Today I am sad. It’s kind of ridiculous, sort of embarrassing and I feel way too old for this sort of thing but…I’m having a bad hair day! And it’s all because I got a bad haircut. My friends are being supportive, encouraging me with smiles and words: “It looks really healthy,” “It really frames your face,” and “It’ll grow back.” And they’re right. But I am still sad. It is not what I wanted. I asked for a simple trim to my shoulder length bob and I left the salon with a chin length choppy shag, fringy bangs and a brand new charge to my credit card.

I’m also angry. Angry that after 40 (well 34? maybe) years of getting my haircut by a professional I still cannot speak up when the artistry is happening and I am not liking what I see. I am so overly trusting and polite that while my locks were dropping by the inches I just sat there thinking that my very hot French stylist knew exactly what he was doing. But the thing is, I knew what I wanted when I walked in and I wasn’t getting it. So why didn’t I stop him? I have been through this before. Each of my friends has been through this. My mother has been through this. I should have learned my lesson the first time, or the second time, or the, oh goodness, there have been sooo many times! Why do we women keep keeping our mouths shut? I have some ideas but I’m going to need more time to write that piece. Something about needing to be liked? I’ll call my therapist and ask her but for now…

Back to the point, I am sad today. I am angry and I feel ugly. Deep down I know this is silly. I know that this is a very minor problem to have. And I know that beauty comes from within. But I am a sleep deprived, full time working mom of two toddler boys that are in the midst of competing temper tantrums right now. They go from kicking me to punching me in less than a second and last night a tiny toy whale fell off of the bed and no one has slept since. The last thing I need is a bad haircut.

So what should I do? My go-to self help is to ask myself this question: If you had a daughter and she was in your shoes right now what would you tell her? Well, I would smile and tell her that her hair looks really healthy, it frames her face and that it will grow back. And then I would hold her tiny, tear filled face in my hands and say, “Honey, you are beautiful no matter what – beauty comes from here” and I would tap her little chest on the heart side and then I would kiss her pinched up angry forehead and say, “let’s go get some ice cream and maybe on the way we’ll pick up some fancy bobby pins, we can always pin it back!”

On my way to Target.

The toddler tantrum can come at any moment. Your day (or night) can go from Happy-Happy-Joy-Joy to Holy-F***ing-Sh**-Balls in less than 2 seconds. And that is exactly how it went down in my house last night.

It was just a simple bath. 2 toddlers, 1 bath, 7pm. This is how we do it. Water is good. Soap bubbles are fun. Routine helps the active child. Until it doesn’t. And then you enlist the trickery. Glow Sticks. Water Paints. Bath Color Tablets. Last night it was the latter.

“If you get into the bathtub you can pick a color and make the water change to blue or purple or red. Your choice, but you have to get into the bathtub first.”

My youngest totally took the bait; he shed his clothes (with some help) and climbed in as fast as possible. My older guy was on to me. He knew that this water-color-changing-thing was maybe cool but not nearly as cool as running naked back and forth between the bathroom and the bedroom, taunting me with his new found 3 1/2 year old contrariness.

“I don’t want to take a bath, mommy. I will never take a bath. Never-ever-ever!”

“OK sweetie, but then you don’t get to make the water change colors. It’s your choice.”

I’m working on the whole “It’s your choice” thing. I get it. It makes sense, it does, But I hope it doesn’t mess him up later in life when he realizes that he doesn’t always get a choice. But that’s for an entirely different post. Let’s continue.

The “I will never take a bath – well it’s your choice” dialogue went on for about 5 minutes; my youngest splashing away happily in his purple magic water. At some point during our enlightened conversation, I noticed that my 3 1/2 year old was playing with his penis. This is normal. He’s a young boy. Exploring his parts. And stretching them! He was wrapping his penis around his finger like it was a Twizzler. I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it but I was afraid he might be hurting it. I don’t know. I don’t have one. Does that hurt a penis? He kept twisting it and screaming in my face.

I very gently said, “Sweetheart, please be careful with your penis.”

EXPRESSING MOTHERHOOD is the hit stage show consisting of moms, dads, sons and daughters sharing their insight into motherhood. Conceived in 2008 by two LA moms, Lindsay Kavet & Jessica Cribbs during their children’s nap time, the show has developed a cult like following and has been produced nationally. With each new production, in each new city, a new cast shares their stories about motherhood. The show is always an entertaining and thought provoking experience. And there is always wine for sale at the door and giveaways from local sponsors each night.

EXPRESSING MOTHERHOOD
Stories about motherhood shared on stage.
September 28th – 30th and October 5th-7th
Friday and Saturday at 8pm
Sunday 2:30 and 7pm.

Theatre Banshee
3435 West Magnolia Blvd
Burbank, CA 91505
Plenty of street parking.
$15 online, $20 at the door

www.expressingmotherhood.com
Get your tickets here!

As we inch closer to this year’s Mother’s Day, I have been thinking a lot about my own mother and her favorite homemade craft that apparently I made just for my her: her two grandsons! It breaks my heart that I can’t just put my kids in the car and drive them over to her house with a basket of flowers next weekend with some finger painted Mom’s Day cards. Long gone are the days when moms and daughters live in the same neighborhood. Most don’t even live in the same state. I can’t just walk next door with my screaming baby and ask my mom for HELP much less hand deliver her a basket of flowers!

New moms are doing it on their own these days. I don’t know about you, but I did not grow up with a lot of babies around the house. If you had asked me while I was in labor what the difference was between A & D and Desitin, I would have told you to stop talking dirty to me. And if anyone taught me how to breastfeed, it was the internet. When I gave birth to my first son, my sweet Mom flew across the country enduring 2 layovers just to be with me or rather to meet her new grandbaby. Two weeks later when she and her suitcase boarded a plane to return home, not only did I burst into tears, but so did my baby. He knew that his mom, now alone in the driver’s seat, had no idea what the f**k she was doing and his tiny little brain surely was thinking, ‘how will we ever survive this?’ But somehow we did. We not only survived, but we went ahead and did it again, and now there are two screaming babies in the back of my car wondering if I know what I’m doing. What I found most helpful through those long sleepless, self doubting first few years, besides some great small batch of KY bourbon, was laughter. Lots of laughter. Crying and laughing (and drinking) with my new mommy friends! This is how we do it today. We share our stories, our heartbreaks and joys, and damnit we laugh. And drink. But we laugh more.

No one laughs harder than my newest mommy friend, Stacie Burrows! So together we wrote a show in hopes that we can share some of this laughter with you. Bring your Mom, bring your nanny, bring your reusable sanitary pads, because you will laugh!

Come and see I’m Not From Here But My Kids Are – Sunday, May 6th at 7pm at the Lyric Hyperion Theatre in Silverlake (Los Angeles).

There’s free parking and it’s only an hour and a half. Plenty of time for margaritas afterwards or to be home in bed by 9!

We promise it will be worth getting that babysitter, even if the babysitter sometimes calls himself Daddy!

Details here: notfromhereshow.com
Tickets here: www.brownpapertickets.com/event/245216

Dear Lord in Heaven,

You have to help me out here. I am this close to an anonymous drop off at Cedar Sinai. How do people do it? I see other mommies that look like they have no problem, but I’m a wreck Lord, I don’t know what to do? I don’t know who I am anymore. I think I used to be sort of cute and maybe at least a little fun to be around. I know that in the past, if someone or something had peed on me I would have at least changed my shirt. Now I just spray it with Febreeze.

And Lord, I’m losing a lot of hair. No one told me my hair would fall out. It’s bad enough I’ve started dressing like a camp counselor, but am I gonna go bald too? My husband’s going to love that.

Do you know what he did yesterday, Lord? He literally left me a post-it that said I NEED SEX. No foreplay, no romance, just a post-it note. Does he think I’m going to respond to that? When I do have sex with him my mind goes bananas. All I can think about is how to rearrange my living room to make room for more toys. With every thrust I change the position of the couch at least twice, is that so bad?

And Lord, please forgive me, but I cannot speak toddlerese. I really love Harvey Karp, I do, but I’m convinced that I have the unhappiest toddler on the block. I think the book is geared more towards little girls, right? Nowhere in there does it talk about how little boys just want to bang on sh*t all day long! Hard. They bang really hard. Glass, wood, my face; it doesn’t matter, they just bang bang bang bang!

I’ve tried time-ins, time-outs, hand checks, the “fast food” technique. I think actual fast food would work better. Chicken nuggets and fries would probably buy me a smooth diaper change. What is it with the diaper changes? I am wiping his ass, why is he kicking me in the face? Someone told me that I should change him standing up, because when I lay him down he feels like a little baby. Well, the thing is Lord, he is a little baby and I can’t wipe his poopy butt when he is running around my living room. This morning I had to straddle him, sing a song and give him a cookie; I still got poop in my fingernails.

I know it sounds like I’m not grateful, but really, Lord, I am. There are many things I love about being a mom. Mainly that birthday parties start at 10am. This is a great idea considering that by 10 I’ve been up for about 6 hours and could really use a party.

I’m having a hard time being a good wife, God. I don’t have time to be sensitive to my husband’s needs. I’m terrible. People say, “you’ve really gotta take care of your man, he gets neglected when the babies come.” Oh Really? Boo hoo! What about me? I get neglected. I have one kid sucking the life out of me, hanging off my nipple and the other hanging off the balcony; where does that leave me? I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been nursing the baby and had to run across the playground with my boob hanging out to get my oldest to stop throwing sand. My dignity is out the window!

And Lord, I have to confess; I do use the TV as a crutch. If I need to cook breakfast or wash dishes I turn it on. If Booker’s first hero is DJ Lance Rock, is that so bad?

Do you remember the Tasmanian devil cartoons? You know the devil that spins around and creates a little tornado wherever he goes? That’s my son. I’m supposed to call it “spirited.” But I looked up Tasmanian Devil on Wikipedia and it said: Taz was best known for his speech consisting mostly of grunts, growls and whines. CHECK. And his ability to spin and bite through just about anything. CHECK. I love my little guy. He’s courageous and fun. He explores everything and it melts my heart. It’s just that he’s non-stop and with the new baby, well it’s pretty hard to handle them both. The only alone time I get with the little one is in the middle of the night when he has somehow managed to snuggle up under my arm and nurse my unshaven armpit! How does he get there?

I’m pretty sure that Booker hates me anyway. He never eats the food I cook for him. I’ve breaded asparagus and dipped it in honey, made zucchini muffins with chocolate! I can’t get him to eat anything, but Puffs. Not like the Dugger kids. I think they eat organic vegetables from their own garden!

Can we talk about the Duggers for a minute? I’m sure you know them; they’re the family on the 19 Kids and Counting show! They LOVE you. I know people make fun of these shows and these people, but I really dig the Duggers. Mrs. Dugger is always so happy and bright. I wanna be like that. Maybe MORE kids is the answer! If I had 17 older kids to help with the two youngest, I think I could be happy and bright too. Or maybe I should just move to Europe. My girlfriend always says, “If we were parenting in Europe, would this really be an issue? “ And generally, the answer is NO. Plus they get to drink wine all day and that is something I am totally behind.

Everyone says, “Enjoy your kids, they grow up so fast.” HA. This I the slowest thing I’ve done in my entire life! I don’t have to tell you that I spend most of the day praying for bedtime!

Maybe the problem is I’m just totally outnumbered, Lord. My husband, the dog and our two boys. It’s like a methane gas factory in there. I need a girl. They seem so much easier. Their clothes are cuter, they smell sweeter and they can just sit for extended periods of time and play with one toy. I was in a playgroup once with mostly little girls and they had a play date at the library!

I know you’ve heard all this stuff a million times, Lord, but what’s the catch? How do mothers do it? How will I make it through the next… 30 years!

I better go, but thanks for listening. You’re the only adult I’ve talked to today and I feel much better.

Oh, one more thing, please forgive me for calling my husband a mother f**ker. I mean, technically that is what he is, but I didn’t mean it that way and I’m sorry.

AMEN.