am through with this phase of my life, I am not going to chemically straighten my hair. Do you the crap can melt a pop can? Just watch Chris Rock’s Good Hair. It will change your life. It will change your hair’s life too; even if you’re not black.

Supposedly, I have that ‘good hair.’ You could have fooled me, but I am trying to become a believer. 

Darren on the other hand, that boy has some GOOD hair. His hair is so good he’s a local celebrity. I technically should be carrying hair sanitizer for how many people touch his hair. I take him up town and they’re not even fazed by the fact we’re the only black people who live in a ten mile radius. They just want to cop a feel and the little stinker just soaks it up. He’s a lady’s man in the making. Part of me is proud; the other sensible side is trembling about the reality of that statement.

There are downsides to this hair thing. Like the fact he pulls it when he mad. No joke, he hooks on with both hands on each side of his head and yanks. Which makes him more upset because it hurts, which makes him pull harder; it’s quite the comical vicious cycle. 

He also has started pulling my hair (big surprise right?). His death grip has been perfected too. This pared with the fact he thinks it’s a toy to put in his mouth it’s quite the comical vicious cycle.

“Darren, you are going to have to let go.”

“Eeeeeeeehhhhhhh.” He holds on tighter.

“Seriously Darren.” (I do talk to him like his squeals are understandable adult conversation.)

“Ok you’re done. Let’s find your walker,” I am untangling one hand at this point. His other hand still has his prize in it.

“EEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.” Translation: GGGGGGGIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMEEEEEEE.

This also means I am successful. He is a safe distance away in his walker, look peeved and raising his arms up to me.

“AAH HAHAHAHA.” He’s about to break out in tears. 

“You’re ok.” 

“AHHHHHHHHHH  HAHAHAHA EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH.”

“Ok, let’s cuddle.” I am such a push over.  I pick him up and bury my nose in his curls. I mean, could you resist a face like this?