Extreme Adventures in Motherhood (and trying to keep a house with 3 boys from smelling like a locker room!)

1. The same boys who put WORMS in my refrigerator, (tucked into the back, and then forgotten) will find bras hanging to dry in the laundry room, disgusting.
2. Boys know what mold tastes like. (I don’t want to know, how.)
3. Boys think underwear is reversible for extended wear.
4. To boys-socks that are “crunchy” but sitting on the table, are not dirty, they are being “aired out” and will be ready to wear by tomorrow morning.
5. Boys that are the size of men, may be thrown into a pool. However, they will hurt their fathers later, for doing it. (The father won’t admit to being injured, but he will be.)
6. Boys eat things after they’ve been on the floor… while mumbling something about a 20 second rule.
7. For boys, punching actually can solve problems.
8. Boys think that food is anything you can put in your mouth.
9. For boys, clean has nothing to do with an absense of dirt. Clean has everything to do with reaching a limit of desired effort. (“It’s clean- cause I’m done cleaning it.”)
10. Boys know they are not supposed to take glasses of “stuff” into their rooms.  However,they are compelled to use their “space” for experimentation.  Home penicillum production, is a favorite. It’s genetic.
11. Boys believe that creating disgusting smells  should be an olympic sport.
12. Boys may be tempted to write “can belch the alphabet” on their first job application, under “skills.”
13. Boys think one pair of shorts a pair of underwear and 2 shirts is enough to pack for a weeks vacation. They don’t need socks, they’ll be barefoot. Need something to sleep in? That’s what the extra underwear are for.
14. Boys use the area under their bed, for composting.
15. Boys throw rocks, so do young men. and old men. They also skip rocks. They also try to BREAK rocks by throwing smaller rocks at big rocks. Don’t bother trying to understand. It’s just a fact. They must do it.
16. Boys can remember every statistic for every player of every sport, but they will forget what you told them to do, as you are saying it.
17. Boys do not know what they want, when going “back to school shopping.” However they do know what they do not want. Which is:  whatever Mom picks out.
18. Boys will always laugh when someone passes gas.
19. Boys will always laugh, when someone passes gas.
20. Unless it’s Mom, then it’s “Disgusting”

Re-print- because 6 more weeks of winter requires giggles to survive….

I love my boys. I don’t understand them, but, I love ‘em.

I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t.  I watch in terror as one after another, they went over the edge.

“Don’t they know?  Can’t they think for themselves? Why do they just follow each other like that?” I asked myself, in that instant when you witness an accident and it stretches time into eternity.

I couldn’t stop it. Sadly,  I’d witnessed this before. I had screamed then. My screams could not stop them from going over the edge.

They are  lemmings. It comes natural to them.

At least its my theory that it does. It must be genetic.  Of course- my lemmings  are not of the rodent type.. They are the sink/man/boy type.

Fortunately, there has been no loss of life, as of yet,  due to their mindless following.

My men are sink lemmings.  When they finish with a dish, glass or utensil, they take it to the sink. (We’ve made progress here, at least they head to the kitchen.) However, if there is ANYTHING in the sink. In. Their item, must follow.  Right over the edge, along with my sanity.

No, they do not check the dishwasher, to see if it is empty. They check the sink, to see if the dishwasher is empty.

The problem is: pots and baking dishes, often have to be soaked after dinner so I can get them ready for the dishwasher.  This does not mean the dishwasher is full. It means a pot needs to be soaked.

My lemmings interpret this (and sometimes in the dark, a sponge in the sink.) as a sign of dishwasher fullness.

IT MAKES ME WANT TO SCREAM. (Especially during a certain week of the month.)

Can I get a witness?

Do you have lemmings at your house?

What do you do about them?  (Besides turning to an exterminator.. I’m pretty sure thats illegal in this case..)

Do you have a dishwasher if full/empty magnet- thing?

Do you scream and yell?

Ignore it?

Tell me.  I need help. At least, I need to know I’m not the only one with a lemming problem…

Re-post from Dec 08

The roads were slushy and slippery. My mind was more on them, than on listening to the radio. (Funny, how concerned about the road I can be, when I’m NOT the one driving…) Between Christmas music and ads for mega-vitamins, I vaguely recall hearing the ad for the RBC “Our Daily Bread Calendar”.  The ad said that the inspirational calendar can help you see God, everyday. Not a bad deal, for a “donation of any amount”.

What I recall much more clearly, was the conversation that followed.

Noah:  “Mommy?  I’ve never seen God.”

It was part statement and part question.  I could tell he was concerned that he’d been missing out on something others might be experiencing. That everyone else could see God- but he couldn’t.

Mommy:  “Neither have I, honey.  Not with my eyes.”

I stopped short of telling him all the ways I’d seen evidence of God’s presense in my life.  I learned the hard way not to give TMI. (Sometimes, when a child asks “Where do babies come from?”.. They really just mean does the “baby aisle” at Walmart, actually sell babies.)

I waited for the follow up question… I waited to see if he was questioning God’s existence based on his ability to see, hear, or otherwise sense Him.  I was ready to answer with a verse and the sunday school teacher’s standard answer.  The questions, didn’t come.

Noah:  “Maybe we should buy that calendar, then we would!”

Mommy (giggling under her breath):  “Maybe we should, Noah, Maybe we should.”

To be honest, somedays, I wish that faith could be that easy.  Part of me wishes,  I could open a calendar page and see God, at least on the days when he seems so far away.  On those days a flip calendar where he could be found would be nice… wouldn’t it?

Maybe  not.  Do I really wish I served a God who fit on the page of a calendar?  Probably not.  I’d rather have the adventure of experiencing God’s power in the crushing roll of waves, and his light in the brilliant diamonds I see in the dark, night sky.  I’d rather search for him and find him in the people he’s painstakenly created, and the world he formed for them to live in.  I’d rather stumble into a real, living example of his character, than a flat, one dimensional photo.

Mostly.  But then- once in a while….it would be kind of nice to flip a page and find a him there. Smiling at me.  Listening to me.  As visible as he is powerful and real.

Maybe we should order that calendar, afterall…..

Lord- the simplicity and complexity of the children you’ve given me to care for- amazes me.  Thank you for the honor of being a mother.  Thank you for being in my life,in both visible and invisible ways.  God for the days when you seem far away- help me to remember both how close you are- and how much better it is to love a God who doesn’t fit on a calendar page. I love you Lord- – amen!

Dear Rebellious Pores and Persistent Pimples:

Don’t look around confused and innocent, like. You know who you are. Yes, you.

I am talking to  you, Rebellious Pores #1-6 billion and seven who have been pumping enough oil onto the surface of my skin for 30 years to power several third world nations.  And yes, you too, Persistent Pimple # 4,768,321. Location: A Sector, B Quadrant, 2.5.

Also known as: In the shadow of left nostril.

To you, I say: I am impressed with your consistency and perseverance . Or rather, with your evil, malicious, ugly, and (often) pain filled, doggedness.  You have been my (monthly) worthy adversaries for 30 years. I  know I am supposed to be a woman of grace.. and I do believe that God works all things together for good… but really?

I hate you and wish you’d be GONE.

You suck time, money and emotional energy like a hormonal leech. It’s been hard to convince my kids that their college tuition has been invested in my private war against your terrorism.  Terrorism?  Yes. Terrorism. Why? Because you do not attack on all fronts, like a traditional war. No.. you are more diabolical to my follicles.  YOU attack like a terrorist, in just the most vulnerable and tender spots: my right cheek, left nostril and the side of my nose.  Of course, occasionally you try to throw me off and attack my chin or forehead, but I’ve been tracking you like a beagle on bacon. You can’t fool me.

I worry that someday, Al Gore will wage a personal war against me.  Why? Am I paranoid?  No—The acids, lotions, vitamins, drying agents, and snake oils I’ve purchased to slay you, are the most plausible cause of  global warming, I’ve heard. It’s true, I am haunted by guilt and the imagined screams of polar bears, each time I apply them.

Despite their tortured cries-, apply them I do. I am a woman obsessed.   From Retin A to Pro (not so) active.  From Acids to lotions, with labels like potions, apply them, I do.

And I WILL.

Why?

Because, to you I ALSO say: I will prevail. There will be peace (at least) on my face.

I will not give up. I will fight you to menopause, and beyond!

Be warned.  I was recently blessed with luck.. and won one of these beauties in PINK!—and it’s got my name engraved on it..

This momma’s goin’ high-tech… prepare to DIE.

Signed-

hopingmyfacewillclearupbeforeIlooklikeasharpei

in michigan

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ARfLaNJcpsw]

The first one was an anamoly, the second a theme, the third?  An invasion.  They are tiny but mighty.  Little brown, annoying, biteless, pointless, ants. Everywhere. One attempted to imbibe in my morning cup of coffee.. I admit I enjoyed watching him die a white chocolate coconut flavored, death.  He was no Michael Phelps, the little guy shouldn’t have jumped into the coffee pool at all.

The visitors arrived yesterday, along with the rain.  Today the weather has cleared- so, I thought they were gone.  I was wrong. Their duck and cover to hide from the rain, must have resulted in their falling in love with my home.  They are back with a vengeance, and have brought friends.

I’ve found them: crawling on my couch, on my lap top (apparently they like twitter.) on the walls and under my books.  I found them in the kitchen and under the couch.  (Feasting on a Gusher’s wrapper,  a popsicle stick and a long lost piece of bubblegum.)  I enjoy having company, but, these guys are not welcome. 

I started out non-confrontational.  I tried the little crumbs trick from “The Secret Life of Bee’s.” I tried  to lure them back to the great outdoors… they thought it was a buffet.   Next, I turned the youngest loose to squash the little buggers. It gave him something to do while he was sick, but thats about all. He can’t keep up. It seems we have ants with loyalty issues. For every one he kills, two more return.  They are either cloning themselves or suicidal. I may be dealing with  kamikaze ants.  

I enlisted the help of my youngest.  (I’m holding off on the older two  boys, their solutions may involve flame throwers or chemical experimentation.. which I’m not quite desperate enough for, yet.) He  has been killing ants, one at a time, since yesterday afternoon. He’s got quite a method.  He uses a lego sword and stabs them to death, piling their mangled bodies for me to vacuum up, later.  I wonder if that counts as homeschool, today?  Maybe,if he counts them.  He’s been learning a lot about ant behavior and he observed that ant blood stinks. (No clue what possessed the boy to smell it.)

 Today, I am either more desperate- or more annoyed.  I brought out the ant spray, and the Dyson.  The vacuum sounded like a good way to rid myself quickly of the little invaders. Until,they crawled back out of the garbage can.  FYI- spraying ant spray into the garbage after you’ve dumped the vacuum/ant dust in there, leads to a face full of disgusting stuff that leaves you feeling a little high and not quite caring about the ants so much. However, I don’t recommend it. Once you are back to yourself, you will have to search out the little buggers again and squash them before they make it to the pantry. It was even less glamorous than it sounds.

I have sprayed the walls and possible entry points like a Mommy- Marine- securing the perimeter.  I sprayed outside around the windows and doors.  I sprinkled ant barrier, made a  few  threats (where would I find an anteater, anyways?)and yet- the ants keep marching in. Apparently, they are mutant ants that are invulnerable to the spray.  Like tiny little Jason’s they keep coming back coming back. It’s not efficient, but I have to admit there is a certain pleasure in it. I may have yelled “DIE, SUCKER!”  a time or two,while brandishing the can like a semi- automatic.

At this point, I no longer care about being green- or nice, I want them, dead. 

This afternoon, I’ll be heading to Home Depot to add to my ant slaying arsenal.  Others may be stockpiling guns and ammo- I’m stockpiling ant spray.  I’ll pick up borax, INHUMANE ant traps and the most lethal chemical cocktail I can find. I’ll set up a tiny little feast of doom, tonight those ants dine in… well, not Sparta, or my kitchen.

 I shall prevail.  I am smarter than a tiny ant, I am the supreme being here. I have opposable thumbs, for pete’s sake!

On the upside… this happens every Spring.  Some have bulbs that announce it’s arrival, I have tiny stinky brown ants. Oh well, Happy Spring!

If you have sure fire cures for little ants- leave them in the comments.. I can use all the help I can get.. the lego ant slayer is getting tired..

My week thus far:

Monday-  child falls off of bed while goofing around and recieves a black (ish) eye.

Tuesday: Youngest and oldest child (also a GIANT) collide in a Wii bowling incident resulting in a bloodied and fattened lip on youngest child.

Wednesday- started off with ice and a planned hospital visit… ended with an UNPLANNED trip to the ER at 1o:30 pm to have a toy removed from the youngest childs FINGER.  (see: exhibit a)

Thursday:  I DECLARE EITHER A SHORTENED WEEK OR MOMTIAL LAW. Due to the fact that I cannot shorten or lengthen time (see Christmas preparedness posts previous)

 I Hereby declare MOMTIAL LAW.

For the protection of the universe.

LEGAL NOTICE:

I HAVE DECLARED A DRAMA/INJURY/SURGERY/CRISIS FREE ZONE.

PLEASE INFORM ALL FRIENDS AND FAMILY TO GET WITH THE PROGRAM IMMEDIATELY.

Violators (herein defined as those in or causing injury, drama, surgical intervention and or other psycho-social crisis’) will be knit (or otherwise secured by crafty means) into bubblewrap protective devices without regard for age, gender or political perspective. They will be held in protective custody until the US government (heretofor known as MOM) deems them no longer a threat to themselves and or national security.

I hereby declare MOMTIAL LAW.

A curfew which includes staying home watching lame movies and knitting (or other recreative activities within reason and safety) with dull pointed circular needles and yummiest yarn you can find (or the chocolate and caffeine combination of your choice)  is in effect until further notice between the hours of 12am and 11:59 pm.

I hereby deputize all Mom’s as martials of MOMTIAL law, use your powers of enforcement responsibly- or the mighty spatula of doom will be weilded.

THAT IS ALL.

Exhibit A- need for Momtial Law

It happens in two places- the dinner table and in  the backseat of the car.  What, you ask?  a spot on observation by a child that totally changes my perspective and attitude. This time, it was at the dinner table, which can be a denagerous place when you have three boys. It involves the passing of ancient wisdom, the shooting of peas from ones nose and the total depravity of man.

We were munching away on pasta marinara served with a side of steamed peas. The boys were being silly, and Hubby was out of town.  (Yes, ALL 3 of them…silly at the same time… this is truly, as dangerous as it sounds.) The college boy and the high schooler decided that it was time to pass along manly wisdom of the ages to their youngest sibling.   The wisdom to be passed on?  The life saving skill of shooting peas out of your nose. As the only sane person- I mean…female present and the Mom, I strongly protested this passing of wisdom.   I was outnumbered.  Truth be told,  they were faster than a pack of wolves devouring a sack of “sliders”. 

It went something like this:

College boy:  “Hey, High schooler (name withheld to protect the guilty) – remember when you got that corn kernal stuck in your nose, and had to go to the hospital?”

High Schooler- “Yeah you made me try to shoot it out of my nose!”

College boy: “Show Noah!”

Mom: “DON’T!”

Highschooler:  Shoots a pea from his NOSE- across the table at the College boy.

Noah: suffers convulsive laughter, then reaches for his peas.

Mom:  “College boy- if that pea gets stuck up his nose- would you care to explain this all to the hospital?”

College Boy: “Won’t need too-if we teach him right.”

Mom:  “Don’t do it.”

High schooler:  shoots another pea in his typical silent rebellion manner.

Noah: Shoots a pea from his nose. (achieves nice distance- i have to admit)

Mom: “Noah!  Did you not hear that High schooler got something stuck up his nose and had to go to the hospital?  Did you not hear me say “Don’t”? Why did you shoot that pea?  DO you WANT to get in trouble?”

Noah: “I cant help it mom, it’s part of my nature.”

Mom- Falls into convulsive laughter as she realizes her 6 year old just demonstrated an understanding of the total depravity of man.  And-looking into his eyes- realizes he is probably telling the truth. He could not help it. It’s in his nature.

Maybe, I could be a Calvinist after all.. or not.

My hands trembled just a bit as I buttoned the pink silk blouse.  I felt like a busty- rebel.  For a nursing mom- DRY-CLEAN ONLY was not just risky– it was downright DANGEROUS.  (Just how dangerous I was about to find out. The Hard way.) This day was special. I was going to a MOPS event, just over the state line. (A regional event in Toledo- Ohio) I was looking forward to entire day devoted to building up MOM’S. That’s ME!  It was within driving distance and more importantly, within the range of security for a nursing mom.  (Just over an hour from home.)  A Mom’s day out- a Mom’s day of refreshment..  The first since my second child had been born.. I needed it– BAD. I’d been planning and pumping extra milk for days.  But, now?  I was nearly ready.

I stepped back to take a look at the over-all effect.  “Not too bad”  I said to myself.  Black dress pants.. pumps… pink silk blouse, full make-up AND hair  both washed and styled on the same day (*gasp* amazing…I know!). I grinned at myself in the mirror.  I double checked that breast-pads were in place and well secured and hidden in my NON-NURSING BRA.  (… a bra without flaps– this was truly a big day out..) I made sure I had an extra set in my purse.

I checked my watch, “Just enough time, for one more nursing before I leave.”  I grinned at my preparedness.  For a nursing mom- “empty before leaving the house” is just as important as for a mom getting a potty-training toddler into the car for a long ride..

I tiptoed into the baby’s room sat down in “our” chair and we both enjoyed one more for the road….quiet early morning nursings were some of my favorite times.   When we were done- I took him in to a sleepy daddy, I kissed them both.. then went to the kitchen to go over my list one more time.

1) Pumped Milk in freezer- check.

2) Formula and bottles on the counter in case of emergency- check.

3) Diapers- clothes and necessary baby supplies phone numbers and instructions – out and visible so daddy could find them even if he were truly..blind.. check.

4) Cell phone charged and ready.. check.  (this was an old school cell phone- about the size and weight of my current laptop.. It’s been a while)

I was as ready as possible.

Time to go.  I felt a twinge of sadness as I pulled out of the driveway. I headed over to meet my girlfriends – and we drove on together.  Guilt and giddiness fought for control of my postpartum emotions as we crossed the state line. Giddiness won. I was out for petes sake!

We arrived on time.. (something rare for a groups of nursing moms) We took our seats- and enjoyed the entire day.  There were laughs… there were happy tears as I heard things that reminded me how much I love being a mom… and a few happy tears of relief as learned I wasn’t “the only one”.

The day offered up everything I’d hoped for, and needed.  Fun- encouragement-something to challenege me and make me think,  girlfriend time and mommy time.  I missed my guys- but was relieved that everything went so well.  My check-in calls (oh, probably enough of them billed one minute at a time..to fund the current economic crisis relief plan…) revealed that the frozen milk supply was holding out.. and the diapers were too. Added bonus- I didn’t hear crying in the background. (much).  SCORE.

When my girlfriend asked if I wanted to stop on the way home to eat… I should have known I was pressing my luck.  But- I was having sooo much fun….. and I had everything “covered” with my preparedness…and things were well at home…so I figured, “why not?”

There was one thing I hadn’t counted on.. A newborn baby crying at the restaurant.. and the power of milk-let-down on a pink silk blouse.  The baby’s cry sounded like “Danger, Danger Will Robinson!” But, it was too late. My milk let down like a bad levy.

HELLO.  DRY CLEAN ONLY?  More like GARBAGE ONLY.  There were not enough extra breast pads in North America to soak up that mess. When that tiny baby started to cry– my Mom-ness kicked into overdrive. In record time- I drenched the entire front of my blouse, which- promptly turned see through.  I was now busty- (a bonus to nursing)  and see through-    OOPSY.  Not the look I was going for.

I ran into the bathroom- “”GREAT.. no papertowel”  Save the trees, but soak the moms” I thought to myself..I  aimed the hand dryer down my blouse in an attempt to dry up the mess.. it didn’t exactly work.  I made powdered milk.  Yuk.I hadn’t planned for this.  I didn’t know what to do… My tears flowed just a little slower than the milk.

The moms I was with, found a sweater for me in someone’s bag.. and together- they brought it into the bathroom for me. (Friends, don’t let friends, drive soaked.) I slipped it on.  It wasn’t my sassy pink dry-clean only– but it was DRY.  That’s when the silly began.  The other moms had all been there- or somewhere like it in the land of Mom…They rolled out breast feeding horror stories that made us all laugh until breasts weren’t the only thing at risk of leaking….the bathroom turned into an impromptu MOPS Meeting...

It didn’t take long before I felt better.  Soggy- but better.

We drove home still laughing.. and talking and giggling… I wondered if my hubby would notice that I had changed my top.. (He didn’t,of course.) I arrived home to a hungry baby.. and plenty of milk to feed him. (apparently it doesn’t take THAT MUCH milk to soak the front of a silk blouse..)

At the end of the day– I wondered if it was worth the work..

preplanning- and milk pumping- 10 + hours

writing out instructions and worrying in advance- countless hours..

cost of a trashed clearanced pink silk blouse- $24.  (I just couldn’t figure out how to explain a breast milk stain the size of Texas)

A day of encouragement, refreshment and connection with other moms?
Priceless.

If you can make it to a MOPS event in your area– I can’t recommend it enough…it’s worth the time the expense and the preparation.. a hundred times over… – I also recommend wearing wash n wear.. and maybe a raincoat for a blouse if you’re nursing:)…. you won’t be the only one.. that’s for sure:)

PS- if YOU ARE at a MOPS event- or anywhere else for that matter- and see a busty woman in a soaked see-through top—don’t hate on her… offer your sweater or jacket to her– really- she’s probably not holding her own wet-t-shirt contest… she’s just a nursing mom at the end of a mom’s day out….:)

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w2X3vVMdh-s&hl=en&fs=1]

I’ve come to a realization. I pack like The Jerk. (Not the most appropriate movie- but still, funny:)

Oh sure…My intentions are good. I start out thinking all “minimalist.” I start with the goal of not having to check any luggage. I’m convinced, that with proper planning- everything I need, can fit into the overhead. I plan just enough coordinating outfits to last 5 days. The pieces all mix and match so I SHOULDN’T need a closet full.. in theory.

This is when “The Jerk” really kicks in.. I don’t need much…an outfit for each day- maybe a swimsuit.. undergarments of doom….then I start adding things. I don’t need anything but this pair of black pants. And this pair of back up pants..in case I have a fat day while I’m gone… And a pair of jeans. And maybe this pair because they were on sale.. and a pair of shoes- and this pair too-in case that pair causes injury.. and this pair of jammies- and that pair, just in case I dump coffee down my front in a jetlag enhanced- caffeine withdrawl case of the shakes.

The panic grows. What if I need something I haven’t packed? What if I’m over dressed? *Gasp*- worse yet..what if I’m under-dressed? What if I wake up and HATE everything I brought? (This could actually happen- it happens about once month- that I wake up to find that I hate my entire wardrobe- Hormonal Wardrobe Rejection- I have it.) I end up tossing in 200lbs (way over the current NWA guidelines for luggage weight) of random things I MIGHT need. More pants- a skirt that I know I won’t wear…hose I won’t touch…I’m going to Texas for Pete’s sake. It’ll be hotter than an armadillo’s backside on the beach. (I have no idea whether armadillos in fact, feel hot… but the word “armadillo” is hilarious, so I like to use it adhoc.)

Picture me- only slightly better dressed than Steve Martin..not with pants around my ankles and robe flapping in the breeze.. but in my comfy matching cute purple sweats… tossing in just ONE MORE THING I MIGHT NEED… and then another.. and another… JUST IN CASE.

And that’s JUST the actual suitcase.. we will not even discuss my magical and necessary bag of how not to be bored, because boredom is the enemy – carry-on bag… with knitting—and books and laptop and ipod and e-reader…and cell phone and travel docs…….. and.. and.. and.. I’m gonna need a golf cart just to make it through the airport. Does a golf cart count as a theme park ride? It might in this case:P

All this to say— I’ve started packing for MOPS Convention…. So- Are You going?

Let me know if you are—(throught comment or email- see the sidebar) I’d love a chance to meet blog readers especially MOPS Moms! I’ll be easy enough to spot- the red(ish) head with 42 bags of minimally packed stuff— shopping in the hotel for the ONE thing I forgot. (probably underwear, or something even more embarrassing.)

Although– since I read this during devotions this morning… maybe I won’t feel the need to pack QUITE so much:)

Do Not Worry

28“And why do you worry about clothes? See how the lilies of the field grow. They do not labor or spin. 29Yet I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these. 30If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, will he not much more clothe you, O you of little faith? 31So do not worry, saying, ‘What shall we eat?’ or ‘What shall we drink?’ or ‘What shall we wear?’ 32For the pagans run after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them. 33But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well. 34Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.

Follicular warfare.. has begun.

While I am typically a peace-lover.. there is such a thing as a just war.  And this?  Is just.  Sure— You thought I was relaxing on vacation, little did you know that a battle of epic proportions had begun.

The war against leg hair.  I’m spending a week at the beach..which requires much wearing of shorts and bathing suits. This mandates the just war.  Hairy legs on the beach?  Not so much.   The war takes place every single day just after coffee, in the shower. I vaguely remember my mothers warning when I was 11 and desperate to be “grown up” and start shaving my legs… “Once you start it just gets worse”  She said… It’s taken me nearly 30 years to admit.. she was right.

I suppose this is partly due to my Italian heritage… but sometimes I wonder if it’s a curse brought on my by mouthiness during puberty.  Either way:  IT. IS. ON.

I’ve tried every strategic battle move:

Chemical Warfare- chemical cocktails called “lotions” that are formulated to turn leg hair into soup…. apparently my leg hair is considerably tougher than my skin.  The skin manages to dissolve before the bionic hair. This tactic has been proven ineffective.

Psychological Warfare- Ummm I may have stooped to berrating my own legs in hopes that they would cower in fear… adn possibly surrender.. umm nope.

Economic Boycott- Refusing to buy nice hose or cute shoes- or allowing your legs sunlight- does not inhibit -regrowth.

Rumors of torture of prisoners of war as a fear tactic- Epi- things have been on the market for years— I had hoped the pure threat of begin torn form their happy little homes on my legs would be enough to fear them into retreat.  It is not.  These little buggers are stubborn. (nearly as stubborn as I am.. NEARLY.)

Biological Warfare- Bees wax sugar mixes and other organic substances have been warmed smoothed over my legs only to be painfully removed by force with strips of muslin… let’s just say the skin reddens- but like soldiers in foxholes… the leg hair remains.  I’ve researched to see if genetic engineering has caught up to the leg hair realm yet– alas it has not… but with my luck-I’d end up with mutated leg hair the diameter of my thumb. Not a good look.

Hand To Hand Combat- Razor AKA bayonet of leg hair death.  It’s not pretty- often bloody (ouch hate that) but at least it is effective for brief moments of time.  The bummer is- it takes longer for me to SHAVE my legs- than it does for the little buggers to grow back in.  Let’s just say- my calves have 5:00 shadow by noon.

Oh sure- there are other methods- threading- professional waxing- the list continues ad nauseaum…. but then— so does the war.

Today?  I am ready for the beach…as smooth as physically possible, (for the next 15 minutes, anyways) and have an arsenal fully stocked for the battle that will need to be repeated if I want a late night soak in the hot tub….sheesh.. who knew vacation could be war? (giggle)

Talk to you soon— smooth legged or not