Tricky Whisker

I have a whisker on my cheek.

A WHISKER.

Not a chin whisker, I've been sprouting those for years now. Not a boob whisker, I've been plucking those for almost a decade. 

(Sorry to kill any hair-free boob fantasies you may have held.)

A cheek whisker. Like the ones my husband and my son grow and shave off when the mood strikes them. Except, unlike the whiskers Bruce and Nash grow, this whisker is not blonde.

No. It's long and black. A thick wirey whisker. Pointing out of my cheek like it's an old fashioned radio antenna looking for a signal. 

You know who grows cheek whiskers? Men and old women. I'm too young to be old so the only logical conclusion is I'm turning into a man.

To add insult to hairy injury, my whisker moves. I can never catch it to pluck it. Oh sure, I'll crane my head, use two mirrors, the brightest lights and the sharpest tweezers, but I can never find it. I'll think to myself, "oh, it was a false alarm, that long hair I was just fondling, it doesn't really exist." And I'll put the tweezers and the mirrors down and turn off the bright lights and walk away.

My tricky whisker? It is still there. I'm walking around with a whisker. It's similar to walking around with toilet paper stuck to one's shoe. You don't notice it until someone points it out and then you die of mortification.

"Um, Tanis? There is something on your cheek. It looks like a smudge."

I rub my cheek, and ask "Is it gone?" and that's when they'll furrow their brows and then look closer and I can tell the moment they realize what it is that caught their eye.

"Oh! It's not a smudge! It's a WHISKER! Holy, it's kinda long!" And then they'll proceed to try and yank it out of my face except they will only succeed in pinching my skin and shaming me. My tricky whisker will live on to see another day.

Rinse and repeat. Day after day.

I know the day is coming that soon my tricky whisker will have company. I'll soon sprout a field full of cheek whiskers. There is no such thing as a sole whisker. They get lonely. Ask my chin. Or my chest.

My immediate future.

I turned 37 and it all went to crap. My fine lines are actual wrinkles, I've old lady acne and now, man hair. On top of all of this, there is no way anyone could ever use the word 'perky' to describe me unless they're talking about my sparkling personality.

Don't get me wrong. I'm healthy and I'm happy. I'm just also kinda hairy now. In ways I never was before. I look at my beautiful daughter, morphing into a woman, more so every day, and I marvel. I once looked like that.

Smooth. Whiskerless. Youthful.

She's an unlined blank canvass, ready to take on womanhood.

I can't wait for her whiskers to come in.

Misery loves company after all.

Next up: neck whiskers and a full beard! 

***Postscript***

Bruce has since informed me that I already have neck whiskers. He said he didn't want to point them out to me because I get all weird and hysterical about stuff like that but he insists they are cute. And by cute, he means, turn to the left and lean a bit because if I stand in the right spot while he's playing games online, he's convinced all my whiskers will help channel faster Internet signal into his Xbox.

I've since scheduled to have everything between my forehead and my belly button waxed.

I'm also looking into traveling circuses. Anyone need a bearded lady?

Daddies and Daughters

I was 20 years old when I bought my first car. I had only had my license for a few months and I would have happily borrowed one of my parents vehicles forever, had my parents agreed to it.

But my boss kept telling me if I wanted to move up on the corporate ladder I needed to ditch the bus pass and get some wheels and my boyfriend kept telling me he was poor and couldn't afford to drive in from the countryside every night to come and see me. 

It was time for me to embrace my independence. My job and my love life depended on it.

The search for car to call my own had begun.

I remember I found more than a few lemons along the way. I also remember being propositioned, belittled and just once, proposed to by a pathetic balding forty-ish man who lived at home with his mother. 

That was the last time I looked at the classified ads for used cars.

Then, one afternoon, my dad took me to a used car dealership. We looked at one shiny car after another; I'd stroke the dashboard and remark how pretty it looked, as he'd pop the hood and ask about engine combustion and such. He helped me pick out a vehicle and take it for a test drive and when the car passed his inspection and held up my standards for looking pretty, he held my hand as I signed my very first car loan agreement.

I wasn't just signing my life away to a dealership for eight grand; I was signing the papers of my independence.

He handed me my very first set of car keys and stood silent as he watched me drive away, all tail lights and freedom and he's been watching me drive away ever since. 

Daddies and daughters.

Today, Ken gets her very first set of wheels to call her own. 

Today, Bruce is holding his daughter's hand as she insures and registers her very first car and once again, life has gone full circle.

Today, Bruce will hand Ken her very first set of car keys and he'll watch her taillights disappear down our lane, as she drives towards the freedom just waiting for her.

And just like my dad, he'll never stop watching for those taillights, even as she keeps driving away.

Daddies and daughters. 

Me? I'm just going to sit here and quietly clutch my kleenex and marvel at how quickly it all goes.

And then I'm going to call my dad.

***

It's been a good week. Even if the week included dentists, broken hearing aides and thousand dollar car seats for Knox.

Thank god for boxed macaroni and cheese. Because that's about all I can now afford.

37 and still with the zit paste. I blame this on my children. Their puberty is rubbing off on me.

Knox wasn't the only one with dental woes this week.

Guess who sat up ON HIS OWN and discovered he has a bedroom window with a view?  

Happiness in a hospital. It is possible.

Have a great weekend. May there be many squeals of delight for each of you.

Cheap Pink Wine Helps Heal Everything

Trying to keep my son healthy is sucking the life out of me.

I sort of recall feeling that way when I was 20 years old and trying to breast-feed my firstborn. She was like an angry badger, my boobs were hanging on by a bloodied nipple hair and I was pretty sure with every feeding time I lost a little bit more of my life force.

This post is not about breast-feeding. 

I heartily endorse breast-feeding. Everyone should do it. Even men. 

I'm scared of the pro breast-feeding community. 

I'm writing about breast-feeding and I'm not supposed to have a mommy blog anymore. Oh my god, someone please take away my computer.

MOVING ON.

I'm trying to write a post about how my son's health is sucking the life out of me. Which, I know, sounds like a typical mommy blog post but it's not. It's only disguised to read that way. The reality is my son is a lifelike android who was sent here by an alien life form to study the breast-feeding patterns of the humanoid. 

Again with the breast-feeding. 

Seven years I wrote over on Redneck Mommy and NOT ONE POST ABOUT BREAST-FEEDING. 

Just saying.

Here's where I would typically delete this post and start again.

NOT TODAY people.

You know why? Because what little energy I have left after spending all damn day in a hospital yesterday with Knox I plan on using to beat level 73 on Candy Crush. I don't even feel a bit guilty about it.

Okay, I feel a little guilty. But only because it's a Facebook game. It's my secret shame.

So yesterday Knox was scheduled for a routine dental procedure. Except when you are a quadriplegic, with Cerebral Palsy, who is a little deaf and a lot blind and non-verbal to boot, nothing is routine. 

Of course not. 

Eight hours later, a little blood (his), a few tears (mine) and only one mild episode of rage for each of us, and Knox now has a set of clean choppers. 

Knox woke up cheerful and sparkly and beside the bloodied nostril from where they intubated him; you'd have never known he was in a hospital bed only hours earlier.

I wasn't so lucky.

Something about hospitals, the scent of death (and apparently, dental decay) ages me prematurely.

I swear I went to the hospital a young, spry woman.

I came back a lifeless old hag.

My teens winced when I stumbled out of bed this morning, my joints creaking an announcement of my arrival before I actually walked into the room.

I fully plan on picking Ken and Nash up from the high school while looking like this. I know how much they'll love it. 

This? This is what parenting a special needs child looks like. I often write pretty prose about how awesome Knox is (and Skjel was) and how rewarding and beautiful it is to parent these unique special snowflakes my sons' are/were.

And it is. 

But it is often grueling, frustrating, exhausting, overwhelming and zit inducing. I've lines on top of my lines and I'm feeling about as haggard as I look. 

The only thing easy about kids like Knox is how easy it is to love them. Everything else is hard. From haircuts to toileting to routine dental exams. It is hard. Sisyphus hard at times.

It's so hard it makes breastfeeding a rabid porcupine look easy.

AGAIN WITH THE BREAST-FEEDING.

(This is all Mr. Lady's fault. Damn you Shannon and your bizarre chestal activity. I've now got boobs on the brain.)  

Yesterday, while I was stuck in the bowels of the pediatric day surgery department, with no cell service, a cranky non-verbal child who didn't understand why he was hungry and with no relief in sight, I was reminded how hard this parenting gig can get. The stress overwhelmed me and for one single second, as a tear slipped past my fingers, I broke. I quit.

I was done. 

It was too hard, Knox is too hard, I am too damaged, and he's too broken. Usually these are the moments I'll hand Knox off to Bruce and take a moment to breathe, but I was alone yesterday. It was just him and I. 

There was no magical moment that made any of it easier. That's not how life works. I took a few minutes to feel sorry for myself, and feel sorry for Knox and then I carried on. That's my unvarnished reality.

But at the end of the day, when I finally got home and poured Knox into bed and myself a glass of cheap pink wine (on the rocks!) all the hardness of the day was worth it.

Because yesterday I walked into the hospital holding my son and I got to leave the exact same way.

A few years ago, I wasn't so lucky. 

Hard and haggard will always be worth it. But cheap pink wine helps too.