Well, lookie there _ it’s a black sheep!

Lucy was selected to be in the opening number with her dance studio because she’s stunningly graceful, and she can effn dance, y’all. So, I drop her off at her practice for the opening number, and I know my place in this dance mom gig, it’s outside for a run. I go for a quick run to test out my brand new really cool looking shoes. And I return before they even finish all the announcements that I think I might have been required to stay at, I’m not sure. Either they have way too many announcements for those kids, or I didn’t run far enough.
My shoes are brand new and I wanted them off my feet. NOW! This has never happened before. My feet immediately hurt. So, now I’m in a conundrum. I mean, I know I’m supposed to be practically IN costume myself and socializing, “Betty is in FIVE dance routines, she has 17 quick changes.” I’d tell you about quick changes, but I think you get it. I just can’t hang with all that. And also, have I mentioned _ my feet hurt? From one run. I’m impressed at my run. And I want my shoes off now.
So, I sit in the auditorium, in yoga pants (yeah, I run in yoga pants) and a tank top with my running visor, all sweaty, breathing heavy and my shoes off in an auditorium full of stage moms and Tabu perfume. I sit quietly to myself as the rehearsal begins. And then, some commotion starts. I think, “How rude, hello, kids are dancing. DOI!” But then I realize, it’s a thing you’re supposed to do, like in those cheerleading competitions on ESPN. Shout outs to cheer the cheerleaders. Hey,I thought that was fake, like wrestling.
Anyways, the mom’s and some kids are cheering them on, “Go CASEY!” “Way to go Julie!” “Woooohoooo!” All that. Kinda cute. And then I look back and see moms doing the moves and yelling “WORK IT KENZIE!” I consider joining in. But I think that wouldn’t work. So, I stick to sweating and reading my book. It’s my cool down.
One of these mom’s is doing the wrong thing. One of these moms just doesn’t fit in. Who is it? It’s me! That’s who!
I consider Lucy for a minute. If I don’t yell for her and cheer her on, maybe she’ll feel left out. But if I do yell for her, well, my voice sounds like it’s got a bull horn attached to it. I’ll startle her and freak her out, or she’ll think she did something wrong.
So I go back to reading my book. She’ll thank me later.
A few days later is recital rehearsal. Which, as I read, is significantly different than opening number rehearsal. We poured through 4 pages of directions and meticulously packed her bag, labeled everything, even packed extras, and then snacks of course. Because she’s my daughter, and we sign up for things that involve snacks. It’s what we do. And it’s also what the book of recital preparation told me to do.
We get her there and they are having practice for opening number as well as recital rehearsal, which we have NOT packed for because it did NOT mention that in the aforementioned documentation. I’m really feeling like a failure as a dance mom to Lucy. I’m calculating if I could get back home in time to get her opening number costume. When I realize there’s no way I could make it home and back in time, I’m about to launch into an apology to her when Lucy stops me and simply says, “It’s okay, Mom. I can wing it.”
And she does. She totally wings it. I think the kid can see my awkwardness _ it’s very fish flopping out of waterish. And she’s cool with it because she wants to dance that much. She knows that’s just the price she’s going to have to pay.
That’s how I roll.
Song of the day: Just Dance _ Lady Gaga

Yeah, we’re starting a trend here. Lucy wanted to keep them, but the stinky doctor said no. It’s a good thing we KNOW (read in snotty, we know the doctors kind of a way) the anesthesiologist. He obliged our sick requests with this pic. Thank you Dr. Rob!
Lucy had a tonsillectomy. I’ve been camping in her room for the last three days. Here’s my thoughts on it so far:
Hey _ who’s the jack wad with a stethoscope who repeatedly told me Lucy could have whatever she wanted right in front of Lucy? Since when does Lucy listen so well? “Mom, wake up. Its 4:30 am and the doctor said to keep ahead of the pain _ whatever that means and I need my meds because the last dose was at 12:30 a.m. And I need to take it with food because the doctor said so. How about we start with apple sauce and go from there?”
Sweet _ this is how tweens get hooked on drugs. Silly me, I naively thought it would be the 8th grade Prince Harry look_a_like pushing drugs on the graffiti_ed playground. But no _ it turns out they start them way earlier with “liquid kiddie whatever flavor you want, hun” hydrocodone. It turns out _ you really do have to stay ahead of the pain.
Drugging my child to a cloudy oblivion kinda started to wear on me _ so I held back on day 3. But then what with all that “anything you want to eat” shuttling to and from grocery store and then up and down the stairs in and out of the dishwasher.
It’s starting to get to be a bit much. I suppose I should be happy she’s eating at all. She wants spaghettios, but make sure they’re heated up better and then I would like more than the last time you gave them to me. I troop downstairs with the latest request and find Ricardo confused in the kitchen.
“Babe, where’s all the spoons?”
“Lucy used them on her half eaten food items.”
“ALL of them!?”
“Can’t talk now. Must relay her latest demand.”
With all that _ I forgot to give her meds at all. When she started to mention that it felt like there was an ice cube In her ear and it hurt so bad_ well that darned jack wad who was probably right with all that experience and all _ her words rang through my head “stay ahead of the pain.” Shit. Its gonna be a long night. Due to the guilt fest, I guess I sleep on the air mattress in her room one more night, for forever.
We have 3 separate pints of sherbet, 2 cases of popsicles, 27 (I just counted them out) individual packages of tapioca pudding, 12 apple sauces, and 12 more squeeze apple sauce things _ in the fridge and Lucy wants ice cream.
“Vanilla ice cream in a cone.”
“Baby _ you can’t have a cone.”
“”Ok then I’ll have it in a cup.”
“Okay _ let’s go.”
“Will you go get it and bring it to me?”
“I can’t babe _ dad’s not here to watch you.”
“Well I’ll just lay real still, Mom.”
“No.”
She did her pouty face and started in about that whole ear thing from lack of staying ahead of the pain and all.
I replied what any enabling parent would do when faced with an obstacle of not being able to enable. I called JullzHOLLA! who had been here twice already with pudding and apple squeeze sustenance. (Y’all didn’t think I’d buy applesauce in a squeeze bag did ya?)
I left her a voicemail in my best, please read this tone as it sounds and help me not lose it on my recovering daughter voice.
And what does my enablee do? She wants me to email her, leave a text, and call her home. That’s when I got a little stern. I held back as much as I could.
Ice cream _ now upgraded to FRENCH vanilla and is on its way. JulzHOLLA! will bring it and a little refreshment of patience and virtue for me. I’m sure of it.
After JulzHOLLA! leaves, I fill 2 more orders from Lucy. Each time, she tells me sincerely “Thank you, Mom.”
Later, as she lays there, not even on a commercial while she watches the Disney Channel, she looks over at me and sweetly proclaims, “I love you.” It’s not followed with any other demand. Then I notice her swallow and wince. Since she’s recovered so well, I’ve forgotten why I’m here in the first place _ to simply soothe and comort. And fetch. I remember all the times I’ve ever been sick and needed someone to make me toast with butter on it, but don’t skimp on the butter, and make sure you butter all the way to the edge. It’s the only way to make the toast crust bearable.
I remember all the times I get chicken soup served to me, but it’s too hot, and so I wait, but between wincing in pain and sleeping, it’s too cold, and I just opt to not eat it. Or when the pillows aren’t working, or it’s too hot. Then it’s too cold. That’s just when I’m sick. Lucy lays here next to me with tonsils removed via fiery laser.
It’s 10:30 at night. Lucy has just requested apple juice. She has a Sprite, a water, and a half eaten tapioca pudding sitting next to her but she wants apple juice. In order for that to happen, I’ve gotta go down to the basement and get a juice box, then crawl back up all those stairs, get a cup poke the hole in the juice box and squeeze it into the cup. It’s like twice squeezed apple juice, y’all. I’ve gotta do all that because straws aren’t recommended for tonsillectomies. But soothing is. So, I do it.
That’s how I roll.
Song of the day: Thank You by Dido

The other day, I saw a couple of my favorite gym locals in the locker room.
“Hey, y’all going to yoga?”
“Um, I can’t do yoga.”
“What? Don’t be crazy, if I can survive it surely you can….”
“Um no. I fart in yoga. And then I’m not real mature about it and start laughing and can’t stop.”
And we’ve just taken this friendship to the next level of greatness. I’d ask her out sometime, but I don’t want to scare her off.
That’s how I roll.
Song of the Day: We’re Going To Be Friends by Jack Johnson

This is what happens when your sister merely signs up for cosmetology class and provokes an idea to “try out” what kind of skills she may or may not have. It’s also what happens when your hippie mother allows it. I don’t remember, but I’m sure it went a little something like, “Sure you can try, but not on me. Here, use your sister. School pictures are tomorrow, so make it good.” I guess this is my first pixie hair cut. I’m covering my eye in artistic rebellion and expression over my coy rage of my haircut against my will. I’m smiling because it’s my birthday, that’s cake, and that right there is my all_time favorite placemat.
When my girlfriends say, “I’m thinking about going blonde.” or “cutting off my hair”, or “getting a perm”. I always respond with “OMG _ what’s wrong? Why are you unhappy?” Because, when a woman wants to change her hair, she wants to change her life, or something in it. Until recently, I firmly believed it. But in the past few years, I’ve just developed a new philosophy. It goes something like this: “Hey, I have hair! It’s just hair. Let’s play!”
I’ve been growing my hair out from a short bob for probably 2 years now. And then I started to get the idea I should cut it. Cut it all off. Like short_short. I opted to wait until I lost some weight. But then that was not happening as swiftly as planned.
I’ve been denying myself the pixie hair cut out of fear I’d come out looking like a dude. Being 6’3″ and having a boxy face and tree trunks for thighs isn’t helping. But a pixie hair cut is so cute.
But my long hair I yearned for is usually doubled up in a loose bunnish ponytail. Loose hairs were starting to tease and tickle me when I went for a run. I was clogging the drain with the hair I lost in just one visit to the shower. Drying my hair once a week for church _ the rest of the days, it’s in that bun mess _ I overheat and it’s a dedicated arm workout. The decision making moment was when I shut my hair in the car door the other day. I realize I’m no Crystal Gayle, but seriously.
The final straw came when I was caught staring down a beautiful pixie haircut while getting a pedicure. It was a little weird how the woman left so quickly, pointing at me to the manager and all.
And I decided, I’m doing it. It’s just hair, right?
I have an old pal, we’ll call him “Jett”. Jett has always said that he looks forward to my visits. Not because of my fabulous jokes, or my compassion, or my wit and charm. No, not all of that. But, he loves to catch up with me and see what kind of new hair style/cut/color I’m going to have.
I thought he was over reacting. But in looking back, I thought it would be fun to pull a few old pictures of my wild hair adventures.
Oh heck yes. This is about when I’m in high school _ Olan Mills family portrait. I couldn’t crop out my dad’s chin or my sister’s shoulder because my hair is THAT big.
Okay, I was visiting a friend and we were sitting by the pool, and I said to this lady with a very cute pixie hair cut, “I. LOVE. YOUR. HAIR! Where did you get it done?” And that’s when she made the single worst mistake,in telling me she was a hair dresser. I’m in. I made an appointment for her to do my hair exactly like hers the next day. And it was NOT the same cut. It was this. It was so gross. My only solace is that I’m pretty sure the college check I wrote probably bounced.
Okay, so, I started growing it out, and it got to be fairly fun and cute. What? And I mean, when in doubt, use TOM LANDRY for a hair accessory. Does anyone really care what my hair looks like right now? I don’t. Tom Landry doesn’t. And the boyfriend who got to piggyback into this picture and eventually get cropped out, he didn’t care either. I’m standing with TOM LANDRY!!! Nebraskans won’t care about this picture. But all my peeps back in Texas have just a little more respect for me and want to high five me right now.
Blonde long hair. And then I met Ricardo. As you are about to see, this is about as good as it gets.
Okay, y’all. This is on a visit home. I’m laughing because I just licked my sister’s face and grossed her out. We’ll consider it paybacks for that pixie cut 20 years earlier. Still blonde and long.
We’re engaged! Shorter. But still blonde.
Oh Gawd. I told y’all it was about to get bad. Back to dark and short. I only keep this picture around to remind me what not to do. This is post babies. I think it was a desperate attempt for a little extra quiet time at the hair dresser’s. I also think it was another desperate attempt to not get the baby death grip on long hair. It turns out, baby death grip applies to any length. There’s hair. They’ll find it, grab it and pull. Lesson learned.
Okay, we’re pulling out of that goth weird look. Somewhere in this phase, I get a strand of neon pink. I really do. Consider it my quest to keep Jett wowed. But I don’t think he ever saw the pink. And if he did, he wasn’t wowed.
So, here we are now:
I’m starting to pose with my dissatisfaction. Or we can call it my own personal Blue Steel.
Sideview. Wow, it’s pretty long. Still auburn. I’ve decided, just yesterday, that blonde would wash my pasty face out. Yeah, it’s the hair color…that’s it.
And here’s what a visit to my hair goddess looks like. Hey, that’s the best my long locks have ever looked, and they’re on the floor. What’s up with that? We discussed the cut and color. We also discussed if we do the pixie, that means I come get my hair cut more frequently, she’d have to see me more. Laugh at all my jokes more often. Was she okay with that? She said yes, but I think she’s a little bit afraid of me. Hey, who’s got the power scissors, here? She triple confirmed I was all in and then went to town.
And she did this:
I left her salon knowing good and well I wouldn’t be able to style it like this. But after playing with it for a while, I decided I like the whispy lambchop things tucked back behind my ears. But I didn’t get a picture of that.The color is a match to my roots, sans the grey. I’m considering letting the grey grow out and be my new highlights.
The real test came today when I was in charge of doing my own hair. We were headed to the zoo. So, I went with a wash and go, whispy messy carefree kind of a thing.

Another sideview. Mind you, I’m making the kids take these pictures at the gas station while the car fills up. Just for you.

I love it. And for the first time in my life, I’m not really seeking approval. I love that it shapes my face and brings my eyes out. And when I got home, Lucy had made a sign for my door that said, “Pixie’s room.” And Max told me I looked like a teenager.
I’m still getting used to it, but so far I love it.
Song of the day: The Haircut _ The Waifs (earmuffs)

I always thought this sign was funny. I mean really. How dare the Nebraska Roads and Sign Commission learn me a lesson so profound? The nerve.
Today, I took Lucy in for her pre_op physical at our doctor’s office. Lucy is scheduled for a tonsillectomy next week. So, it’s a scheduled appointment. No urgent “can you squeeze me in” type of a deal. We arrive at 10:25a.m. for our 10:30a.m. At 10:45a.m., the nurse calls us back. I’m only slightly miffed at the _once again_ lack of respect for my time. And my kids’ time. These are the things I ponder that maybe I can help them with:

• Maybe instead of weighing me, they can post the time of my appointment on the chart to face out on the door they keep walking by.
• These doctors always have fancy watches. Are they just decorative? Do they work? And if so, does the watch fashionista ever actually look at the watch for function and to see the time? Or do they just look at it and say, “I’m a bad ass for having this particular watch. Maybe I should get to paying off my loans.”
• Where exactly does the poor communication break down? Chick on phone makes appointment. Chick tells or gives schedule to doctor and nurses when they get there. Or do they? I wonder if the doctor even gets a schedule of appointments or just randomly walks through the hall and sees that color coded tab system on the door.
• I could revolutionize medicine right here and right now by getting everyone on a better schedule. I just need a pen and paper and someone to listen to me.
• Why on God’s green earth, would you set an 8_year_old in a 10×10 room and tell her to sit there and think on her impending tonsillectomy for 30 minutes?
• Why would you put a clearly disturbed woman who thinks she’s really funny in the same 10×10 room with two 8_year_old kids and ask her to wait and be still for 30 minutes?
• Why would you put any child in a room with expensive medical equipment and tell them to sit and wait 30 minutes?

This is what I’m pondering on. I have a new thing I do, that I’ll share with you to liberate yourselves in any doctor’s office. Open that door. First of all, it gets stuffy in there. Open the door, make the nurses look at you funny, and acknowledge you’re in there…waiting. They might try to shut the door citing HPPA laws. But stand firm and disagree. Start waving yourself and tell the nurse it’s stuffy in the room. Tell them you’ll waive your HPPA rights for some air. Then the nurse may or may not mention something about other people’s privacy. That’s when you do this: “What time was this appointment again? And what time is it now? ” Then they’ll run. They have no idea what time your appointment was. That or they have no idea what time it currently is. Besides, they’ll avoid you at all costs anyways when you open that door. However, now you have options.
When they opt to ignore you with the door open, start handing out tongue depressors to the kids and play a game of Pick_Up_Stix. Be sure to really encourage the kids get rowdy and loud when you do it. Eventually, the nurse will tell the doctor he or she better get in there.
While all this is going on, Lucy is getting anxious and Max is bored. “Mom, I dont’ want to wait anymore.” We’ve read books. We’ve played Pick_Up_Stix. Max has been through 5 apps on his ipod touch. I’ve exerted all topics of discussion.
“Mommmmmmuh…..why aren’t they coming?”
It’s tough to discipline whining when you’re right there with them.
When our doctor, who by the way, I usually really like, walks in at 11:20 for a 10:30 appointment, well, I had a plan of verbal attack. For all of insured humanity, I was going to fix this, once and for all.
I was pissed. I’m at the mercy of these people to give Lucy a physical for her tonsillectomy. Its not like I can just walk out and go to urgent care _ which I’ve done before. Because this happens way too often. While I wait I’m composing my lecture for disrespect and the possibility if I can come work here and just keep doctors and nurses on time. Why do I have to be on time _ sometimes early to fill out paperwork _ only to wait in the waiting room for 20 minutes and then they walk us back to a room with no windows and a 10 x 10 room for 30 minutes more? I’m ready. Let’s do this.
When Dr. B walks in I’m so livid I won’t even look her in the eyes. She asks “How are we doing?” I coldly announce: “Its 11:15. and my appointment was at 10:30.”
“I’m sorry. I was on the phone. My dad…well…my dad might die today.” But it was more broken than that _ what with all the actual concept of the words she was trying to form and her breath being taken her away and all. Well shit.
I tried to muster, I’m very sorry I was so rude. But she kept talking. I knew this routine all too well.
She tended to Lucy and asked if there were any questions. Distractions were welcomed. I almost whispered in a way more humbled and compassionate tone, “Yes, why are you here?”
She explained, still broken, wiping tears from her eyes that something had happened suddenly on Saturday and they thought he was pulling out of it _ but the call suggested he wouldn’t make it through the day. I put my hand up to stop her before the weeping turned to sobbing. I explained my dad died suddenly and I wasn’t able to speak with him or see him before he died. I begged her to get out of there and go to him. I tried to explain no patient waiting right now will regret missing their appointment on account of you getting to your dad. Not even assholes like me. But she just needed to talk and get through her shit at the office and go. I know, girl. I know.
At that moment, I did what I so rarely do, which I think probably freaked the kids out _ I stopped talking. I cut my chatty chat out and we finished as fast as could. No small talk. No nothing.
We left and I reminded myself to look people in the eye and have more compassion. Give people the benefit of the doubt.
Which made for an awkward moment when I wouldn’t stop staring into the waiter’s eyes at Applebee’s later in the same day. I was trying to transmit empathy and let him know that he’s a person and I care about that. All in a gaze. Baby steps I suppose. But he took great care of us too. So, there’s that.
So, here’s to being a kinder me. And I hope you’ll consider being a kinder you. It’s the best I can do to right this situation.
That’s how I roll.
Song of the day: Human Touch by Bruce Springsteen

Several months ago, I got suckered into suckering Ricardo. Perhaps the temptation of the fact that WICKED was coming back to town will do strange things to me.
In retort of said suckering, I pulled out enough gumption to ask for four tickets to the show. I wasn’t sure I’d get them. But lo, as mentioned before, those are some powerful ladies.
“Oh you’re trying to call our bluff? Ahem, here’s your tix.”
FOUR. TICKETS. LOWER LEVEL. TO. WICKED.
I asked for four tickets because I had a plan to bring in two of my girlfriends from out of town and then of course, JulzHOLLA! It was a righteous plan of girlfriendness. And if you know the storyline of WICKED then you should know that the two girls from out of town are ladies I met when I was in college. It was all the perfect storm.
And then life with kids and responsibilities happened after 10 months of planning for this big weekend. It turns out spouse’s work travel schedules and school activity calendars don’t really care to rearrange their schedules because, “We had it planned first!” They don’t care. So, my two gal pals had to stay home. I was bummed because it’s such a cool show and just perfect for us all to see together. But their families come first. Mine too. So, I get it. I hope, sooner than later, they can get to see the show.
Meanwhile, a few months ago, Lucy the lottery winner, was listening to me wail along to Popular. And she fakes a question so that I’ll stop singing. I’m sure of it:
“Mom, why does she want to make her popular? What’s the importance in being popular? Isn’t it just better to just be kind to the friends you have?”
Methinks Lucy is old enough and mature enough to see the show now. Don’t you? And she’s still making me feel guilty about that whole “thanks for the tickets, sorry you’re too young” bit from two years ago. So, I promised her if she wanted to go this year, I’d take her. That meant I’d have to buy tickets and go to the show twice…again. A sacrifice I was willing to make.
As Lucy has just completed the third grade, she’s also unfortunately been schooled in the subjects of caddy girls, jealousy, and possessive crazy of “she’s my friend, not yours”. All just while in class. It’s been very difficult and confusing for her. What better prescription than to go see WICKED.
But then, my pals couldn’t make it, so I told Lucy she could go with us. Even better, when I explained that I asked Gramma to go with us as well, I think she was more excited to see WICKED with Gramma than she was about actually getting to see the show.
So, we turned it into an all out affair and took Lucy to see WICKED, but also taught her the ways of Girls Night Out. We went to dinner and she barely touched her meal but we let her have cheesecake for dessert anyway. The girl could hang throughout the entire conversation and dinner.
Although my original plan with my gals from college to come with us was foiled, I couldn’t help thinking in the opening act, as I glanced over and saw my JulzHOLLA, my mother_in_law, and my daughter side by side, Lucy with her eyes wide, and smiling while her jaw dropped open in awe, that this was absolutely meant to be.
The next day, we saw the ring leader of the third grade friend drama. I watched Lucy interact. She was different. What had once paralyzed her, she was now carefree. That issue seemed so petty and resolved all at once for her. I think she had a moment of complete clarity, because she’d just been a part of something way bigger.
Ricardo, thank you for getting green. Had we known you were doing it for the chance for Lucy to do this, I know you’d have done it twice even.
Thank you JulzHOLLA! for sharing our special WICKEDness with my daughter. For including her and welcoming her into our sisterhood. And my powerful ladies in the locker room at the gym, thank you for the opportunity to take my mother_in_law, my JulzHOLLA!, and my daughter to WICKED. It did everything it was supposed to do and more. The seats were amazing. The experience I’ll never forget. The show was amazing, and the look on Lucy’s face even more so.
I’ve said it before, I’ll say it now _ if you can get to a WICKED show _ here’s the link to check _ do it.
That’s how I roll.
Song of the day: Y’all saw this one coming, right? One Short Day from the Wicked soundtrack.

Okay y’all, if you’re in the area, my gym that I might speak of here, here, and here, is having a pretty cool open house today. Check it out here. Swing by if you can. Tell them Momontherocks sent ya.
That’s how I roll.
Song of the day: Coming Home by Diddy

When I was a kid, my dad used to always say everything with one audible sigh: “Huh.” Depending on the situation presented to him, or the observing he’d just made, depended on the tone of the sigh. Sometimes, “Huh” could be interpreted as, “That’s so stupid, I can only retort with a sigh, Leslie. And no, I won’t give you money for it.”
And other times, it was “Huh.” as if to say, “I’m impressed by that. But do not need to express my outward feelings about it because I’m sure Leslie will do that enough for the both of us” kind of sigh.
Daddy could sum up the presidential debates with one “Huh.” And you would know exactly from that one sigh, exactly what he thought of it. There were times he had no idea I was close enough to hear him sigh, “Huh”. But if I heard it, I always looked up to see what he was talking about.
I’ve noticed Ricardo does the same thing all the time. It makes me smile. In bringing it to his attention, I realize I do it, too. “Huh.” It’s pretty rare that I shorten my sentences to such a finite expression. Sometimes I do it in a desperate effort to not say what I’d rather say. I find myself doing it alot.
The other day, I explained to Max that he had to clean his room. He walked off and did it, “Huh.” And I knew exactly what he was referring to. How dare he suggest I was an ungrateful mother who made ridiculous demands of his lounging time!
How do you tell a boy, “Don’t you say HUH to ME!”
I didn’t. Instead, I embraced the 80′s public service commercial, “I learned it from YOU dad. I learned it from you!”
That’s how I roll.
Song of the Day: If I had a Boat by Lyle Lovett