Retro

Do you see this?

Look at that boy’s hair.

Now what am I suppose to do with all that hair?

I would first like to point out that I know next to nothing about black people hair. Ok, that’s a lie. I’ve learned a lot about nappy hair in the last five years, but let’s say I know virtually nothing about doing a little boy’s hair.

 

Especially a little boy’s hair that is growing as fast as he is.

It would help if he had the hair of a seven and a half month old and not a three year old. If stretched out it literally goes past the tip of his nose. But you would have to hold me down with chains if you think his hair is going to get cut.

My mom has suggested this several times. I am sure the look on my face spells horror when ever cutting and Darren’s hair are mentioned in the same sentence. Nope. No way. No siree. Not going to happen.

We have also explored the idea of braiding it into cornrows. Then we realized at his age this is completely unrealistic. He barely holds still long enough to put a coat on, let alone sitting still for the two hours (or more) it would take to braid his hair. I also know nothing about braiding cornrows.

So we have adopted the retro look. Darren’s Afro is getting to the point where it puts the 70’s afros to shame. Give him a pair of bell bottoms, a cheesy plaid button down shirt and he would fit right in. Keeping this look up can be tricky, seeing as he always has his hands in it. This topped with the fact that it’s winter and a stocking hat is necessary, pretty much means his hair always looks like he’s stuck his finger in a light socket.

But tonight I took the time to make it look decent. With a bit of distraction and patience the above picture is the end result.

And yes, for those of you that are wondering, that is an afro pick stuck in his hair.  Cute huh? Can I say ladies’ man?

But honestly, if you ladies could give me some advice on African baby hair care, it would be a blessing, a huge blessing. 

Daddy's Little Man

I am completely and utterly shattered, I am in the center of disappointment and shadowed in darkness. I am completely destroyed.


Darren's definitely said Dada before Mama.

All you mothers out there should understand why I feel distressed.

I should have seen it coming though.

I started noticing last week that Darren always wanted the hubby. Not for anything special, just to play. I just attributed it to that he liked being twirled around and tossed up in the air several times. I didn’t see it for the disguise it was. His baby giggles held me captive and pulled the wool over my eyes. I actually took it as a relief.  Then I came home the other day and all I heard was.

“Dadadadadadadadadadadadadadadadadadada.”

“That’s my little Lingle. Dada.” The hubby said.

Then I discovered they had a secret language.

“Hey Lingle. “Dddddddddddsssssssssssst.” The hubby’s tongue is a pressed against the roof of his mouth and the backs of his top front teeth. I can see little flick of spit spray out as he does it.

Darren responds in turn, but he had more drool and bubbles coming out of his mouth. “Ddddddddddsssssssst. Dddddddsssssssssssst.”

Then the other night I had to witness the head shaking routine. The hubby would shake his head back and forth and Darren would watch him intently. Because this looked like ridiculous fun Darren would copy him.  For about five minutes they sat there just shaking their heads back and forth thinking it was hilarious.

You have got to be kidding me.

Ok, I am not destitute. I don’t feel like a failure as a mother, and I am nowhere near depressed about the situation. I am just determined to have baby number two say Mama first when she comes.

But Darren has definitely become daddy’s little man. When the hubby walks in the room it all eyes on Daddy and if daddy doesn’t notice, he is going to scream his head off until he does.

Then they proceed to have serious conversations about meatloaf, the Cowboys, why daycare is the coolest, and how to con mommy into changing all the dirty diapers.

And then I can’t find the backbone to really be upset with the hubby.

All of the baby books talk about how the dad will be feeling left out in the early stages of a child’s life because of the bond that he/she will have with their mother.

But none of them talk about how the mommy will feel once they do start bonding. It’s wonderful. Beautiful really. Amazing.

Until we find that we do have a bit of parental jealous streak running through our veins. Because we are by nature nurtures and it could not be possible that our babies could need anything other than us right? Wrong.

So, I hold my peace and refrain from unsportsmanlike conduct. Because to be completely honest, I could never explain they hubby’s mysterious fascination with the word meatloaf, or run an accurate man to man zone cover defense or call a pick six the second before it happens. I will never master the art of ‘running game,’ or talking to girls.

But what I do know is revenge is sweet.

So I send a little prayer up to God and ask for a little pink package for when the next child comes around.

Because what little boys learn from becoming Daddy’s Little Man, little girls can learn from mommy about becoming women and most importantly getting daddy wrapped around her little finger.

I’ll play fair, but I do plan to even the scoreboard.

Faded Glory

This is a story about underwear so if you would rather not read I will understand, but for the rest of you hold on tight.

I will let it be known that the hubby is an underwear man. This means he has a comment or a nick name for almost every pair of underwear I own. This is fine and can even come in handy during a certain time of the month. But now a new panty name has been born: Faded Glory.

Now this is not going to be sexy tale, but one that leans more toward embarrassing to the hubby than to me (for once); but he is pretty much unflappable so he just laughed it off.

Earlier this week I had a late work meeting up in the Twin Cities and according to the weather officials (yes, I sarcastically call them officials) there was a decent winter storm headed our way. It is becoming normal that a storm comes about every week and a half in these parts, but even more uncommon is that the weather officials have been spot on in predicting all of them. But that is neither here nor there.

This particular storm started out with rain proceeded with sleet and added a dusting of light snow to top it all off. By the time I arrived back to town at eight-thirty, there was layer of ice that had accumulated on my car. This combined with the reports that the roads were nasty once out of town, I took a moment to do the math.

9:00 p.m.: still had to drive forty-five minutes to get home. Because of the icy roads ETA: ten-thirty.

10:30 p.m. once home I would need at least an hour and a half to get my life organized for the next day. 

Estimated bedtime: midnight. At this time I would set my alarm for four in the morning so I could turn around and drive the icy roads again to get to work at six.

That math didn’t add right; veto to driving home and the vote went to staying in town with a friend. 

That meant I needed to find some toiletries and underwear.

Having only four dollars to my name I ventured into the dreaded Wal Mart, where the cheapest pack of underwear was a three dollar pack of Faded Glory underwear. Mission complete.

Fast forward to the next day after work, I stop by the hubby’s job to switch vehicles. I grabbed my purse and my bag of Faded Glory underwear.

Or so I thought. 

This was the conversation that took place when my hubby came home.

“Really babe? Faded Glory?” the hubby asked.

“What do you mean?” I ask as clueless as ever.

“Well, I had Ryan go and warm up my car.”

“Ok?” I am seriously wondering where this is going.

“And he came back in and asked me why there was underwear in the driver’s seat.”

“Oh Jeez.” I did have the decency to blush slightly.  

“Thanks babe.” He is laughing now too. So I knew he wasn’t that mad.

But on the record I am not a Faded Glory type of girl. Really. I am more of the colorful type. The Faded Glories  are now part of the Friend of the Month section of my underwear drawer.

I am Too Old for This

Ok. Darren is napping. I’ve had a nap and recovered from a possible heart attack. The nap was necessary. The heart palpitations came from discovering we were out of popcorn, which I found. Disaster avoided. Parmesan popcorn…come to momma. Yum.

But now Darren is up. So hold on a sec.

Ok. Now I need to extend a heartfelt apology for not keeping up my blogging as of late. I am sorry. But I do have a plausible excuse. I have been super tired lately. Like, falling asleep on the keyboard tired. Like fast asleep drooling on my blogging notebook tired. But before you start getting too excited jumping to conclusions, I am not pregnant.

The real reason is that about two weeks ago I had a crazy night on my soon to be sister-in-law’s twenty first birthday, which I still haven’t recovered from. But before you start jumping to conclusions, I was not plastered or even a forth of a sheet to the wind. But the night did include stripper poles, a hot Samoan club bouncer, freezing our arses’ off, an annoying drunk girl starting fights on the light rail, and getting home at three-thirty in the morning only to wake up at five to get to work by seven. 

The stripper pole sounds sexy (it can be found at Sneaky Pete’s in downtown Minnapolis) and in part it was, but nothing freaking went on. It does have to be mentioned to explain the hot Samoan bouncer, who protected us from the nasty drunk guys trying to ruin our fun by slapping our butts. But he did a great job. We danced the night away until the club closed; which is when we started freezing our arses off.

Being from lil ole southern Minnesota where they don’t have coat checks, we left our coats at the hotel. So while we looked cute and we were a bit on the chilly side, especially after failing to hail a cab (no one had room for five freezing girls. We took the light rail back to the Mall of America. Where we had to walk around to the cab pick-up station; once there we proceed to wait for forty-five minutes for the nonexistent cab we had called to pick us up. 

I don’t even want to talk about the annoying drunk girl. The memory of her voice still grates on my nerves now. 

Three-thirty found us back at the hotel. Five found me slipping out of the hotel into a waiting car. Six-thirty found me at work. Where I proceeded to work an eight hour shift.

Last night found me falling asleep at the pen once again. Two weeks later at the age of twenty-four I have come to the conclusion. I am too old for those type of shenanigans. Not saying that it wouldn’t happen again, because it was wonderful to be out dancing on the town. But next time I know the price I will pay for it afterward. 

So again, I am truly sorry for the dwindling blogposts. For not following those who are following me (will be doing that next.) I should be up to par in about another week.

At War with the Chicken Pox Vaccine

I am on a mission to avoid the chicken pox vaccine.

I know, I know. Darren is only seven months old, but I want to be well informed. Without stuttering and stammering, I want to tell his future teachers and doctors why he shouldn’t have the vaccine.

Call me crazy, but I have my reasons.

 

This post was created in response to a blog post  from  The Mommy Chronicles: Vaccinate or Face Jail...Say What!?

I OBJECT! 

Why?

Because of all the vaccines our children are ‘required’ to receive, the chicken pox vaccine is most useless one.

Why?

Common knowledge is, when chicken pox is contracted as a child it is ‘in general’ harmless. Yes, our children will suffer form itchy raise bumps, maybe a slight fever, and miss some school, but really, they are none the worse for wear.

Common knowledge (again in general) is that the chicken pox virus has been proven to be deadlier (twenty times deadlier) when contracted as an adult. This is my biggest problem with the chicken pox vaccine issue.

The chicken pox vaccine has been being administered since around 1995. Since then, over ten million doses of the vaccine have been issued. Another fact: the chicken pox vaccine does not always prevent chicken pox. In the event that the virus is contracted by someone who had the vaccine, the symptoms are present in a milder form.

So explain to me again, why should I give my child a vaccination for a virus he could get anyway?

Here’s another tidbit of information. All children in Minnesota are required to receive the vaccine (if they have not yet contracted the virus) before they are allow to enroll in kindergarten.

Let me recap. I am required to give my son the chicken vaccine as a child. Which, one, does not necessarily prevent the virus and which two, is a virus known to be deadlier as an adult than as a child. And now the suggestion is that I should go to jail if I don’t comply.

I OBJECT!

Oh, by the way. Fifteen years later, after the first vaccine was given (which was over ten million vaccines ago) they still are still trying to do research to find if adults should be re-vaccinated.

This is killing me. The fact that I will be forced to go through the hub-bub of getting this live ‘weakened’ virus for Darren, is a bit ridiculous. The rational is that it can prevent “serious” medical conditions and reduce costs related to the virus. This argument is weak at best.

Why?

Here are the stats.

An estimated 9,000 people in the U.S. are hospitalized each year because of chicken pox.  Of that 9,000 and estimated 90 (1%) die.

Why do I feel like some keeps throwing rocks at my head and calling me stupid?

1% is not a death rate of epic proportions. 

What happened to a vaccinating because virus was of life-threatening epidemic proportions? 

The chicken pox virus is a virus that can be contracted and treated as easily as the common cold, or more accurately the common flu; which, I would like to point out, is an optional vaccine.

 

My second biggest issue with this vaccine. I DON’T HAVE A CHOICE!

As a parent I feel like pulling my hair out and screaming. PLEASE STOP WASTING MY TIME!

For the same reason I’ll let my kids eat dirt and pick their noses on the sly; I will also let them play with a friend who has the deadly chicken pox. It builds character and more importantly, their immune system. I would rather deal with it now that worrying that my child might die from it later.

In short, the chicken pox vaccine is a vaccine of convenience. This vaccine makes life easier for teachers, easier for parents, and easier for a dysfunctional health care system (you can debate that last point).

From what I have seen, nothing about life is easy. Throwing a child with chicken pox into the mix can’t put that much of a wrench in your life.

What to know where I got my information? Check out:

http://www.cdc.gov/vaccines/pubs/vis/downloads/vis-varicella.pdf

http://www.aap.org/advocacy/releases/chickenpox.pdf

http://www.health.state.mn.us/divs/idepc/immunize/laws/childcareimzrec.pdf

The African Jiggly

I know I have been MIA for the past week, but I’m back to blogging

And I got my hair did.

Yep I did. 

The transformation to completely natural hair has been started. Excited? Yes I am. My new look? Micro braids.

The comments I have been getting are quite something. I walk in to work. “Did you put extensions in?” Then I try to explain the concept of micro braids. “Really….Can I touch them?”  “That’s not real human hair is it?” is by far the most laughable comment. The most common? “How long did it take?”

 

Four and a half hours. Yes, by the end my neck was stiff and my butt was sore. But ladies, you know as well as I do the price we pay to make ourselves look good.  The sacrifice is necessary and well worth it. 

Four and half hours. Yes, I took my son with me. 

Yeah I am crazy, but I lately I have been feeling I only get to see him when he is a sleep, so I wanted to be with Darren as much as possible on my day off. 

I am glad I did.

The African ladies doing my hair didn’t mind at all. Darren being his usual self turned on the charm and played nicely in my lap on and off for about an hour and a half. 

Then he was done.

Pooped out. Ready for a nap. 

No biggy right? I’ll just rock him in my lap. 

Nope. Not having that. 

Let me explain first about Darren and his naps. One, he is not a napper. This kid will go a hundred miles per hour for the whole day with maybe two twenty minute naps. Two, this kid will not fall asleep if there is tons of commotion around him. So being in a small room with three other people he’d never seen before, it was a recipe for disaster. Plus, these people where women? Forget it; I had already prepared myself for this. I was willing to let him exhaust every ounce of his energy before I forced him to take a nap.

But African ladies are a force to be reckoned with. 

They have tricks up their sleeves from the homeland that I wish I could do.

After being passed around the room to be rocked in the unoccupied hands, he was still fighting sleep. 

Finally one of the ladies asks.

“Do you mind if I put him on my back?”

“Seriously?” I ask. Yes, I asked. Just to double check I am not being taken for a ride.

“Yes, this is how we do it in my country.”

Do I mind? No ma’am I do not mind at all. Actually I am extremely intrigued. 

I watch as she gets a long African sari and they lay Darren piggy-back like on her back, then settle his legs on either side of her waist. The sari is around him like a blanket and the ends are tucked in at her chest and waist. 

Darren is laughing.

Then she starts doing a little jiggle.

Ten minutes later my boy is out like a light, his head bobbing gently to the jiggling.

I am amazed. 

I mention so to them. “I need to learn how to do that.”

“You have someone help you do it the first time.” They laugh. 

It’s true. I will need help, but baby number two (when he/she comes) will definitely be well acquainted with my African jiggly. Just to make sure I am going to practice with Darren now.