Bangs

I know what you’re expecting…this supercute post on me cutting bangs and loving them/hating them/discovering cute up do’s…. What? No, that’s not what you’re expecting? Then you know me too well ;)

I got bangs. They look pretty cute thanks to my super awesome hairstylist.  I wanted something different and for it to look like I ACTUALLY got my hair done…mission accomplished. Truth be told, once they settled in after a couple of days, I do genuinely like them and I’m going to completely love them as they grow out and I get to play. Patrick even seems to like them (maybe because I said they were temporary). But before I came to that realization, something bad happened…I looked in the mirror.

For a good 24-48 hours after I got them cut, I completely froze every time I got a glimpse of myself. It was a bit unnerving honestly. It didn’t make sense…I actually look darn cute in bangs J And it took me awhile but then it finally hit me. I joke (although I am completely aware that it’s not a joking matter…I joke because I’m not entirely joking…) that I have PTSD about random things related to the rough years, including ultrasounds (when you have so many go bad…). So in a huge surprise to me, I have PTSD about bangs. Laugh now. Please, really, laugh, because I did after I got done crying. It’s completely ridiculous, completely inconceivable (ha…look at me being funny), and completely true.

I took a shower this weekend, and stepped out with bangs going every which direction…and was immediately and painfully thrown 10 years in the past. You see, 10 years ago next month, I found out I was pregnant for the first time. A week later, we went to my parents’ to tell them in person (you know, because tell everyone you know at 5 weeks, what could go wrong…). While there, I got my hair cut, and decided, of course, to get some bangs. They were very poorly behaved bangs to be honest LOL. I think it was about 72 hours later that everything started to fall apart. Pain, a general bad feeling in my bones, medical confirmation, an overnight hospital stay, and surgery…then I wasn’t pregnant anymore (the ectopic…).

This led to me…a few days later…stepping out of the shower…looking in the mirror…and finding myself completely and utterly unrecognizable.

I looked rounder than usual….thanks to 3 months of fertility drugs and gas that had inflated me during the laparoscopic surgery a couple of days before.

There were scars…3 of them…I could see them all in this lopsided triangle, sutures still visible.

There were those stupid bangs.

I looked nothing like myself. Everything about me was wrong. Everything about me had changed. Nothing would ever be the same…and it wasn’t.

I remember that moment so vividly. I’m fairly certain it was the first shower I had taken without supervision, the first day I’d been home left alone.

So here I was this weekend, stepping out of the shower and that image slapped me in the face. Maybe it was that I’m a little rounder than usual…I had more than a little stress this fall between major changes for Kellen, Patrick’s travel, and my grant proposal; my marathon training was anything but perfect; and my eating habits…embarrassing. But then there were those damn bangs.

And then I laughed. I laughed because for whatever ridiculous reason, Larkin is in LOVE with my bangs. She talks about my hair constantly, especially when I’m not around, so she just really loves it that much. And I kept laughing because the “old bangs” had lost so much…but the “new bangs” have a little mini-me super-fan that’s totally into the bangs. And then I cried…not because of the “old bangs” but because I thought of the day that I got my hair cut and went to pick up Kellen, having a momentary worry that he’d of all times notice my hair and react negatively, and instead…he did notice…and he kissed me…first on both cheeks (where I joked that apparently we were British that day)…and then purposefully put his hands on both side of my face, looked me in the eyes, and kissed me on the lips…twice. He doesn’t kiss on the lips. When you ask him for a kiss, he gives you his forehead…and if you kiss him on the cheek, he wipes right after. He didn’t wipe. He kissed me.

And so then I laughed and cried at the same time because the “old bangs” had sorrow and failing hope…but the “new bangs” had joy and laughter and…us. Time passes, things change, hair grows. No matter where you find yourself stepping out of the shower today, it can and will get better. Hope is powerful, and maybe I just needed that reminder.

Also, maybe I should remember that “grown out bangs” are a little more my style…Larkin may be disappointed J

Because She Doesn’t Know Me…and Sometimes I Don’t Either

***I started writing this in April 2014 and never finished it! I'm recommitted to blogging in 2015!!***

It’s an amazing thing to see yourself through your child’s eyes. It can sometimes be less than pleasant, (Do I really sound like that?), it can be quite comical (when your toddler constantly praises you for doing a good job at everyday tasks, like opening the milk.), and it provides an endless supply of “teachable moments” that you have to balance between your own wants, what’s best for your child, and how it all fits into the world we live in.

Larkin had a fun run at her school. It was basically a 1K race (I know, hilarious distance right?) complete with fancy tutus. We were dressed up and having a great time. I thought the parents were going to run with the kids, but then we were told that we could follow along, but they were on their own. I ran at a distance, encouraging her the whole way, and she did amazing. Ran the whole way, never walked, and came in around 7^th place, the 2^nd girl, and again, all the kids in front of her had walked at least once. I thought she did awesome. But they only gave medals to the first 3 places, and I could see that she was disappointed. Come to find out, the parents were actually going to run separately at the end of the kids’ races. I was not prepared to run that morning, I was just going to jog around with her. But when we went to line up, I heard my own words pep-talking me from the mouth of my newly-6-year old. “OK, Mama, remember, no walking, just try your hardest and run your fastest. I know you can do it.”

Oh crap, so now I have to run because she’s watching me with all of her friends, she’s expecting me to be fast, and I want to make her proud. Super role reversal there. Let me just say that 1K is a rough distance, it was basically a cross-country sprint around the school. I fell in behind two dads, and then managed to pass one of them on the home stretch, winning 2^nd place. She was so excited. But then when I got my medal, I saw a little bit of sadness creep into that smile.

We walked home, and I tried to get her talking. She really was disappointed that she didn’t win. I quickly showed her the picture of her coming to the finish line, and what I pointed out to her were the people BEHIND her not the people in front of her and again told her how proud I was. But my random medal was making her feel like she’d let me down…and that’s when I realized it.

She doesn’t know me. I mean of course she knows me, but she doesn’t know 6-year old me. She knows a mama that balances all sorts of things every single day, that spends her work day as a scientist, her evenings and weekends doing the best she can as a mom, being that mom that makes matching tutus, and bows, and homemade cookies, and finds a way to get to the school parties, and pack lunches with a little love note or surprise. She knows the mom that runs marathons, that does push-ups in the living room, that is “athletic”.

So then I sat her down and told her who I was. That at her age, if I had run that race, I would have been dead last. That at her age, I wouldn’t even have had the courage and confidence to even start the race. That at her age I was picked LAST every single time in PE (but first in the math flashcard relays…LOL). That I never played soccer like her, never danced like her, never ran a race like her.

She was completely and utterly shocked. We both learned a lot that day, and by sharing who I was, I saw that confidence bloom in her even more. But at the same time, it was an unexpected opportunity for self-reflection.

I’m not the person I thought I was going to be. For so many reasons.

I was going to have 2-3 kids. I was going to have a nanny, and the kids would only go to private school. I was going to have a ridiculously huge house and a very expensive car. We were going to go on lavish vacations every summer. The kids would wear only Ralph Lauren. My career would come first, and the kids would have to fit into our schedule, to our lifestyle. They would be in the best camps, the best sports clubs, and have private lessons. I would expect them to be the best, I would put them on a pedestal and accept nothing short of perfection. I would have felt entitled, I would have felt superior, I would have felt empty…

That same month, it became even more clear that I was not the person I was going to be. Larkin had her first science fair. Long story short, she got second place (she was robbed though, first place went to a group project, and they had their results and conclusions swapped…geesh! Lol). When I saw the red ribbon instead of the blue, I heard my grandmother in my head. I heard the tone of disappointment, I felt failure, and then I looked at Larkin and saw joy “Oh my gosh Mama, a red ribbon! I got 2^nd place!”. Every kid had gotten a green participation ribbon, unless you were 1^st-3^rd. She saw red and saw success. It slapped me in the face in the best way.

I am not the person I was going to be. The changes started the day that I walked in a door and met eyes with Patrick for the first time. You would think that the changes were further solidified when we had kids…but it was the opposite. I was changed forever when we DIDN’T have kids.

When month after month, year after year, we still didn’t have children. When loss after loss happened. Those years shaped me in a way that I can’t explain. Because of those losses, because of those trials, because of the fight to get to them, I am a very different mother. Believe it or not, I am thankful for those years. They’ve made me more patient, more grateful, more loving. They’ve made me see my children with wonder and excitement, eager to see what they’ll do in this world…rather than simply expecting them to follow the path I set out for them. I’m along for the ride to help guide…but it’s their road.   

I am not the person I was going to be, and thank God for that.