Ode to Routine

I’ve always considered myself a pretty chill, laid back gal; sure, I have a pretty good dose of Type A in me (an unhealthy obsession with making lists, for instance), but I think I tend to be rather relaxed and go-with-the-flow. EXCEPT, that is, for Buddy Boy’s routine. 

Because I’m home all day during the week, I can afford to be anal and neurotic with our schedule.  Feeding before the first nap starts at precisely the same time each morning and any visitors are strongly suggested to come between 11:30-1:30.  (Wow, just typing this sentence makes me realize that I must appear to be a rigid and psychotic freak). Afternoon nap starts at roughly the same time each day.  Bath time is precisely at 7 pm, followed by feeding, stories and sleep.  So if you want me to meet you for breakfast at 9:30…sorry, I can’t.  If you’d like to run errands this afternoon…only if it’s between 11:30 and 1:30.  If you invite me to dinner tonight…alright, but I need to be home by 7.  Sure, it makes for a rather solitary existence at times, but I don’t regret it for a second.

Recently, we attended our parenting group for a session on “traveling with baby.”  Well, that’s silly, I thought, who would travel with a baby? Let me tell you…I was in for a rude awakening! Apparently we are the only sad souls who do not travel with their child.  I thought that parenting was the great equalizer; I just assumed that once you have kids, everyone just chooses to sit at home on Friday night and no one goes on trips or vacations until the kids are a little older.  I guess I was wrong!

During the course of the aforementioned “travel with baby” conversation, we learned that three couples have taken airplane rides and most have gone Up North several times. When it came time for our turn to share, I sheepishly said, “Well, we go to Mass on Sundays and we sometimes go to Target.”  And, darn it, I look forward to these little adventures! Furthermore, it was suggested that traveling with your baby stimulates their brains in a way that hanging out at home just does not.  So for the past (nearly) five months, Buddy Boy and I have been holed up inside, safe from H1N1 and the polar vortex.  (This is not entirely true; we did go for walks each day before winter savagely killed this precious ritual).  Here I thought I was doing the right thing by staying home out of the cold and away from the germy masses and it turns out I’ve been robbing him of intellectual stimulation? 

While having conversations with some other moms I know, I discovered that maybe I’m just a weirdo and I march to the beat of a different drummer.  There is no “falling asleep in the swing.” (First off, we don’t have one; secondly, that sounds a little too loosey-goosey).  There is no “taking naps together.”  (For starters, I’d be afraid of rolling over on him; next, I don’t want him to be dependent on me for sleep; lastly, when else am I going to clean my bathroom?).  We did not have a bassinet; we got home from the hospital and Buddy Boy went right down in his big, cold, lonely crib all by himself.  (Clearly, I am the Mother Ice Queen).  In the first few months, one of my favorite things was for my son to take a nap on my chest.  Yes, it was sweaty and yes, my right arm fell asleep most of the time…but I loved those moments and will look back on them fondly for the rest of my life.  However, a 5-week-old taking a nap in your arms is much different than a 5-month-old taking a nap in your arms. I’ve found that my older baby does much better with a…you guessed it…routine!

So I guess the moral of the story is that every family is different.  As long as you’re doing what you think is best for your child, then that’s the best you can do.  Different strokes for different folks, and all that.  I may be singing a whole ‘nother tune when I have three of four kids running around…but until then, I’m sticking to our routine!

This One's for Leah

There’s something about a girl’s hair stylist that is just very personal.  In so many ways, it parallels a romantic relationship. Leah has seen me through breakups, new relationships, an eating disorder, new jobs, schooling (and more schooling) and meeting the man of my dreams.  She did my hair on the morning of my wedding and cut it after I returned from my honeymoon.  She gave me a confidence-boosting haircut two weeks before delivering my first child.  She always knows what I want and also knows what I hate.  She knows my family and all the main characters in the story of my life.  She asks the right questions, gives the right advice and I leave her feeling happy and refreshed.

Long story short, I had a baby nearly five months ago and am going through that balding/hair loss/new hairgrowth/maybe-I-should-go-get-some-Rogaine-for-women type of phase.  As I said, a very fragile time in my life.  I have a precious, healthy and very stubborn baby boy who will not cooperatively take a bottle and who likes to eat every two hours.  I have an irreplaceable hair stylist whose salon is, unfortunately, a 45-minute drive away.  And I was desperately in need of a haircut. You do the math.

I started asking girlfriends for referrals, figuring it’s just a haircut…I’ll be fine.  My sister-in-law, who has hair like a goddess—naturally blonde, luscious and thick, soft, wavy curls—gave her stylist a glowing recommendation; so I booked an appointment.  I waited until baby boy’s naptime and surfed Pinterest, searching for a ‘do that would suffice.  (Let me preface this by saying that Leah NEVER needed a picture of anything.  She just innately knew what I wanted, just like she had ESP.)  I found one that was pretty much what I was looking for: a chin-length bob with bangs…nothing too high maintenance or mom-ish. 

Fast-forward to Saturday morning.  I bounded out of the house (once again, at naptime) eager to meet the new and improved me.  I managed to snag a parking spot only a block from the downtown salon, certainly a sign of good things to come if there ever was one.  I walked in and immediately felt that sense of intimidation that sometimes comes with being out of place.  If the pre-child me was not cool enough for this joint, then the post-child, spit-up-smelling, breast-leaking me was definitely not cool enough.  Strike one.

An Amazon woman with Kool-Aid red hair came to retrieve me from the waiting area with a “Jenny?” and a fake smile.  My name is NOT Jenny; only my mom can call me Jenny.  Strike two.  I sat down in homegirl’s chair and instantly felt as if I might cry.  Am I going to have to tell my life story all over again? She doesn’t even know my name. I quickly explained that I was losing my hair post-baby and that I needed something to disguise my affliction.  (Strike three: she did NOT ask to see a picture of said baby).  I managed to pull my pictures up on Pinterest and she briefly glanced at them and nodded assertion.  Upon washing my hair with some vegan shampoo and conditioner (I know, I was confused, too), we got down to business. 

A short time later, I definitely had a new haircut.  I pretended to just love it as I left and ran to my car, trying not to cry.  It was a mom cut, no two ways about it.  I also weirdly looked like Bruce Jenner circa 2014, when he decided to grow his hair out after his breakup with Kris.  I thought I’d stop at my parents’ house and show my mom; when she said she loved it, I knew I was in trouble.  (For as long as I can remember, we have never agreed about my hair.  When I love it, she hates it, and vice versa).  I burst into tears and started sobbing just like a 4-year-old.  I was still crying as I arrived at home to a husband who was so kind to say that I looked beautiful.

Something this experience taught me: good haircut or not, this new chick could’ve been the Virgin Mary herself and I would’ve found something wrong with her.  I was just not ready to move on, not ready for a new relationship. 

Something else I learned: if you are lucky enough to find a hairstylist you love, don’t let her go, no matter what obstacles may stand in your way!