Adventures in Real Parenting: What not to shave

Summer Beauty Tip #87 - Lighten up on the lipstick

There are more Adventures in Real Parenting here.

As the youngest of three, my daughter Sophie has a few advantages.

Her father and I, who have been at this parenting thing for over twenty-two years, are tired. Worn down from enforcing rules and shouldering high expectations, we've relaxed. We're less uptight about details, less inclined to over-program or hover like we did when we were new to this adventure.

In other words, well, in the words of Sophie's two older siblings, we've given up. Sophie, in their opinion, gets away with murder.

It's not exactly murder. But a couple of years ago, when she denuded half her eyebrow with a pair of toenail clippers and then tried to glue the eyebrow back with SuperGlu, neither I nor her father shouted or made a scene. The truth is - we were laughing too hard.

But it's not all benign neglect. No. When Sophie asked to start shaving her legs, I treated the subject with seriousness. This was a big step. I remembered the eyebrow incident and my own early experiences with shaving my legs. 

We recently talked about it.

Sophie:  Mom, do you remember when I wanted to shave my legs and you didn't want to let me because you thought once I started, I wouldn't want to stick with it?

Me:  I do. I was worried it would turn out like needlepoint. Or basketball. You know how that went.

Sophie:  I quit those things.

Me:  Exactly.

Sophie:  Kind of like you writing your novel.

Me:  Yes. Thank you for reminding me.

Sophie:  Do you remember how you grossed me out by telling me about what not to shave?

Me:  I grossed you out?

Sophie:  How could you forget?

Me:  I can't believe I talked to you about that.

Sophie:  Mom! Not that. You told me not to shave my toes or my belly button.

Me:  Oh. Right. I'm glad I told you those things. It will save you aggravation in the future.

Sophie:  Why did you shave your toes in the first place? Were your feet that hairy?

Me:  Like a Hobbit. Or so I thought when I was twelve.

Sophie: That's really weird. 

Me:  I didn't like wearing sandals with hairy toes.

Sophie: So what about your belly button? You shaved that?

Me: Yeah.

Sophie:  Why?

Me:  Well, you know how I liked to make my aunt laugh by making my belly button talk?

Sophie:  Yes. You told us about that.

Me: I didn't want my talking belly button to be all fuzzy.

Sophie:  That's even stranger than the toes.

Me:  Which part? The shaved belly button or the talking belly button?

When Sophie decided that she was ready to shave and keep it up so that she wouldn't be a stubbly monster, we got her her own razor. I was using a Venus razor and she picked out the Venus Embrace because it has a Ribbon of Moisture that helps the razor glide over the skin to help minimize the chance for nicks.

Sophie also likes the Soft Grip handle because it has great grip when she shaves in the shower. I like the replacement heads because they're easy to get off and on.

We were all set. I demonstrated on my leg, showing her how to be especially careful on her knees and around her ankles. I reminded her that the shinbone can be a tricky spot as well.

If you have a someone in your house who might be ready to shave soon, here's a link you might find helpful.

Venus is sponsoring a sweepstakes here at That's Why. Enter to win a $50 Visa Gift Card by answering the following question in comments: 

"What's the best beauty tip you have shared with your daughter to prepare her for the summer or share your funniest beauty mishap for the chance to win a $50 gift card!”

This sweepstakes isn't limited to the females among us. I mean, my dad once offered me the best summer beauty tip of all.

"Don't stay out in the sun too long," he warned. "Or you'll ruin your skin."  

But that's a blog post for another day.

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The tip of the spear

Sometimes it feels like this

"If you think aging is bad, consider the alternative."

That's what the AARP volunteers I worked with used to tell me. The phrase sounded to my twenty-nine-year-old ears like something old people told themselves to stave off the ice-cold finger of impending death.

Now perpetually thirty-nine, I believe it. Mostly. Lately my humanum corpus has made it just a bit harder to buy into the notion that all this physical change is better than the eternal nap. Death, lacking aging's ability to surprise and sense of humor, may be dull, but it will never give you hot flashes and back acne.

Before I go too far, I should warn you. This is going to be one of those posts about what it's like to be a woman in transition. The Change of Life. The Change. Mentalpause. Mean-o-pause.

So if you're squeamish, you know the drill. Scram.

See - that's why some people aka my children call it mean-o-pause. Not that I'm mean enough to influence their behavior. I suppose that's because technically I'm experiencing peri-mean-o-pause.

I'm also in peri-mentalpause resulting in mental lapses. I can't find the words I want to use. Simple words, the names of things. It's frustrating. I'll start a sentence and then --- nothing. The word won't gel.

Tired of waiting out the long pauses, MathMan and the children finish my sentences. 

"Doug, do you know where I put the -----"

"Elephant? Geiger counter? The check for Karl Rove's PAC?"

"American Crossroads?" I frown.

"See! You remembered that."

But really, this is about me. And my nipples. My very erect nipples.

It's not enough that I have to lug around large breasts, the word overripe rattling around in my head. Now I have spear points. Pointing out all that is wrong with the world.

Taking off my bra is dangerous.These things spring forth with such ferocity I imagine them boing boinging like Susan's curls in Ramona the Pest.

But listen, Ramona, tugging them could be fatal.

"Look at these things," I whine to MathMan.

He tries to be kind, but his amusement is nearly impossible to hide. "I don't see what the problem is."

Of course he doesn't.

He smiles. I think he's enjoying the view. "Hold still. I want to practice my ring toss game." He giggles at his own joke.

That's fine. I'll just stab him in the back later when he's asleep. I'm armed after all.

I have yet to try to scratch glass with my painfully hard nipples, but when I'm ready to, I'm going to scratch the words Go away onto the passenger side window of my car. Can you believe that last night on my commute home, Black Truck ended up next to me again? That moron was there with his antics - tugging on his shirt, fanning himself, mouthing the word hot and praying at me.

I could have killed two dirty birds with one stony nipple. He'd get a peek at my breast and I'd get the satisfaction of flipping him off with my third finger.

Aside from being painful and weird, these constantly and seriously hard nipples are also embarrassing. I don't want to wear breast shields because they'll just add more bulk where I do not need it. And I can't call in sick to work due to hard nipples.

I took a risk and Googled painfully erect nipples and found I'm not alone. This is a recognized "symptom" of menopause and perimenopause. Symptom isn't the right word though, is it? Menopause isn't an illness. It's a condition. A rite of passage. Another pain in the ass part of being female.

I suppose the silver lining is the fact that women typically get to live longer than men. If we can survive menses, childbirth, and menopause, we're rewarded with a few years to enjoy watching our tits sag, our skin turn to crepe, our upper arms morph into bat wings.

My eyes are getting into the act now, too. While not directly connected to menopause, it's another reminder that my days of being a young, supple creature full of promise are behind me. My decay is quickening.

Come to think of it, the weakening eyesight is almost a relief. 

Apples

Is it hot in here or is it just me?

Perimenopause is making me acutely aware of my body. I can't ignore its reactions to specific stimuli.  For example, I used to be cold. Always reaching for a sweater. But not now. I'm not talking hot flashes, but my body temperature is up.

When I experience PMS - albeit mild and with charming manifestations like an undeniable need for Clark Bars and other culinary near-misses - I am under siege to olfactory nerves in overdrive. 

Normal things - things that don't typically bother me - smell ... weird. Wrong. Gross.

"It smells eggy," I say as I hand the plate back to MathMan who looks confused and on the verge exasperated.

On Mother's Day, he made dinner. Operating on the theory that the source of the trouble was lavender-infused Cascade, he hand washed the dishes before dinner to see if the eggy smell would disappear.

Chloe walked into the kitchen to find him holding an empty dinner plate under my nose.

"Smells fine," I said to him. "Thank you."

Chloe's knitted eyebrows spoke for her.

"That's love," I said.

"I see that." She didn't miss a beat.

She returned to the living room and said to Nathan, "She's sniffing plates. And we wonder why Sophie is a freak who won't eat off metal utensils or drink out of a plastic cup."

********

The children provided the appropriate amount of Mother Worship on Mother's Day. That's not saying much since I have set that bar so low, it's subterranean. I get my lack of holiday esprit de corps from my own mother. When I phoned her to wish her a happy Mother's Day, she informed me that her rotten children hadn't gotten her a damn thing.

"That's why I'm calling. (Okay, so I was calling way, way late to ask, but still.) What would you like for a gift?"  Seriously - I haven't a clue what to get her.

"Your sister tells me I'm hard to buy for."

My inner teenager screamed No shit! But I cheerfully replied, "I'd agree. So what would you like?"

"I don't know. Nothing. When I need something, I go get it. Besides this is just Mother's Day."

"Okay, so help me out here. What would you like for your birthday in August?" See, I was planning ahead. I'm trying.

"I don't know. That's months from now."

Ohmylord.

"Christmas? What could we get you for Christmas?"

"Well, I told your sister she could get us a paper shredder."

Of course she'd know what she wants for Christmas.

"That's great for Denise, but ----? Maybe I'll get you a book. Something like 201 Practically Legal Things You Can Do with Shredded Paper. Or would you just like a case of paper to shred?"

She muttered. Where did you get such a smart mouth, Lisa?

Then she launched into a story about being an election judge and running into a high school friend of mine, who worked for the opposite political party. During their conversation, a ray of light fell upon my friend and he joked that god was smiling down on him.

"Why, yes, she is," Mom agreed.

My friend rolled his eyes. "That sounds like something Lisa would say."

"Where do you think she got it?" Mom shot back.

I listened and watched the clouds crowd out the moon overhead.  "Should we discuss irony?" I asked.

"What?"

"Nevermind," I sighed.

She sighed back.  "Listen, just buy me some perfume. Nothing with musk in it. Musk still makes me feel sick."

This is a long-established truth  in our family.

"How do you feel about the smell of eggs?" I smirked.

Note to readers:  I miss you guys. If you follow the news, you could guess why I'm locked in a hotel in Midtown Atlanta for the foreseeable future. Long days, some long nights. While I'm away, will someone please remind the Goldens to scoop the litterboxes? Thanks! xoxo

Rescued and Rerun: Vaginally Yours

Two posts in one week? Awww, come on. I am consistently inconsistent. You know this about me, don't act as if you don't. Anyway, this one is easy. See, I was doing more cut and paste from the RSS feeds that Buelahman sent me. Then I read this funny TMI Thursday from lilu and I thought, well, this post fits in perfectly with a Too Much Information theme. And so I am, of course, sharing it with you. Again.

Vaginally Yours from PoliTits by DCup (edited)

If you are squeamish, please move on. If you don't want to read what goes on with the female body when she goes through the pregnancy/birthing process - in graphic detail, please, please move on.

First, my body has carried and vaginally bore three babies, weighing in at 7.6lbs., 8.6 lbs. and 8.7lbs. I stand five foot, three quarters inches, have reasonably nice baby-passing hips and enjoy a wide weight swing of about 40 pounds given the year and the mental state. A baby-making machine. That's established. Moving on.

As with most women who've passed smallish people through their birth canals and beyond, my body bears the structural changes from the pressure and passage. Baby number one was kind enough to be head down to make her entrance into the world. Unfortunately, she was facing my front, which in labor and delivery is a FAIL. Not EPIC, but FAIL. The result is that someone, preferably a medical professional, must reach into your no-longer-private parts and turn the tiny person around. In my case, this procedure was performed without aid of painkillers (because I'm either a masochist or a coward, you decide). That done, the little bundle of joy made us wait another hour or more before she finally came blinking and sputtering into this world.

I still remember the sense of unreality. I pushed and huffed and breathed. Never in my life did I work so hard. I lost count of the number of times MathMan and The Midwife encouraged me to push just "one more time." I eventually lost all my sense of humor and proffered that if anyone said the phrase "one more time" even once more while I struggled to expel that kid, I would have risen up from the bed and killed someone with my bare hands.

Sensing my utter fatigue and heeding my pleas for a quick death (it was too late to beg for painless), the Baby Hoover was hauled out and the hose attachment was stuck to my precious darling's wee, soft noggin. She was literally sucked from my body. After all that - the medical fisting, the frenzied pushing and the apparatus, I was left with a tear the size of the San Andreas fault. I thought my vagina would never recover. Of course it did, but first there were other issues to deal with and lessons to be learned.....

Scatalogical Me
No one ever talks about the first poo after you have a baby. Look, you've just pushed a small person through your vagina. Its next door neighbor has likely taken a beating in the process. And if you've got stitches, you're terrified of busting them. The Midwife gave me a stool softener before I left the hospital, but nothing happened. So we went home to the apartment to await the momentous occasion. Baby sleeping, book in hand, off I went to the bathroom. Nothing. MathMan went out for prune juice which I drank with several shots of vodka. Still nothing. Some friends came over and visited. Small gurglings. Something? Friends leave - thank goodness, as you shall see - and I settle in on the toilet with a new American Baby magazine. I think I'm just going to sit there getting tips on how to be the perfect mother (they never tell you how much vodka will help in the longrun) and three days worth of poo will just quietly evacuate. No muss, no fuss. I gingerly attempt to do my business. Still nothing, but I know I have to go. I'm feeling backed up.

Out of desperation, I ask The Honey for his help. He did his best to stifle his horror and dread. "Just look. What's going on down there? It feels funny."

His eys met mine. Wasn't that sleeping angel in the bassinette enough proof of his love? He peeked and a funny look spread across his face. "There's something there."

"A something what?"

"I don't know, like a little plug?"

"A plug?"

In hindsight, my mistake was not sitting down again. That simple act might have prevented the walls, the sink, the toilet, the floor and us from being splattered with the sickeningly sweet-smelling stuff that erupted from my body. The prunes had done their work.

The Boy Baby - Where Two Become One
Obviously, my body healed and the V snapped back, if you will. My desire for the dark-haired man and a short memory led me to pregnancy number two. More weight, more spider veins. But the birth, now there's a story! This kid was facing the wrong direction, too, so I got more fisting. This time I knew to just close my eyes and think of England. I had a better understanding of the pushing thing and all was going well until The Boy's shoulders got stuck. MathMan tells a good story about the look on the kid's face as his head hung out of me.

This time, the baby was literally wrenched from my body. At one point, I swear that someone propped her foot against my thigh as she stood over me, yanking and tugging on Nate. My reward was another big tear and stitches. This time I knew about the first poo, so that wasn't quite so scary. It didn't take me long, though, to figure out that upon exiting, The Boy must have been hanging on for dear life and as those last final tugs yanked him into the world, he grabbed on and took everything with him. I asked The Midwife about it. "Oh, there wasn't anything separating the in-door and the out-door. We had to put you back together." Well, then.

Baby Number Three- A Photo Finish
Now that you know this, you might be surprised that there is a baby number three. But the need is mightier than the fear and don't you forget it. This baby came out just like the ones in the birthing class videos. I didn't even muss my lipstick. She had the benefit of being the third baby to have passed through that way and it was really quite easy. In fact, I think I just sneezed and there she was, swaddled in a striped blankie, wearing a matching knitted cap on her perfect little head.

After all that, I feared that one could drive a small delivery truck through my birth canal without losing a mirror. As it turns out, that is not the case. In fact, over time, I noticed that certain sexual positions hurt when they didn't before. The Tantric Anansi the Spider with Lemon Drop became especially problematic. That sucked because as sex positions go, it was a favorite. Anyway, I finally went to a doctor a couple of years ago to find out what was going on. Actually, I was there to have an IUD installed so that I wouldn't go through the joys of another pregnancy, but while the doctor was down there plugging in the device, he mentioned that my uterus was drooping and might cause "pain during sex." So there it was - the culprit. My uterus was falling out of my body. After all that, it was trying to escape. I really couldn't blame it.

Sadly, my relief at having an answer about why I could no longer endure a teeth-rattling good pounding was overshadowed by the doctor's unfortunate choice of words.

Drooping is not a word one should use with a vain, forty-something woman, especially when your head is so positioned that it can easily be trapped between her vise-like knees. I understand that in a few days time, the doctor was just fine. And the charges were dropped.