Why Do I Have White Hair?

I was sitting on the steps, watching Boywonder at Auskick while Tomboy stood on the step behind me, playing with my hair.

It was very relaxing until Tomboy said, ‘Why have you got white in your hair?’

I ignored her question, hoping she’d find something else back there – nits, fleas, ticks…

But it wasn’t to be.

Slightly louder this time: ‘Mummy, why is there white hair on your head?’

I was still hoping something – anything – would distract her when she asked with a shout, ‘Mummy, why do you have white hair?!’

Tomboy’s loud vocalisation about my grey roots in desperate need of some hair dye, not only confirmed I was going grey (not to mention deaf), but brought it to the attention of everyone within a ten-metre radius.

My reply: ‘Because I have too many kids!’

A couple of weeks later while seated at the computer waiting for the hair dye on my head to do its job, Tomboy asked me why I was dying my hair.

‘To get rid of the white hair,’ I replied.

‘Oh, you didn’t tell me you had white hair,’ she said before trotting off to play.

At least I’m not suffering memory problems!

Mother's Day

My Mother’s Day started on Thursday with a special visit to the kindergarten with the other mums. We spent an hour being pampered and making princess things with our children. The mums got to be the princesses!

After Tomboy and I enjoyed decorating a portrait of myself as a princess, making a princess crown and reading a book together, we moved to the table that had fairy pillows on it. They were for me to rest my hands on while Tomboy gave me a hand massage with some hand moisturiser.

I asked Tomboy if she wanted my hands palms up or down and she turned them so they were palms up. She then stuck her finger in the tub of moisturising cream and dropped a big dollop in my right palm. She then got another rather large dollop and dropped it into my left palm.

Tomboy wasted no time spreading the cream about on my hands. Realising that she had quite a bit of cream on her own hands, she stopped spreading it about on mine and proceeded to rub her hands together.

Still sitting there with slathers of cream on each palm (there was enough to do my legs too), I reminded her about my hands.

‘Rub them together like this!’ she said as she continued to rub her hands together in a vain attempt to get rid of it.

And that was the end of my hand massage. 

The rest of our activities were a little hampered after that. Pulling tiny heart stickers off of a sticker sheet to stick on a plastic pot or threading small beads to make a princess bracelet is extremely challenging when performed with slippery hands. (The teacher had to tie my bracelet together!)

At least I have my wonderful portrait, drawn by Tomboy to remind me of how much fun we had together. 

Her talents are exceptional. See how well she’s captured my double chin. And that isn’t a line of pimples, it’s my diamond necklace and, no, she didn’t make me a ‘ranga’ with a mohawk, that’s an orange tiara. The blue eyeshadow was my idea, reminiscent of the eighties.

I’d love to say that Mother’s Day on Sunday was filled with self-indulgence, but I worked all day, while Mr T cleaned the house and kept the kids busy so I could get on with the job. I did, however, spend the day in my pyjamas (the benefits of working from home) and received some wonderful presents.

At least Boywonder didn’t declare the day his five minutes after I opened my presents – like he did last year.

http://becausemumsaid.blogspot.com/2010/05/mothers-day-or-is-that-boys-day.html

 

Who has big boobies?

From the moment we have children we’re reminded of how old we are. Despite the tubby belly that sticks out above the top of the nappy and the baby fat that cushions their limbs, we see perfection. From the velvety hair on their heads, to the silken skin that covers their bodies, they’re everything we’re not.

It’s not cute when Mr T’s belly sticks out above the top of his pants and the small amount of fat I used to love sitting high on my chest has started heading south. Some of it may have even migrated to my thighs. Why it would want to move from the chest to the thigh is beyond me, but that was the last place I saw it. That's still gotta be better than remaining attached to my chest, but sitting on my belly…hasn't it?

Even if we manage to keep the bulges in check and where they should be, we can’t escape the ravages of time and circumstance as the wrinkles move in, and, as in Mr T’s case, the hair moves out. We all experience the signs of aging. Some of us openly work hard to fight it, throwing diet, exercise and cosmetic surgery at it, others ignore it in the hope it will slow down faster than what we do, and the rest of us alternate between ignorance and short spurts of dieting and exercise.

Regardless of whether we’re comfortable with it and how we deal with it, there is always an innocent child waiting in the wings to remind us of our true physical appearance. Mr T was helping Tomboy dress herself after her bath when he joked that she’d better cover up her big boobies.

‘I don’t have big boobies!’ she replied indignantly, as any four year old still sporting some leftover baby fat would.

‘Sorry, small boobies,’ replied Mr T. ‘Who has big boobies?’ he asked her.

‘Mummy – and you, Daddy.’

Being small busted I felt quite chuffed; Mr T didn’t, but I believe he’s about to enter into one of those short spurts of dieting and exercise.

The Thin Line Between Beauty and Vanity

I’ve always thought it important to instill self-confidence in our children. It’s also important to ensure that they’re not over-confident; there’s nothing more annoying than extreme vanity. The more I thought about the many children I’d seen who were obviously vain, and compared them to those that lacked self-esteem, the more I realised what a thin line there is between the two. I had no idea as to how I’d keep my three youngest children balanced on that line, but I knew the challenge would be filled with amusing experiences.

The first one came after helping Tomboy dress and do her hair one morning. Her hair had been washed the night before so it fell in ringlets down her back. Everyone has a colour that sets off his or her features perfectly and red was definitely Tomboy’s. She twirled around in her new, fluffy, red jacket and then smiled her Angelina Jolie lips at me. Her blue eyes twinkled with delight; there was no mistaking her pleasure in her new jacket.

I said to her, 'Aren't you beautiful.'

'Yes, I am,' was the reply.

'I love you,' I said next.

'Yes, you do,' was her reply. 

I raised my eyebrows as I watched her skip away. At least (or so I thought) Boywonder wasn't so vain. After he finished dressing himself, I said, 'Aren't you beautiful!'

His reply – 'I'm not beautiful … I'm handsome!'

That thin line suddenly felt a whole lot thinner.