08 May Why the funky ‘do?
It’s 9:32 a.m. and in the rearview mirror on the way back from dropping Henry at daycare I’m eyeballing the tumbleweed on my head that is supposed to be a ponytail.
Can I swing a third day without a shower? Will my 11 a.m. client forgive my rat’s nest hairdo if I double up on deodorant? Can I avoid the public for the rest of the day?
Once upon a time, I was a person who practiced an average amount of personal hygiene.
I showered every morning, brushed my teeth, had a hair gel routine, polished nails, and deliberate outfits with matching accessories. That far away place and time was pre-kid.
When Henry was a baby, I’d put him in his crib while I showered alongside the baby monitor, poking my head out every six seconds to check on him and leaping out with sudsy locks if he cried.
When he could sit up, I’d prop him on the floor against his Boppy with some toys, right up until the day I found him fishing elbow-deep in the toilet.
He’s okay if he’s stuck in the Jumperoo, but you have to shower at the speed of a toddler’s attention span, which means there will be no shaving of the legs.
I’ve tried bringing him right in the shower with me. It’s okay until you’ve got a face full of lather and get banged on the toe with a toy boat and then he’s pulling himself up and you’re trying to sit him down and you both have soap in your eyes and are screaming and then you both get soap in your mouths because of the screaming.
So unless I’ve got calendar items that seem worth the hassle of figuring out how to shower and supervise a toddler at the same time, I just shower when Cory’s home in the morning, which, truth be told, is not every day.
I’ve developed advanced coiffure deception strategies, like sleeping with my hair piled on top of my head like a pineapple. I spritz it with water in the morning to assume the identity of a clean-showered person. I’m thinking about wigs.
To my appointments: If I look freshly scrubbed to you, I must think you’re very important. If I’m sporting the rat’s nest ponytail, it means I seek your sympathy in my plight and hope you won’t run screaming from our meeting due to my funky ‘do.
This Family Time column originally ran in the Glens Falls Chronicle on May 8, 2014.
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