Beautiful Babies, Ugly Adults

I've made it no secret that my daughter was born out of wedlock, when I was only 20 years old. I was painfully young, naive and obviously a bit of a tramp given the fact I'm pretty sure I conceived her in the back of her daddy's car.

I. Am. Klassee.

I was barely out of childhood myself and I was getting ready to bring up a child. To say I was consumed with fears and doubts would have been a wee understatement. I was petrified. I wasn't just scared about parenthood in general, or survival, or the fact I was poor white trash one penny away from being homeless at any second, I was terrified my child would be ugly.

Because priorities? I had them.

Having had the scabs of puberty barely fall off my soul when I found out I was gestating life myself, I carried puberty's worst fear around with me for my child. What if my baby was ugly?

Every moment of my pregnancy I hoped for a healthy child, strength and wisdom to raise that child and please God, don't let my baby be ugly.

I. Am. Shallow. Too.

Eventually, my daughter was born and well, she grew into her ears. She's a beautiful child to me because she is mine. I'm biologically forced to think that but I have been told by other people not bound by those chains that my kid is cute.

I totally lucked out in the beautiful baby lottery. And by lucked out, I mean that my DNA rocks even if her father's mother thinks she looks nothing like me and is indeed a spitting image of her daddy and her entire paternal side of the family tree. Whatever. I made her.

Fast forward thirteen months and a day later and I was once again back in the stirrups begging fate for a healthy child, the strength and wisdom to raise my kids and please God, don't let my baby be ugly.

Frac came out even better looking than his sister and he never had to grow into his ears. It was a total win.

Those early years of raising babies meant there was a whole lot of growing up being done under my roof. It wasn't just my children growing up, but myself as well.

Three years later and I found myself pregnant again but this time I had a modicum of sense. The duration of that pregnancy was spent hoping for a healthy child and the energy to raise the brood I already had. I stopped hoping for a beautiful baby because I was fairly confident my child would be a good looking tyke given the fact his siblings had fared pretty well in that department.

I'm cocky too, apparently.

Then Bug was born. Broken, deformed and odd. He wasn't just invisibly handicapped, my child screamed handicapped as though someone had attached a neon sign to his forehead. Or at least that is how it felt at the time, hours after his shocking arrival and amidst the sea of hormones flooding my body immediately after giving birth to him.

I never knew my third child was going to be born disabled. When I looked at his wee twisted body it occurred to me that I never really understood the meaning of beautiful. I had heard the expression 'beauty is in the eyes of the beholder' but it wasn't until I was a parent of a child the world would never find conventionally beautiful that I understood what that phrase truly meant.

Shale laughing his arse off.

Shale was diagnosed with Moebius Syndrome when he was 8 days old. It took eight days for doctors to name his stone face and explain why my son never blinked, never smiled, never frowned. His face was smooth as glass and would always be that way.

And that hurt. Because I was vain. Because I was scared. Because it wasn't until I had a child who couldn't smile or squint or grimace that I realized how much value we truly place on facial beauty. How much we communicate non-verbally just by reading other people's expressions.

I had never felt more ugly in my life because I realized how completely immature I had been my entire existence. I had failed my child before he was even born and I've spent every day of my life ever since trying to make up for that fact.

Raising Shale taught me many things but mostly it taught me what beauty really is. And how much society values it. I quickly learned how often my son would be overlooked simply because other people couldn't read his face and interpreted his facial cues as a lack of interest. How people would whisper about my child, perturbed by him yet unable to pinpoint why. My son was easy to ignore because he was hard to read. He walked with a living mask on his face and most people couldn't even see it.

Shale crying his face off. Because his daddy dared cut his hair.

Shale never had the chance to grow up so I don't know how living with complete facial paralysis would have continued to impact him, or me or the people around him. I can only imagine how life would have treated his stony stare as he grew older.

But his smile-less face is with me always. I carry around with me an awareness of beauty that I never held before he lived. I no longer take smiles for granted and every smile I give freely or receive is a reminder to me that there are people out there locked inside their faces unable to express their feelings by merely twitching a few muscles.

There are people out there who look just like my son, united by paralysis and the understanding that beauty exists even where others can't see it.

But I see it. I see them. I hope that all of you who read this will see it too.

Today is National Awareness for Moebius Syndrome. So smile.

I know I am, and I'm thinking of my beautiful angel faced kid who made the whole world a more beautiful place every time he didn't.

Peekaboo. I see you. But will you see me?

Follicular Follow Up

So last week, I had a follicular crisis. And like any blogger worth her salt, I wrote about it. When in doubt, ask complete strangers. Works every time.

In my defense, I wouldn't have had to poll public opinion about what to do with my hair if my husband was capable of articulating an opinion other than "How much is this going to cost us????" in a slightly screechy tone.

You can't put a price on my head, Boo. Wait. That came out wrong.

Anyways.

Since that post last week, I've been gently reminded more than once that I owe you all some photographic evidence about what exactly happened to my hair.

For a reminder, this is what my hair looked like going into my appointment:

(Well, okay, not really, since I didn't even bother to comb it and only pulled it back into a messy ponytail, but this is the colour my hair was. Except my roots were about an inch longer and much more skunky looking.)

My hair was getting too long and it resembled a dollar store Barbie doll. Which wouldn't be a bad look if I had the plastic boobs and rock hard butt cheeks those cheap hussies dolls do. However, I'm a little more au naturel. (In other words, I'm saggier, softer and I can't rock the blue eyeshadow no matter how hard I try.)

My stylist is a gem. She listened to me politely and then does her own thing. And it works every.single.time. I ought to pay her more.

After the appointment, I tweeted out this picture from my car:

But apparently my twitter friends wanted to see my whole head and not just one eyeball.  Picky picky. Also, the picture doesn't actually resemble my current hair colour thanks to my iPhone's fancy camera app.

So without any further ado, here's my hair. Currently.

Just kidding. As much as I want a change, I have no real desire to walk around with greyish purple hair. I figure that time is still approaching so why rush it. I'll be a blue haired little old lady soon enough.

In the end, my lovely and talented stylist sheared several inches off and made my hair bouncy once again while taking me back to my natural(ish) colour. A dark blond. So all of this fuss, for a whole lot of nothing dramatic.

But that's okay. Because we (as in Carol, my stylist, and not me) have a plan. We are slowly going darker. Because the next time I get my hair done, I'm killing the blonde.

Because blondes are boring, hair is meant to be changed and I really like the colour red.

I can only hope the next time I go to the salon, I walk out looking a little like this:

If it works for Rhianna and Sideshow Bob, I figure I'll totally be able to rock this look.

Don't be THAT Parent

There was a time I honestly thought being thirty years old meant embracing your middle age.  I remember, very clearly, when my uncle, only 13 years older than me, turned 30 and I actually mourned for his youth. Because I was an obnoxious teenager who clearly needed to be slapped upside the head.

Now that I'm firmly rooted in my thirties, 35 for all of those who are curious, I know longer believe hitting 30 means the death of your youth. That only happens when you turn 50.

(Note to self: When you hit 50 you'll know that my 35 year old self wasn't much brighter than my 17 year old self and clearly needed to have some sense knocked into her. However, since I'm still 15 years off from that age, I stand by my youthful (heh) ignorance.)

In my head, I still feel young. Ish. That is, when my back isn't aching and my knees aren't creaking. And I'm not looking in a mirror and witnessing what can only be described as middle aged droop. I may not look as good as I once did but darn it all, I believe in make belief and it was only yesterday my butt cheeks were firm, my boobs were perky and chin whiskers only happened to old ladies named Bertha.

But something else has happened as the sands of time trickled through my hourglass and time stamped it's presence on my body. I've accrued some wisdom. Not a lot, but enough that I can comfortably say I'm smarter than my teenaged children think I am.

I now have the wisdom to respect my body and understand it's limitations. I can no longer put my feet behind my ears and wiggle across the room on my arse cheeks. (Sigh. Twas a party trick every girl should have.) I know now, that sometimes, no matter how young we feel in spirit our bodies just aren't what they once were.

Youth is fleeting and we should embrace it while we have it. Or so I tell myself as I'm dragging a sled up a snowy hill while carrying a child. Because one day I'll wish I was young enough to trudge up a snow covered hill to show the youngsters how to successfully hurl oneself down a steep hill. And why these days I tell my kids to suck it up, back in my day I had to walk to school, up hill, both ways, barefoot, in snow six feet deep no matter the month. Because I am old enough now to say it with some authenticity.

What time and age has also taught me along this path to well, death, is that not every adult transitions from their youthful grace to their aged selfs with well, dignity.

I've learned this over the past decade as a spectator of various children's sporting activities. Soccer, volleyball, basketball, hockey and even dance class. Some parents have confused their children's youth with their own.

There is nothing quite as painful as witnessing a middle aged person try and live vicariously through the efforts of their child. Which is why I try to only do this within the comfort and privacy of my own home. So that other adults won't witness my folly and then run home to blog about it like I'm currently doing now.



I'm all for recapturing any sliver of youthful glory I can. I want to prolong this part of my life, the part where I can still touch my toes and not being eligible for a senior citizen discount, for as long as possible and I don't begrudge any adult for feeling the same. Because deep down inside, we all feel a heck of a lot younger than we look.

But that doesn't mean I'm seriously not going to shake my head and offer to put a boot up your arse when you are sitting on the sidelines of your child's sporting game, screaming obscenities at children not related to you and pressuring your child to perform better.

I hate to break it to you but kids aren't circus animals. I know because I've tried tossing peanuts at them to get them to balance a spoon on their nose and they just rolled their eyes at me.

How about instead of crashing your child's memories in the making you relive your own glory days quietly like the rest of us do? Feel free to play in an adult league of a sport of your choosing where you are surrounded by men and women fighting the aging process with good old fashioned sweat. Or take the lazy way out and just regale your children with tired stories of your own past greatness and achievements like I try to do on a nightly basis?

Cheer your child on, but remember, they are children. Playing with other people's children. My children. And as a parent, I'd like to keep my kids children for as long as possible. I want them to learn and improve and yes, dammit, watching them benefit from a win every now and then would be nice since I'm the one schlepping their arses to and from practices and games in buttfark rural Alberta. But I don't want them to learn unsportsmanlike conduct from the parents in the stand. Nor do I want any child to get jeered at by an angry adult who obviously wasn't breast fed long enough as an infant.

And if you jeer at my kid I'll kick your butt. Even if I have to use my cane to do it.

Like I tell my kids every time they leave our house: You aren't just representing yourself when you go somewhere. You are representing your family and your community. I've often wondered if parents forget this applies to themselves as well. You are a representing your kid, your kid's school and your community when you plant your arse in a bleacher at their sporting events so grab a bucketful of common sense and a bushel of dignity and act with the type of class you'd want your child to behave with.

Or, if you're like me, shake some pompoms and make sure to cheer for all the kids.

Because if you're going to be known for being a jackass, be the better jackass. The ones the kids won't want to beat to death with a bat as you sleep the night before a big game.

Plus. Pompoms. It's like reliving your youth but with better accessories.

*Feel free to relive your youth in the comments section. It's never too late to brag about YOUR glory days. How awesome were you as a child athlete? Or you know, go nuts and rat out that annoying sports parent you totally want to smother when you go to your kids games. Because I know those people are EVERYWHERE.*

**Also, Camrose parents? This is totally dedicated to you.**