Fix your Child's Hair!

This post comes with a warning. 

Caution: Please watch your toes.  They may get stepped on.  Read at your own risk. 

Selfish, self-centered parents…I can’t stand ‘em. We all know them and most of us simply ignore their shenanigans.  It’s accepted and almost encouraged in our society.  I’m not a vain person, per se, but I am a firm believer in appropriate, acceptable public appearances. Come on ladies, how can you justify getting your nails done while your kid is wearing tired, pill-balled hand-me-downs?  Parents that do not take the time or make the effort to teach their child to take pride in their appearance are just…selfish!  Listen, I’m all about living on a budget and stretching pennies. But, seriously.  Worn out, soiled clothing weighs heavy on young shoulders.  Beauty does come from within but it shows without. When these poorly dressed children feel less than worthy and less than attractive, they show a lack of desire to be clean.  They have dirty feet, dirty fingernails and frizzy, matted hair.  Can’t you teach your child to grasp the importance of taking pride in his/her appearance?  It drives me absolutely insane to see parents with their name brand jeans, fancy tennis shoes and recent dye job when their kids don’t even look like they’ve recently bathed.  Presentation and cleanliness are signs, in our society, of self-confidence and self-respect.  Who wouldn’t want their child to have a strong sense of self-worth?  Many people, I’m afraid. Children can be mean; just plain mean.  They do not want to be friends with someone that smells of days old sweat.  They don’t want to be friends with the child that hasn’t taken a shower in four days.  They don’t want to be friends with the child that looks like squirrels have been mating in their hair.  It isn’t skin deep.  It’s that even at a young age, they know.  These children, they know that the kid that looks “thrown away” is an easy target.  They sense the target’s fear and lack of confidence.  It’s a cruel world but it’s the world that we brought our kids into.  It’s the world that they have to live and learn to thrive in. Don’t you want them to thrive?  Children that are ridiculed and bullied run a strong risk of “failure to socially thrive.”  As a parent, you’re going to have to accept that you are the root of that failure.  It is your responsibility to teach your child to have just the right amount of self-confidence.  It is your responsibility to avoid over-inflating your child’s sense of self-worth without under-inflating it.  It’s a delicate balance and it is your responsibility to find it. You, mom, should feel ashamed to send your daughter to summer camp without even brushing her hair.  You, dad, should feel ashamed that your son smells like a donkey on a hot day. Do your job. Wash their clothes (& shoes). And, for goodness sake, fix your child’s hair!

The Phoenix on My Back

When I was twenty-one, I bought into the whole “it’s cool to be tattooed” theory.  I made the trip to Georgia, where tattoos were legal.  I’d taken with me a drawing of a mother and baby elephant.  After all, the elephant was my favorite animal. Once inside the tattoo parlor, I decided I’d just get one of the elephants and come back later for the other. Once I was on the artist’s table, I’d decided that the one elephant would be the baby one annnnnnd it needed to be much smaller than I’d originally planned.  I drove out of Georgia and back to South Carolina with a baby elephant, about the size of a half dollar, that much resembled an anteater, on my hip.  I didn’t exactly regret the tattoo, I just didn’t connect with it.  It was JUST a tattoo;  a right of passage, if you will.  And there that baby elephant stayed, alone for fifteen years. During my marital separation, I came across a quote in some random store about a phoenix rising from the ashes. Hmmm.  The obsession began.  I began researching phoenix quotes which lead to researching phoenix tattoos.  I never really considered getting a second tattoo before this time of my life.  After all, I knew I needed to rise from the ashes.  I was still smoldering, however, and not nearly ready to rise again. I moved through the stages of grief as my husband and I moved through the separation and towards a divorce.  Once the divorce was final, the fire settled into ashes and it was time.  I knew it.  I’d found the perfect phoenix.  She isn’t tribal.  She doesn’t look “real.”  Phoenixes aren’t real, so how can they look real? She’s a simplified, stylized, mystical, abstract phoenix. The life that I had lived had gone up in flames and, slowly, I rose from the ashes, anew.  I am a phoenix. I wanted a tattoo that told my story. This time around I did things very differently.  I asked around. I got references.  I viewed samples of their work.  I chose an artist and I made an appointment. He took the pictures I had printed and edited and asked him to see what he could do with them.  He disappeared to his drawing room and returned with a masterpiece, in my opinion.  She, the phoenix, was perfect.  She was the perfect size, about 12 inches, head to plume with a 4 inch wing span.  She was flying up, looking up, coming out of the ashes.  She was the perfect shades of blues and purples.  The symbolism was right on target. I felt a spark.  I didn’t expect to ever feel giddy love again…but here it was.  No doubt, this was love.  I loved her, instantly.  I didn’t hesitate to say, “Yes, tattoo that permanently on my back.” It took almost 4 hours in the artist’s chair for her to be transferred from a flat phoenix on paper to a life-like image that moved in sync with me. It wasn’t difficult to keep my mind off the pain of the procedure.  I contemplated the past fifteen years. I ran through the memories in my mind… year by year, the good times, the bad times, the death of the marriage, the new life that was beginning.  When she was complete, I beamed with pride.  I loved her.  I love her still.  She’s my war wound and, often, my inspiration to keep trudging through.  It’s been five years.  Sometimes, I forget there is a phoenix on my back.  Then, I’ll catch a glimpse of her.  I still admire her, the artwork and the meaning behind her creation.  She’s still perfect. Perfect for me.  Her wings tattooed on my back helped me spread my own.  Together we soar.

Just a Hole Punch

Throughout my accounts of parenting, it may often appear that I think I know exactly what I’m doing.  That’s a façade.  I don’t.  I’m no fool, though.  I prefer to share the stories of success.  That’s human nature…a parent’s nature, isn’t it? Today’s parenting blog is about the choosing of battles.  It’s probably the foundation that I built my parenting strategies on.  I…choose….my….battles.  I have for years.  I fight the most important ones and I let the other “fights” go. After all, I’ve raised (and am still raising) two sassy, strong-willed girls.  I often wonder where they get that from (hmph). Make up, for example, is not worthy of battling. When my eldest daughter was thirteen she decided she wanted to wear eye shadow.  I mean she wanted to reeeeeally wear it.  We shopped, she picked out and I purchased eye shadow.  She later came out ready to conquer the world with purple, several shades of purple, eye shadow from her eye lashes up to her eye brows.  She looked like she was having an allergic reaction to blackberries. I didn’t say a word.  Not a word.  A few years later, she came across a picture that had captured her purple shadow days.  She looked over at me, aghast.  “Mom,” she whined, “WHY would you let me go out of the house like that?”  I just giggled.  Lesson learned, phase passed, giggle earned. So, recently, when my youngest daughter wanted to pierce her conch (look it up, I had to), I weighed the effects, the good consequences, the bad consequences and all of the reasons I wanted to say no. What if she regretted it?  What if it hurt like Hell?  What if people judged her?  So, I tapped into my mom voice and began listing my reservations.  She listened.  For good measure. I said she’d have to pay for it, herself, with her own money.  I said she’d have to take care of it, herself.  I said she couldn’t swim the rest of the summer.  I said she may regret it later in life.  However, I did not say no.  She listened to my reservations, she contemplated (as much as a seventeen year old contemplates) and she stood convicted.  I mean, who is surprised?  She IS my daughter.  She wanted the piercing. Standing before me was my sweet baby girl; the baby that I couldn’t watch get shots when she was an infant or a toddler or even a ten year old.  And she wanted me to not only sign for her to get a hole punched in her ear, she wanted me to go along.  She’s a straight A student, I told myself.  She doesn’t sneak out, or do drugs with her friends and she isn’t pregnant. Why can’t she get a hole punched in her conch.  Well, I decided, she can.  Silently, I freaked out at the prospect of some stranger punching a hole in my daughter’s ear.  I cleaned house like a crazy woman (it’s what I do), I took too long getting ready (hahaha, to go to a piercing ‘salon’), I dug out an old bottle of Xanax and off we went.  We arrived at the ‘salon’ and I was, first, shocked and second, ashamed.  I was ashamed because I realized I’d had a stereotypical expectation of what a piercing salon and what piercist (Is that a word?  You get the picture.) would/should look like. Shame on me. The place was appropriately named Immaculate.  It was, in fact, immaculate.  The glass jewelry cases were immaculate.  The floor was immaculate.  The couch in the waiting area was leather and was, also, immaculate.  I had to show my driver’s license, her birth certificate and a copy of my divorce decree verifying that I am, in fact, her custodial parent. The receptionist was knowledgeable and thorough. The piercist (I like the word, even if I made it up) was professional.  The tools were sterile, opened in front of us. The room was more sterile than many doctor’s offices I’ve been in.  The piercist explained each step.  He was gentle and the piercing was completed without a hiccup.  My daughter, my beautiful baby girl, stood in front of the mirror grinning from ear to ear.  “I’m in love,” she declared.  And she was.  “So am I,” I thought, “I have been since the day I met you. You’re beautiful to me, even with a hole punched in your ear.”  I couldn’t say that out loud, of course, because I was concentrating on NOT fainting. Battle not chosen. No regrets.

Fish are Fishy Business

Once upon a time, there was an odd twist of events that landed a newly relocated apartment dweller with a really cool fish tank, and fish. A pictus catfish, an African feathered catfish and two parrot fish (one that swam upside down). I've never owned fish before but I've read about how soothing a tank can be. Hmph.  I'm still choking down that theory. Soon after set up at the apartment, the upside down swimmer went to fishy heaven. This made the lone parrot fish become extremely defensive and he began bullying the gorgeous feathered catfish. So, we found ourselves on a midnight mission to save the being-bullied fish. After much commotion and lots o' water on the floor, the parrot fish was safely swimming in a private bowl. We took him to The Fishy Store and Mr. Know-It-All-About-Fish man calmly explained that the death of upside down fish had upset the balance of the ecosystem. We left Mr. Bully Parrot with the Fish man and brought home three Tiger Barbs. All was well, until.... Mr. Feathered Catfish suddenly grew exponentially in size and ATE, yes ATE, Katy Perry (AKA the blue barb). So, once again, I fished out the bully fish (Feathered Fish, this time) and took it to The Fish Store. There Mr. Know-It-All-About-Fish man calmly explained that with the Parrot fish no longer keeping Mr. Feathered Fish in his place, Feathered Fish became King Fish and took over as ruler of the ecosystem. We left him with Mr. Fish Man and brought home 4 new Tiger Barbs. The tank then held 2 blue barbs, 2 striped barbs, 2 orange barbs and a pictus catfish. Oh, I was also instructed to add a rock that made bubbles. Within 3days, the entire tank turned black. Black, I tell ya. Mr. Pictus was first to choke out. At this point, I inappropriately cried...OVER FISH, for Pete's sake! My daughter felt sorry for her emotional momma and took a water sample to The Fish Store. There, they gave us these "sponges" ($17 a piece type sponges) to soak up all the toxic levels of ammonia that the tiger barbs had flooded the tank with, (which, by the way, I totally think would've been handy info to have had when purchasing the barbs!) Three sponge soakers later, the tank was clear. I purchased two gouramis. They lived for 2 weeks so I felt safe and added three small angel fish and a replacement pictus catfish. No one seems to be taking on the role of bully or assassin, as of yet. This evening, as I sat enjoying the "soothing" view, I thought we all would enjoy some comic relief! ‪#‎fishladyIAMNOT

Just Bounce

Inspiration is such a mysterious thing.  It creeps up when we least expect it, often from the depths of our memories.  Once upon a time, in a desperate need for inspiration, I remembered a theory about bouncing. It came from Gwyneth Paltrow’s character in the movie Bounce. “That’s what I’ve been doing all this time,” she says, “bouncing…it’s like crashing, expect you get to do it over and over again.” That’s it, I thought, I just bounce.  Since my time as a single mom began, I’ve often thought, or even stated aloud, “That’s it.  The last straw.  The end of the line.  I’m going to crash this time, for sure.” But, somehow, inevitably, I just…bounce.  Sometimes, it takes a few bounces to get back on my feet. Other times, I bounce up higher than when I began the decent toward the ground. For the record, I rarely actually land ON my feet.  It’s more like a butt bounce, of sorts, and then I’m able to GET on my feet. There are times, even, when I find myself silently chanting, “just bounce, just keep bouncing.”  It gets me through.  Whatever, works, right?! Happy bouncing!

Happy Anniversary, to me!

Happy #18...Today would've been, maybe should've been, my eighteenth anniversary.  My ex called to wish me a happy anniversary.  "What would it be, Kar? Sixteen years today?"  Come on now, our surprise daughter is 17.  Seriously?  No, not sixteen.  Eighteen years.  We married eighteen years ago. The man rarely remembered, even more rarely recognized, our anniversary for the 13+ years we were married. Yet, he finds a way to remind me every year since when the date rolls around.  Damn thing about dates...they always roll back around.  Is it because it's the one failure of mine that he has proof of?  Oh, who knows.  The irony is just so typical "us", though.  I hadn't remembered the anniversary until he called.  That's a step for me.  In the previous years, I've remembered it days before and shed tears for it on the day of.  As my BFF pointed out, it's the little things that let us know we are healing.  Rarely the big. Not remembering was a little thing. Healing is a big step. Look at me, I've got my big girl shoes on and I'm taking big steps. <curtsy>

To Blog or Not to Blog

I've never considered myself a writer, for many reasons.  I'm a spontaneous thinker, which really means I have a true attention deficit.  The thought of sitting down, in front of a computer, for days on end, to type out a slow stream of thoughts makes me feel like I need to clean something or run an errand.  But, spitting out sporadic entries as the thoughts occur to me?  Right! Up! My! Alley!  My boyfriend says, "that's absolute crazy talk."  My girlfriends say, "do it!"  What's a girl to do?  Why, listen to her girlfriends, of course!  
TO blog, it is!

Life After Death

At 22, I stood in front of the "man" that I loved in a perfectly tailored, size 2 cream dress and said "I do" to a promise.  And I did believe in the promise...of a life-long marriage, for better or worse, in sickness and health, for so long as we both shall live.  Till death do us part.  I  took his name, Steele, and left my beloved Swan family name behind. We didn't know then that we were, most definitely, due to part.  I reminded my beloved husband of these vows on many, many occasions over the next 13 years.  Regardless of the efforts, and there were countless efforts, his and mine, the marriage died....a slow and very painful death. And that death, did us part.  With a heart of Steele, I held my head high and walked away.  Walked away, with the grace of a Swan.  Here's to life after death.