Sugar, meet Junior

When I saw this photo of Junior, the face looked so familiar. Not because this is my son, but because his expression reminded me of...yes, the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man (you know, that maniacal look the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man has as he edges toward the building).

Junior's first birthday party was yesterday and he got his very first taste of frosting. As you can see, he's perfected the pincer grasp so well he's moved on to using his entire palm.

I'm happy to report there was no family drama, thanks to a few strategically placed beverage stations (i.e., there was always an opportunity to ask, "Would you care for a beer? There's a funnel right here," if you wanted to leave a conversation). No, it wasn't a kegger but yes, alcohol is the salve that brings my family and Charles' family closer together. So close, in fact, that his brother-in-law gave me a vacuum-sealed embrace before he left and told me he wanted to "wrap me up."

(I'm going to attribute his comment and the "mmmmm" that preceded said comment to general present wrapping excitement and leave it at that.)

He's turning one, I can be sappy dammit

A few years ago, I was standing next to a co-worker at happy hour. A plane flew overhead and he said, “Remember when seeing a plane used to get you all excited when you were a kid? Now it doesn’t. Everything gets dulled down by the repetition of existence.”

At the time I thought, what a buzzkill. Give me another vodka tonic, fast.

But now, a day before Junior turns one, I find myself thinking back to that moment. Junior’s starting to notice the world around him: birds, bugs, trucks, fish. And it’s like I get to see it all again, too.

I'm not trying to be overly sappy about this: Sometimes I do find myself thinking, all this feigned excitement over a smelly, nasty truck? But other times I catch myself wondering where I've been? My coworker was right about the repetition of existence. The world becomes so familiar and expected, you're on autopilot and you don't even know it.

And then you have a baby.

And realize everyone was right: everything changes.

Because really, can you remember the last time you wanted to show someone the world?

The slut in my prude couldn't hack it

I did something yesterday on my lunch hour that I swore I would never, ever do.

Ever.

I went to a hairdresser in Mulletville.

For obvious reasons, this was as risky as say, dousing a lit firework with gasoline. I feared I would leave with a rat tail or duo-toned mullet or worse, that I would resemble a gym teacher.

The reason I went had everything to do with Sunday, when we got together with our wonderful, thoughtful, fabulous friends, Amy, and her husband, Des, who moonlights as a hair savant. We had lunch and drinks. Many, many drinks.

Afterward, relaxing in our living room, Des offered to give Junior his very first haircut.

I don’t know if I can accurately convey how happy I was about this. To have Junior kick back in his Exersaucer and have a friend cut his hair was a gift. And Des was so gentle and sweet about the whole thing, darting this way and that while Junior spun his fat little head and arms around trying to grab the scissors, like some kind of obese octopus.

When Desm turned to me and told me he would highlight and cut my hair next I was overjoyed. I felt like a celebrity. The wine and beer only added to my euphoria.

Out came the foil, the bleach, the booze.

I need to add something here, to put what happened next into context. When I was in high school, people actually thought I was Amish because I dressed like such a prude (nothing against Amish people). For a teenager, I had an abnormally vast collection of mock turtlenecks. I preferred the “natural” look (would a little blush or mascara have killed me?). Modesty was the name of my game (at least in appearance: I drank a lot on the weekends and made out with random boys in the McDonald’s parking lot. I was your classic prude/slut).

There you have it, I’m a wee bit uptight with my appearance.So I was unprepared—gulp—for the blond woman—gulp—staring back at me when Desmond unveiled my new look.

Charles loved it. Everyone, even Junior, loved it. Amy told me to give it until the morning and see how I liked it after putting on some mascara (I was wearing mascara at the time but my sparing, Amish application must have made it seem otherwise).

I went to bed and awaited the morning, when I would see myself anew and embrace my bad blond self. I would wear something leopard-striped to work. Don red lipstick. Smoke.

But sadly, I couldn’t pull it off. The Amish gal in me craved plain, mousy brown. And so, after asking around, I stumbled upon a local hairdresser who promised to make me boring again.

For a derelict strip mall store with a horrendous name, the salon wasn’t that bad. The hairdresser, Joey, assured me he knew hair color, though his blond tips on black hair made me wonder…

After all was said and done, I was quite happy with the results. Everything was going fine. I was blond, but not really. I had a newfound appreciation for Mulletville. Maybe I had misjudged the town after all.

Then Joey whipped out the hairspray and shellacked my hair behind my ears, “so the style would hold.” He teased out a cowlick and shot it again with the spray.

The bouffant mullet. Now there’s a look an Amish gal can wear with pride.

Her day bites (get it?)

For reasons I don’t quite understand, Wednesday seems to be the day to do things in the mothering blogosphere. Rocks in my Dryer has Works-for-me-Wednesday and…oh wait, that’s the only mothering blog anyone visits. Ever.

Phooey.

Well, here’s my Wednesday salute, just in time to celebrate my third week at work and newfound affinity for a Screwdriver in my morning travel mug. Actually, affinity is too lukewarm. Let’s be honest and call it what it is: infatuation.

My salute has nothing to do with nicey-nicey tips for making life easier. Instead it has everything to do with how much suckitude there is in the everyday routines of some of this country’s (day I say world’s?) working mothers.

And so I give you “My-day-sucks-worse than-yours-Wednesday.”

Mom Jill was nice enough to share one of her typical days with me so that I could post it. I wish I had something to send her; hopefully she’ll settle for an authentic Mulletville postcard signed by the town drunk/s. Hats off to you, Jill. Your day truly does suck (and I mean that in the nicest way possible).

Here’s how it all goes down:

4:30 am – Baby (age one year) wakes screaming. Make her a bottle, sprint up the stairs to get her before she wakes up the other two kids. Tend to baby. Let dog out, feed the dog and cats.

5 am – Daughter #1 (age 5) and daughter #2 (3) float downstairs, #1 complaining that #2 woke her up. Child #2 whines that she is hungry and throws herself on floor when Cheerios aren't made for her by the time she reaches the bottom step.

5:10 am – Child #2 is done with cereal and wants more food. Baby has a poopy diaper. Change baby. Let dog out again. Darling husband gets up, showers, fixes himself bowl of cereal, retreats to computer/email.

5:15 am - Round three of breakfast. Feed baby her food. Take out trash, empty dishwasher, throw in load of laundry.

5:30 am – Child #1 and #2 are still hungry. Start begging for cheese sticks.

6 am - More laundry and other household chores. Hubby escapes to work.

6:30 am - Shower with child #1 and #2 while baby bangs on glass shower door.

6:45 am - Get dressed, get kids dressed, put baby back down for nap just in time for babysitter to show up.

7:10 am - Babysitter shows up late (as usual), kids whine for more food, bicker over trivial things (who lays claim to which chair at the kitchen table, who is in charge of the crayons, etc.). Catch up with sitter, leave for work.

Tired yet? Jill’s not even at work yet, people!

7:30 am - 7 pm - Work consists of patients who want to bite me (to clarify, Jill works with animals, not people).

The new receptionist interrupts me every five minutes because she doesn't understand the concept of taking messages while the doctor is in with patients. I deal with clients who are upset with the cost of taking care of their pets, endure the wrath of the occasional person who calls at 5:50 pm and lives 30 minutes away and doesn't understand why you can't keep the staff there an extra hour because Fifi might have an infected wart, or the one who is upset because the diarrhea medicine I sent home two hours ago has not started working YET!!!!

So I squeeze half a dozen "emergencies" into my lunch hour and an already overbooked schedule until 6 pm, then stay at the office to finish charts and calls until at least 7 pm.

7:30-8 pm – Arrive home. Three kids are in bed. Clean kitchen mess left from dinner, start dishwasher, pick up clothes, socks, and shoes strewn everywhere. Check email, etc.

9 pm – Lie in bed for two hours trying to go to sleep, dreading 4:30 am’s arrival.

And there you have it. Our first installment of “My-day-sucks-worse than-yours-Wednesday.”

As I only know a handful of working moms who might generously volunteer the dirty details of their days, this Wednesday thing may be short-lived. But rest assured, Rocks in my Dryer will still be there as we work out the kinks. So everyone can just relax.

(If there are any stay at home moms out there who'd like to share, please drop me a line—this blog is all about the Koombaya of motherhood.)

I'm praying for full bladders

In thiiiiiiiis corner, Linda. Weighing in at 135 pounds, five feet four inches. Known to jump and clap when Junior arrives at family functions.

In the oooooother corner, Joyce. Topping the charts at 100 pounds, five feet tall. Famous for saying "no" at family functions when asked to hand Junior over.

And so two titans meet.

This Sunday, we will have Junior’s first birthday party. My mother, Linda, and Charles’ mother, Joyce, will be in the same room with Junior—for the first time ever.

Charles and I are both scared of these women. When Junior was three months old, we took him to Charles’ brother’s house and his mother literally grabbed Junior from me and would not give him back. The only reason I got my child back (a mere two hours later) was so she could pee. And oh the look she gave me when she handed him back, betrayed by her very own bladder.

Just this Saturday, I had no sooner pulled up to the curb for a family picnic when I noticed my mother standing next to the car. She had materialized like something out of the Terminator.

Ever seen Rebecca De Mornay in the Hand that Rocks the Cradle? Well, these women are both blonde and they both want my baby. If I was asthmatic and we had a greenhouse, I’d seriously consider a move to Alaska (why Alaska? Because Alaska is one of the few states where men outnumber women, which means fewer psychotic blonde women will be materializing outside my windows).

Party day, I’m contemplating affixing my son to my chest with Crazy Glue. I’ll beat them back with plastic forks if I have to. Tie helium balloons to their feet when they’re not looking so they float away. Far, far away.

Where is the chapter "Granny's Gonna Get You?" in “What to Expect the First Year?” Where the hell is that chapter?

Honey, it's time to get a pool

Summer picnic #398.

Today, my 92-year-old grandmother sat across from us and taught Junior to stick out his tongue, then tried to feed him a Freezie Pop. My step-sister ridiculed me for feeding Junior “specks” of hamburg (she has four kids so she knows). And I snapped at my mother for snatching my son from me one too many times (I couldn’t help it—I’m working now and I wanted to hold my baby, dammit!).

Junior kept pointing at the inground pool and the kids splashing around.

“Not yet, sweetie,” I told him.

Everyone at the table looked at me with that face: you know, the you’re-so-over-protective-your-kid-might-as-well-be-in-a-bubble face.

“He’s too little!”

More looks.

So I marched us over to the pool and sat on the steps in the shallow end. Then I swished Junior around. He was euphoric. He sat on one of the steps and splashed and shrieked and flailed his arms. People I didn’t even know came over to remark on what a good time he was having.

All the while I kept looking down at the back of his overalls—which were criss-crossed in my hands so he wouldn’t slip through my fingers—his curly hair, the nape of his neck. And I kept thinking, I am pouring my soul into this child and every day letting him go and it is enough to burst and break my heart at the same time.

He’ll be one in a week. He’s not a newborn, he’s not even a baby. He’s a little boy. And this is just the beginning.

Look at my boobs! Come on!

There's nothing worse than downloading pictures from a picnic and realizing you spent more than half the picnic showing your husband's father your goods.