SingleWorkingMama

“What are we doooooing tonight, Mom?” my daughter asked with a big grin when I met her at the bus stop Friday.

Not one to lie, I said “We’re going to Dr. V’s office to get the Swine shot,” I started, finishing quickly with “Ialreadyhadmyflushotanditdidn’thurtatallthisyear!” (This is true.)

She instantly got tears in her eyes. A little joking around, and some impromptu revision to the Black Eyed Peas “I Gotta Feeling” (it was on the radio – see our revised lyrics below) and she was surprisingly fine. We were off to pick up her brother.

When I opened the back door to the car, he hopped in and said hello to his sister. She immediately stated “Boo, we’re going to get the Swine shot.”

I could see her lips moving, but couldn’t hear “Mom said it didn’t hurt at all…” over Boo’s wails.

We sang the song. Within minutes, he was chiming in with our moderately disturbed version of the feel-good tune and laughing with us.

All day long, I’d been thinking of a bribe for this painful fact of life. What could I offer the kids to somehow make the sting of their two shots each (oh yes – Swine AND Seasonal) just a little bit more dull? When I picked up Boo, I saw some coupons for a “FREE MAGIC SHOW,” and it just so happened to be at 6:30 this very night. Ding ding ding! Winner!

The kids smiled all the way up until the very moment Boo took the plung(ers), and he only cried for a minute. Druesy didn’t cry at all.

Bring it on!

We headed over to the local hotel/conference center where this event was going to take place, and walked in just in time. My ticket was $12, and I still thought it was a cheap night for the three of us. I’d spoken to one of Boo’s teachers (”Miss T,” who I now consider a friend) on the phone earlier, and she agreed to meet us there with her son.

We walked into the room (your standard banquet room – average-height ceiling with drop panels, dark green carpeting), and there was a merchandise stand, a popcorn stand and the “stage,” with banquet table chairs forming the audience area. When the lights dimmed, I noticed the workers at the stands all disappeared.

The first few tricks were interesting. The kids were thrilled.

The second act (here’s where the variety comes in) was a “vocalist.” A hearty woman with a very short skirt and camisole covered by a buffalo checked shirt came out and sang the whole, entire, extended version of Miley Cyrus’s “Party in the USA.” I looked at Miss T, and she pointed to her four year-old son. He had his hands over his ears. I looked around and saw kids staring, half in a trance at the stage. My little Druesy was jammin’ away with a few other kids in the crowd. Most parents shifted uncomfortably in their seats.

Several tricks and some entertainment followed. Over an hour into it, the magician announced the “halfway point intermission.” I looked at Miss T, who said “Okay, I’m not staying much longer.”

Fair enough… Her son was looking less than enthused. I looked over to my kids, who were boogieing away in the aisle, having the time of their lives. We were in this for the long haul.

The begged me for party favors. They begged for cotton candy. I noticed that the cast (including the magician) was now the crew, selling magic novelties and hot dogs.

Miss T saw it in her heart to stay for most of the second act, and I’m pretty sure she was glad she did. The trick where they chopped up and scrambled the body of the Magician’s Assistant was a crowd-pleaser. Her minuscule, ruffled outfit screamed “Fredricks of Hollywood,” confirming that this was certainly a magic show with a strong hint of burlesque!

Drue got called up for a fun trick involving pouring multi-colored drinks from the same jug, and she loved it.

Finally, the juggler came out. This guy was good. The kids were kneeling up in front to watch – just feet away from him. I leaned over and whispered to Miss T, “If I see flames, I’m freaking out.” (I couldn’t shake the thought of that nightclub fire that killed 100 people when Great White was performing.)

No sooner than this came out of my mouth, I saw the juggler light up some bowling pins, and I turned into “Ninja Mama” instantly. I flew out of my row, and grabbed the kids. They were confused, but when I saw a burning ember land on the carpeting or his foot, I’m not sure which, I knew my instinct was correct. He stomped it out, but O-M-G!

At the end of the day, my kids were thrilled, and are begging me to go back to the show next year. I made a casual stop at the front desk to mention the flaming bowling pins to the clerk. (She looked genuinely surprised.)

We’re all good. Nobody was burned, and nobody should end up with “The Swine of ‘09.”

Here are our modified/shortened lyrics:

Black Eyed Peas Swine Flu Shot Re-Mix

I gotta feeling that tonight’s gonna be a bad night
That tonight’s gonna be a bad night
That tonight’s gonna be a bad bad night (x3)
Tonight’s the night
Let’s live it up
I got my ‘pointment
Let’s get a shot
It’s gonna hurt
Gonna hurt a LOT…”

And in 2010? We’ll probably do it again… Let’s do it! Let’s do it! We’ll do it again…

Next week marks the anniversary of one of the worst situations in our household: Lice Week, 2008.

I got the call at work, when I was in the middle of a huge project with a huge deadline. At the time, I was working about 80 hours a week. Since I don’t sleep as it is, and because the work was exciting and challenging, I didn’t mind at all.

Mr. Brent, the SuperManny I stole from the daycare center to take care of the kids during summer called me from the zoo with a major announcement: Drue had headlice. A lot of them. You’ve gotta be freaking kidding me, I thought… I pull them out of mass childcare for the summer, and they get HEADLICE?

Stunned, I fled the office and went to Walgreens, where I bought about $80 worth of shampoos, combs, and foams. While there are plenty of embarrassing products for sale at a place like Walgreens, this stuff is definitely in the top ten of the unsavory. I tried to keep my armload concealed from the others in line.
I got home to a teary-eyed redhead. The 6 year-old with twice as much hair as your average adult had headlice, alright, and not just one or two.

Where the hell did she get headlice? We speculated it was the children’s museum, where they’d been playing with dress-up clothes. (Scratch that one off the list of future activities. Pun intended.)

I handed SuperManny a bottle of shampoo to take home, sprayed his car, thanked him profusely and sent him on his way. Later that night, I got the report that the kids and nanny they’d been hanging out at the zoo with had also fallen victim. Those little buggers really do hop.

They looked just like I’d imagined. I picked out live lice and eggs on the deck for hours, and made barely a dent. I applied pesticides to my baby’s head and said a little prayer. I used an electrified zapper comb that would detect and fry them as it found live ones. I used it until it burned out. After I put the kids to bed that night, something occurred to me: I have quite a head of hair myself. Was the itching I felt just imagined, or could I too have fallen victim to these wicked critters? Then I realized, there was nobody who could check my hair. I was on my own.

I scoured the internet for tips and tricks. Desperate, I called the doctor to see if there was some super, prescription treatment that could just take care of this then and there. First, they said “WHATEVER YOU DO, DON’T COME IN!” Then they said “no.” My doctor recommended the old-fashioned method of slathering the head with mayonnaise or olive oil and wearing a shower cap. This, you see, smothers new hatchlings, which is important since the eggs aren’t killed by any of the shampoos. Furthermore, these nasty bugs are becoming resistant to the pesticides, so many doctors are advising the old fashioned way of dealing with it.

These were prominent in our house.

The next day, as Drue and I sat once again on the deck, picking those nasty eggs, which are literally GLUED to each strand. She started to cry, and I envisioned her with a buzz cut. I took a scissors and cut the bottom two inches of her hair to the scalp, but it was hidden by her top layers. She went inside, and I cried, knowing she was going to go lay on the couch I’d just scrubbed and sprayed. I only cried for a minute, though. Where was it going to get me?

When I returned to work a couple days later, my desk was taped off and there was a sign on my monitor that said “Quarantine!” Now, THAT was funny. So much for keeping the lice on the DL!

It was about two weeks before our house was certifiably lice-free. I slept with coconut conditioner and a showercap on, painstakingly combing my own hair with a lice comb many times per day, just to be sure. I was in a purgatory of washing everything that wasn’t tied down in hot water, sticking things like brushes in the freezer, and vacuuming like a maniac.

It better never happen again.

One of our favorite things to do as a family is visit Steak ‘n Shake for their delicious cheese fries.

This morning, when I got my kiddos back from their vacation with their dad, I decided to treat them to Steak ‘n Shake as a celebratory “welcome home.”

When we walked in, there was a HUGE sign on the building that stated “Kids Eat Free all Weekend.” The finest print on the sign said “One kid’s meal for each $8 spent,” and “Dine-in only.”

We ordered two large orders of cheese fries, a kids cheeseburger meal, two drinks and a shake. The total was $16. (The price of the kids meal was $2.89.)

When I questioned why the kids meal wasn’t deducted from my check, the store’s general manager informed me that “Each adult purchase has to equal $8.” I don’t know what the heck he meant by that, but still, I had $13ish in purchases other than the kids meal itself.

Not only was he nonsensical in his explanation, but he was also rude about it. I know it was only $2.89, but it was the principle that has had me thinking about it all day!

First of all, to support (I think) his theory, it would have required me to order a meal off the menu of $8 or more… I don’t have a menu in front of me, but I’m racking my brain and can’t think of *anything* that would be more than $8. This is one of the reasons I LIKE Steak ‘n Shake! It’s reasonable!

Second, if you have hidden, complex documentation of the many rules and regulations surrounding your “deal,” then put an asterisk on the sign and say “see server for details.”

If his gripe was that there was only one adult at the table, and that children actually consumed a portion of the food I ordered from the adult menu, then that is discrimination against single parents. If I don’t qualify for the promotion without bringing another adult with me or force feeding myself two quadruple Steakburger platters, I can’t see it any other way.

So, insert that Debbie Downer sad trombone sound here. I am thoroughly disappointed in my experience at Steak ‘n Shake today. I hope this was just a case of a crabby employee and not a corporate philosophy.

Luckily, as we drove away, I noticed a new Sonic. We’ll be going there next time.

I have experimented with self-colored hair for my entire adult life. Intermittently, I go get a really solid pro job, using multiple foils and even low-lites from time to time.

Recently, I’ve been focused on cutting expenses wherever possible, and over the winter I settled into a satisfactory solid color that wasn’t far from my roots from Sally Beauty.

Historically, I get the itch to go blonde in late spring, and last night was no different. I happened to be at Walgreens. I happened to be in the haircolor aisle. I happened to spot a Feria highlighting kit that I am pretty sure I’ve used in the past. It seemed like a good idea. Think about it. Don’t most bad ideas seem good for a moment?

I emerged from the shower after painstakingly painting the blue foam in evenly-spaced stripes (that I envisioned to come out looking sun-kissed) all over my head and waiting the prescribed 30 minutes.

DAMN.

“Well,” I thought, “maybe when I dry it, it won’t look so orange.”

DAMN.

After the drying process, it was still orange, but with yellow stripes.

My little redhead, in her usual effort to be honest yet gentle, said “Well, mom? At least it isn’t blue!”

This morning I combed, teased, and tried to form it into a style that would somehow camouflage the uncamouflageable. (That wasn’t a real word until JUST now, thank you very much!)

I walked into my project room at work, and was prepared to hear a flurry of “comments.” (We’re a tight-knit bunch, almost like family.) To my surprise, I only noticed a few people notice my new ‘do.

Throughout the day I tried to convince myself that there are people walking around with much worse dye jobs than me. RIGHT?

Luckily, I was able to secure an appointment tonight at Anton’s in Pewaukee.

I had a couple people make pleasant “Oh, did you do something different with your hair?” comments in my direction. They were met with “I KNOW. I AM GETTING IT FIXED TONIGHT.”

My rescuer tonight was Phung, a fellow single working mama. She didn’t beat me up for trying to color my hair at home, which I appreciated. She applied approximately 14 pounds of foils and some toner to my tortured mop and promised me it would look good.

When it was time to dry, a fella named Adam came out of nowhere with a second blow dryer. Now that was the celebrity treatment, let me tell you!

I could really get used to this.

I am now sporting the cool, evenly spaced highlights I so desired when I started this whole project 24 hours ago, as well as a styled-up ‘do. It didn’t save me any money, but I’m ready for summer and really DO plan to have more fun.

I just got home from work.

Just who is it that comes into my home during the day, while I’m at work and the kids are at school, leaving it to appear ransacked when we get home?

If not for the absence of blood, I actually think an unsuspecting police officer might identify the family room as a possible crime scene.

It really didn’t look like this when I left today… Did it? Oh, that’s right – I ran out the door with my hair on fire just like normal, so I probably didn’t notice.

A gremlin of some kind is surely to blame. Does anyone else have a gremlin at their house?

Dear Jerk,

This morning started out great. I was on time, the kids were both happy and funny, and I was in a generally very good mood.

Imagine my surprise when I ran into daycare to drop off my son, was back out to my car in 3-4 minutes, tops, turning onto the street when I glanced at the passenger seat to see my large black business-style tote missing.

What? How could this be? When I brought Boo’s nebulizer into daycare, did I inadvertently also bring in my tote bag? It didn’t seem likely, but I circled back around to see. No bag.

Hmm. I must have left it at home. Although, I could have sworn I had taken something out and put it back in while already in the car.

Still, I ran on home to confirm what I knew deep down: Some jerk went into my car, while my car was parked in the spot closest to the door. At my DAYCARE. In broad daylight. That jerk was you.

This crime had nothing to do with scruples. I didn’t drop my wallet on the way into daycare, presenting you with coincidental and unwelcome temptation. There was no split second for you to choose right over wrong. You opened my car door and took my bag.

It wasn’t a mistake. You did not accidentally open the door to my car and remove my bag willy-nilly. You did this on purpose, and my gut tells me it was premeditated. Sure, I left it unlocked and that is my own stupid fault. But it doesn’t change the fact that your actions are despicable and asinine.

I’m guessing you thought the bag contained something valuable, like a laptop. It did not. You probably didn’t notice it was “pleather” until you got away with it, either.

You got a bag that I’ve owned for about 14 years, filled with a bunch of stuff that is mine. MINE. My checkbook. My knitting projects, that I have spent countless hours on. My brand new M*A*C Studio Fix compact and my favorite Bobbi Brown Italian Rose lipstick. (The exactly two “expensive” makeup products I own and splurge on.) My book of stamps. My Netflix movie that I was going to send back (pre-paid postage from the work mail room) and will now have to pay a ridiculous fee for. Do you get the theme here? MINE. NOT YOURS.

This is what I know you took from me today. I'm sure I will sit up in a cold sweat later, realizing there is more.

Likely, you grabbed the bag and raided it immediately for cash and untraceable items. You got $40. Whoop-dee-doo. That is $40 you just took out of my Disney savings fund, thank you very much. Of course, you don’t care about that. You probably also threw MY bag into a dumpster.

The scene of the crime.

I’m a right-brained person, and as such my imagination can be very colorful. I have used my own system to “profile” you, which took valuable time from my day. I have come up with two personas who may be responsible for this.

Persona 1: You are a creepy, random thief who happened to target a rushed parent. You were in the right place at the right time. Statistically, you are not a serial killer, but the fact that my bag contained documents with my home address doesn’t help me sleep any easier.

Just let me have an ounce of fun with this, please...

Persona 2: You are actually a parent at my daycare center. You see me daily, and have studied my behavior. You know my routine. Your child eats lunch with mine. You clearly aren’t out of a job, as your child is in daycare. Are you struggling? Cry me a river. Isn’t everyone at some level? Many of us struggle, but I, for one, do not steal during tough times. There are ways to earn money honestly. Your habits are going to, in all likelihood, be perpetuated (since they do learn from example) through future acts of the child you pay big money to put in the daycare center.

The more likely suspect. It's my blog. I can say that.

Avid knitters might speculate that I am the victim of a Knitter Hate Crime. Although I lost 3 sets of needles, several balls of yarn and my precious, beginning knitting endeavors, I think the knitting supplies probably caught you off guard.

R.I.P.

I think I have said enough. I’m actually writing this in an effort to release some of the very bad thoughts you made me think today. I am glad nobody caught your pathetic, jerk-wad booty in the act, as you may have panicked and actually harmed someone over the meager contents of MY black bag. I am glad my disorganized nature and today’s planetary alignment worked in harmony to keep the bulk of my ID and valuables out of the bag.

Sincere in my theory that you are a jerk,

Heidi

P.S. The gift card my parents so kindly bought me “from” my kids for Mother’s Day was in there too. If you feel remorse, I could use some new black sandals, size 9. You know where I live.