Metal Meredith

It all had to start sometime.

Since I am making an effort not to talk about previous topics in every post lest my queasy or about to pop friends can’t take it, suffice it to say that a milestone was reached and Vivienne was rewarded with a visit to Pigtails and Crewcuts for her first real haircut. Up until now, I had been cutting her bangs myself and even did that sweet little bob she had last year. However, I am not a hairstylist and in order to avoid criticisms from peers and sideways glances from the other moms at school, I took her to the only hair salon for kids in Richmond. (I hate the name, by the way.)

Vivienne was ok until we got there, then she became the shyest child on the planet. She was excited to see the train set and the toys in the waiting area, but quickly shut down all emotion as it was her turn to pick out a chair. You see, at Pigtails and Crewcuts, patrons choose between a police car, fire engine or airplane as their chair. All of them are old fashioned metal pedal cars modified with swivels on typical stylist chair platform.

Vivienne picked the fire engine but didn’t say another word the entire time. She froze with a lollipop in one hand and an eye on Dora the entire time. She cringed when he started spraying her hair with water and nearly lost it a few times when he was brushing it out. Finally, she said a few words here and there but didn’t snap out of it until they opened this giant treasure chest of crap at the end of her cut and she picked out a ‘prize’. (*of note: You can even sign your kid up for a “Glamour Party” and host a birthday there where your child and all her (let’s be serious that I am not gender bias but come on) friends can get updo’s, manicures and pedicures and makeover..HOORAY!*end note)

My poor kid was completely traumatized until we got to Phil’s office where Cristina, Jennifer and Sara all made a big Suite C fuss over how cute it was. It wasn’t long before she was doing laps in the office and flashing poor Aaron, Phil’s employee, when deciding it was time to pee in the potty, eye-shot from his desk. She informed me several times that day that she didn’t like her new haircut.

Now, she asks to go every other day again. She actually brushes her own hair instead of screaming and running in the other direction when she caught a glimpse of the comb. I just can’t believe that at 3 years old, I had to make a decision to cut off all her hair because she wouldn’t let us brush it or continue to have the argument all the while staring at my child with Wal-Mart hair, as Cristina puts it.

It has been 11 days since my last entry

I am going to do these updates in tiny entries instead of tossing a massive pile of crap at you all at once. I fear that the people that care will do ok, but the others will fall off their chairs dead asleep from sheer and utter boredom.

Vivienne has been practicing mastering the art of the potty, as mentioned in my previous post. She now can do a good 5 hour span with ‘big girl underpants’ on, often using the potty all by herself. This creates a few scenerios that have been amusing in part and terrifying in others.

First problem: Vivienne is sitting on the coffee table playing with her Dora Treehouse (remind me to thank you later, Ronni) for the fourteen hundreth time today and she tells me “Oops, I peed”. I ask “Is it a little or a lot?” “A lot” she replies. I tell her to stay put, don’t move and I will bring a towel. I grab a hand towel and come around the corner to see her drawing in her pee with two fingers. “WE DON’T PLAY IN OUR PEE,” I said through clenched but happy teeth. She pulls her fingers up and says, “Oh, ok”. Like that was all it took.

Second problem: Vivienne calls me into the bathroom to tell me that she has peed. “Mommy, I got drippies on my legs!” So I dutifully go in to help with the back end chore. I give her a wad of toilet tissue that she uses to wipe up “drippies” and her girl part. Then, like in slow motion, she tells me, “Oops, my nose is running!” and proceeds to pull tissue from crotch up belly, up chin and wipe right up her face. I could feel myself in a comedy sketch doing the slow motion “Noooooooooooooo!”, but I never made it. It was more like *inhale* “NNnn” and it was over. So we had a talk about how tissues that touch nether regions never come back above the belly button.

Third and final problem: Vivienne is still having the poop problems. We are ecstatic when she finally does anything, making sure she knows we are proud of her, blah blah blah. While cleaning her butt after one such praise session, I left a wipe on her bed. She grabs it and proceeds to wipe her own bottom, “I help!” she proclaims and then takes wipe and runs it all over her face. “I clean my face, too!” We have the talk one more time and she gets a good, long, very soapy, face washing.

I don’t have any real reasons to complain. These are by far tame by my friends’ experiences, which will most likely horrrify my childless friends on the edge of considering children to run the other way as fast as they can. For once, I am wholeheartedly considering them the sane ones.