Afterbirth

When I was a kid, we moved a lot. My dad worked for IBM and we definitely lived the I Been Moved life.

The second-to-last place we moved while I was still at home, was a small town called Westport, Connecticut. Today, Westport is one of the wealthiest communities in the country. In 1978, it was still a place where a middle-class American IBM family could live and prosper. Sure there were the occasional Paul Newman sightings -- but he was just out grocery shopping at Hay Day or grabbing a beer at Ship's.

Moving to Westport was a tough transition from sunny Southern California. We didn't have the right clothes. We didn't talk the same way. It was fricking freezing during the famed Blizzard of '78. It's a long story that I tell in detail in my blog Middle School Blues.

My first day of school I was sitting in the office and a boy walked by and winked at me. I thought to myself, "I am not in Kansas anymore." Or Cali. These kids were going to be tough. And they were tough.

There was a kid on the bus named Jeb. He was older and popular and cool. And I was none of those things. Jeb started calling me "afterbirth". To this day I don't know why. Worse, I didn't know what it meant. And we didn't have the Google back in those days so I just sat there wondering. Now I know what it means. I have firsthand knowledge since becoming a parent.

Yesterday I was on Facebook where my now Facebook friend Jeb posted the sweetest picture of himself comforting his son who had a rough at-bat in a baseball game. I couldn't stop thinking about that picture and how much we've all changed as a result of growing up, getting married, having kids, getting divorced, losing a parent, losing a friend.

Good for you Jeb. Way to grow up and become a good man.

The Mom Haircut

I'd been thinking of cutting my hair off until about two weeks ago when I got a very cute cut at Chez Shay in Fairfield. Now I'm feeling better and less crazed about doing something dramatic.

I haven't had short hair since I was a kid when I took the scissors to my own head. The results were not great. I was no Meg Ryan in French Kiss. My son said if I cut my hair too short, I'll look like one of those Frankenstein dolls. He means a troll.

Then my husband chimed in and said if I cut off my hair I would look like a nesting doll. Here I am with my new haircut and 5 mini-me's. Frankly I don't care what either of them says. I may just cut it all off.

Maybe I'll remind my husband that it costs about $300 to keep my hair in this style and this color. That's about $1500 annually. I could cut all my hair off and wear a scarf just like these little babushkas.

I'll admit, it's tough to pull off cute short hair. Katie Holmes has cute short hair. Of course, she's married to a megalomaniacal psycho-freak, but her hair is darn cute.
 
It's a slippery slope from Katie Holmes' cute mom hair to WTF was Katie Couric thinking mom hair. Seriously, all those image consultants, one of the highest-profile jobs in news EVER, and this is what they come up with for Katie Couric?

I think that's the #19 at Supercuts next time you go, Katie.

And then there's the long slow slide into grandma hair that you get "done" once a month and then don't touch. That hair that was the reason Spray Net was invented. That hair stays in place through all kinds of weather, kept neatly tucked away in a pointy plastic rain cap. That hair smells like maple syrup and cookie dough which may in fact be trapped underneath all that Spray Net.

Grandma hair says, "I've earned the right to this helmet head and by golly you'd better not touch it." For now, I'll keep my shoulder length, out-of-control, freaky curly hair. I'm enjoying having curly hair after a childhood filled with barrettes that slipped off and waterfalls hanging limply to one side. I may go completely crazy and buy those Bumpits "as seen on TV".

We'll see what my husband thinks about my new beehive.

Middle School Blues

My son's first day of middle school. I didn't want him to go. Not in that, "Hey maybe home schooling is not that bad after all" kind of way. I just wasn't ready.

When my son was three, we enrolled him in a Montessori school. He was still little but my husband and I were both working full-time and couldn't take care of him during the day. Let's just say, he was not a willing participant.

Every morning I would drop him off and he would cry and cry. Then I would cry. There's really no worse feeling than walking away from school seeing your little boy crying in the window. Finally my husband started dropping him off because I couldn't take it. Of course, when he dropped him off, Will went happily on his way.

This morning I was starting to tear up thinking about Will going to middle school. My husband would have to take him to the bus stop. Plus I figured it would be totally uncool to have both parents at the bus stop. But I knew I would start crying and that would be way uncool.

I went to two middle schools. The first was Huntington Middle School in San Marino, California. I loved that school. Then mid-way through seventh grade we got the news we were moving again (thanks IBM). My second middle school was Bedford Junior High in Westport, Connecticut.

My friends know the story of my starting at Bedford. My mother decided to take the train cross-country. Unfortunately, she didn't anticipate the blizzard of '78 and getting stuck in New York. Unfortunately for us kids, my dad was in charge of getting us ready for school. Dad took us to the Army Navy store to buy new clothes. My OP shorts and Vans weren't cutting it in the frozen tundra. Granted there was no Gap back then, but the Army Navy store? Basically my brother and I could've posed for Bowhunter's Quarterly...that's how cool we looked.

So I showed up at Bedford Middle School in my camo pants and greenish-brownish down jacket. Thankfully, I had the Cali thing going for me - the mystique of the California girl. Then they found out I was really from Texas and said pin instead of pen and tin instead of ten. Teased unmercifully, I finally eliminated any trace of a Southern accent. Mostly what I remember about middle school was sort of this strange balance between utter happiness and naked fear. There was the whiff of sexuality, the stirrings of mischief and the occasional misdemeanor. As the perpetual new kid, I learned pretty quickly how to navigate the water. That's a useful skill for blending in but it's not really helpful when it comes to standing out. I'm learning that now in my forties.

My son Will called out to me, "We need to get going." Then he walked out the back door. Even in fifth grade I gave him a kiss every morning before he got on the bus. They'll be none of that in middle school, I'm sure. As I watched him walking off, I held back tears. Looking at him walking confidently toward his future, I felt sentimental for my little boy. But he's not a little boy anymore. And I have to let him go.