Good Riddance, 32

Guess who just finished celebrating her first solo birthday with her first solo wedding! That's right, this woman right here.

 (I was gonna write "this girl" but at 33, it's time I call myself a woman, I think.)

Now, I can't say that I survived the birthday weekend unscathed. I mean, I did sob while driving through the pouring rain at 8am after dropping off the boys, but a phone call to Big Sis and reassuring texts from KB and other friends helped keep it the only real cry of the day.

With that behind me I ventured out to get my hair relaxed at a new salon. And no, I haven't dyed the gray yet. Despite lots of people asking me. Just so you know, I don't plan on changing my mind any time soon, but feel free to keep asking. Seriously. The endless inquiries make me feel amazing. So young. So beautiful. So treasured for my intellect and personality. Can you tell how much I love being judged for something my body is doing naturally? I'm looking at you, random man at Target who felt the need to know if all that gray was real. Awesome.

Less sarcastically, I ate at the bar in Olive Garden while reading another Liane Moriarty novel and it was pretty fantastically self-indulgent.

So with my hair done and lasagna enjoyed I joined KB and O and hit the road to wild and wonderful WV for SA's wedding. There was a moment during the rehearsal when I realized I'd be walking down the aisle to the same song I walked down my own wedding aisle to and my eyes welled on instinct, but remembering it was SA's day and she is an incredible and wonderful friend, I told my emotions to save the pity party for another weekend and pushed through.

After that moment I honestly forgot it was my birthday for hours. We ate and laughed and crossed our fingers the weather would stay warm and sunny for Saturday (spoiler: it didn't). At the end of the night, back in the amazing cabin that we hope to revisit in September - according to Big O we will definitely be back, and fishing, with the little ones - we ate birthday cookies and it sunk in that I was 33.

The next day there were only tiny moments of heartbreak that sneaked in. I knew they would. I breathed them in and exhaled them back out. I accepted hugs from kind friends old and new, and I danced. A lot. With a confidence I owe to J-Man and eleven years of him insisting we always be on the dance floor within minutes of it being opened to the crowd. I wished I had someone to dance with. Then a new song would come on and I'd shoo that thought away and keep dancing.

I kept dancing.

And dancing.

And dancing.

Until the band packed up and we were the final twelve or so folks on the floor.

It kept my body warm in the crazy-cold, see-your-breath, wear-a-coat-through-dinner, night.

It kept my heart warm to be in motion. To cling to the songs about love and happiness and celebration, even if they all didn't feel 100% like current anthems.

SA's wedding was beautiful, and deserves more of a post than this, but what I realized about myself through the weekend is that for my 33rd year, I'm ready to be a doer. I'm ready to say yes. I'm ready to take the confidence I learned in the early years with J-Man, braving the chaos of Harlem and NYCTF, two cross-country moves, the madness of questionable fertility, the juggling act of two under two, and keep pushing forward.

I'm going to say yes more this year.

Yes, I'm going to NYC in two weeks.

Yes, I plan to have applied to grad school by my next birthday.

Yes, I will be on that committee or go to this yoga class or help out with those activities.

Even, yes I will recognize that I need a good cry, YA book and early bedtime to recharge before continuing to say yes to something else.

Yes, I will be happy this year.

Good riddance, 32. You brought too much heartache. You left too many scars. You demanded too many tears and compromises and surrenders.

Hello, 33. Bring on your adventures. Show me your hidden surprises. Tempt me with your possibilities. Teach me what to do with this bowl of lemons because I'm ready for the pitchers and pitchers of lemonade now.

Bring. It. On.

And All That Hair

You guys, I hate going to the beauty salon. Hate it. I avoid it for as long as possible, and sometimes longer than should be permissible.

It's ironic, though, because every time I go, I get showered with compliments. Every black woman inside takes a moment to ooh and ahh over my "good hair." And at the risk of sounding obnoxious and ungrateful, I'd like to admit that it's kinda the worst.

Do you know what good hair is? You probably do, and you probably have seen the Chris Rock documentary. If you haven't, check it out sometime. Hair is this powerful concept that you learn very early on will affect the way people look at you. It's a competition, it's a choice, and often it's a complicated burden.

In my case, on a Saturday morning when I've taken the time to wash it, it looks a little like this.

Talk about an undertaking. If you've met me and thought I washed this mess daily, this photo should convince you otherwise. I aim for weekly. Even that was more realistic pre-kids. Now I try for the least frequently that can still remain presentable and hygienic. Sometimes that's my approach to showering too. Just kidding. Kinda. Not really. Anyway.

The other day I got to thinking about my hair and how it's a pain and I should do something about it. I told J-Man I was going to make an appointment. I hadn't had a relaxer since June. (This is something I always lie about at the salon, and pretend it's only been 3 months, or a number less outlandish than my typical 5-7. It's one of few lies I just can't not tell.) You know what happened though? I changed my mind.

I said it out loud, "I'm going to make a hair appointment," and then I quickly decided against it. I didn't want to make the call. I didn't want to try to remember the lady who did it the last time. I didn't want to lie about when I was there last. I really didn't want to go and sit in a chair and be complimented on something for which I can take zero credit beyond inheriting a specific set of genes. I also didn't want to awkwardly assess whether I was black enough to participate in the conversation, laughing at the right jokes, using the right lingo, and appropriately thanking everyone for their interest in these eighteen inches or so I often dream of shaving off.

On a meta level I didn't want to sit and think about how having these thoughts are, for the most part, not at all the fault of the other people in the salon. They're instead a twisted mix of insecurities in my own identity, cemented over three decades of walking the light-skinned tightrope as a black, Mormon, nearly six-foot, ivy league, small town, never-fitting-in girl. Woman.

Going to a hair salon brings out every fear I have about the construct of beauty and my inability to accept that I both want to be, and yet fear the process of becoming, beautiful. I tell myself I want inner beauty. I don't need people to look at me and use words like "stunning" or "gorgeous." But don't I? Doesn't everyone? At least, a little bit? Doesn't it feel amazing to look in the mirror when the stylist is finished and see a set of locks you want to flip around as your love takes you to a fancy dinner or spins you around a dance floor? Can't you laugh like nothing matters because you feel the eyes of the room deciding you're worthy of their gaze?

Most days I look in the mirror and I shrug at what I see. There's a girl. She's getting wrinkles and her eyes carry bags of dark exhaustion. Her smile's ok. Her nose will do. When she stands tall, she looks like she's doing all right. And that hair, it'll work. Just braid it to the side like Elsa. Or twist it into a bun and slap a scrunchie around it. Pull it tight and ignore everything it makes you think about who you are. Spend your time on sleep, or your kids, or packing a lunch so you're not starving by seventh period.

But sometimes, after my darling husband has given my confidence the boost I need to make the call, schedule the appointment, let Miss S keep the boys the first day of Thanksgiving break, and step foot into the salon, I come out looking like this.

Maybe not stunning. Maybe not gorgeous. But I survived. I felt shamefully happy with the outcome. I changed my profile picture. I decided it was all right to indulge in a little vanity. I took family photos for our Christmas card and I secretly felt happy to have my hair. Typing this now it feels so silly to say. I'd be happy with any hair, right? It shouldn't be so weighted a statement to make. I should love it however it looks. I should love myself however I look.

One day I might.

For now, the question remains - how long until I have to wash it again? Surely not before J-Man's work party tonight!

Back in Action

I'm baa-aack!

You guys, I know I took my longest hiatus ever but I promise, I'm back. At least, well, on a more regular basis than this spring.

If you're wondering what I've been up to, I decided to try my hand at some other writing. I've written a manuscript and it's been a surprising amount of fun. I mean, it might be horrifically awful, but it's an accomplishment so I feel good about that. And I'm working my way through edits and rewrites and even letting J-Man go through it. (by the way, J-Man is so not the target audience... it's a YA romantic novel written like a blog - where ever would I get that idea? -  with the main characters in high school).

Beyond that I've been wrapping up my 3rd year at WSHS and dealing with my crazy fellow teacher and her antics and generally surviving the exhaustion of two high-energy needy toddlers. I think someone forgot to tell MDG that terrible twos can wait to kick in until he's hit his second birthday.

In March/April we traveled to Texas and Louisiana, in May we hit up Apple Blossom, and aside from those we've showered Big Sis for the upcoming arrival of baby cousin boy or girl, started revisiting our favorite parks, convinced the landlords to buy us a more efficient and quieter toilet, gotten MDG down to using a paci only when sleeping, and traded which parent drives which car to work.

As I type, I'm currently enjoying my Mom Vacation Week where the boys are happily playing at Miss S's house with their friends while I spend my days doing a combination of chores at a relaxed pace while watching terrible tv like Pretty Little Liars, making homemade lasagnas, eating bagels in Panera working on my book, getting my hair done and failing to successfully nap. It feels really good, and it's just what I need before it's time to implement Camp Nicole next week for my 8 weeks home with the boys.

So, in case you want to see more pictures, over the next few posts I'll try to include my favorites from the past three months. Then maybe, just maybe, get back into the groove of things.

Haircut #2

Before I step back to review highlights of the last two weeks, I need to report on a pretty serious event that happened this morning.  J-Man gave our PDG his second haircut.

I knew it was about to happen.  I was finishing an episode of Vampire Diaries (finally, Elena has her humanity back, that plotline was getting OLD), and J-Man offered to get it started while I watched the last few minutes.

I heard some crying and assumed it was like last time.  I figured the noise of the razor scared him, but that he was just fine.  And, before I scare you, he really is just fine.

Just.... when I walked back there, I saw the haircut that would eventually become this:

My baby was practically bald!  Tears came to my eyes and J-Man told me I couldn't cry in front of an already terrified PDG or it would only end up worse.  I collected myself, smiled, and sang songs to the boy while his daddy finished evening it all out.

While the two boys showered and cleaned up, I called Mama H to say "I'm so mad at J-Man and I know it'll grow back but I swear it looks like my baby is sick and where are his curls and I need to get all this out so I can smile and be sweet to my husband by the time he's done with this shower."

Lucky for me, Mama H is wonderful, helped me gain some perspective, and reminded me that both it will grow on me, and it will grow back.

So, perhaps there will be curls by the end of summer?  Maybe?  Either way, he's still my baby boy and that toothy grin will still melt my heart every time I look at him.

Spring Break West Coast Part 1

First - some housekeeping notes

1 - I know, I've only done 7 posts each, and not my resolved 8 minimum, for the past two months.  But I haven't disappeared and this month just could be my comeback.  Or I'm a failure.  One of the two.

2 - If we're facebook friends, you'll already have seen most of these pictures for the next post or two.  Since I have no way of predicting how the internet will continue to explode in years to come, I plan on storing PDG digitally everywhere, so that one day he will have no choice but to relive his life through the eyes of his mama.  Kidding.  Kind of.

3- There's no #3, but a two-item list always looks poorly planned to me.

So for Spring Break 2013 we packed our bags (which takes considerably longer with a child) and headed to the west coast.  Sunny San Francisco, to be followed by Seattle/Tacoma - next post.

 Quick aside - look what pregnancy did for my hair!  Isn't it crazy how long it got?  I just can't bring myself to cut it.

Usually J-Man is as anti-tourist as possible.  He's like, "let's go find the ghetto and walk around and be gangstas" while I'm like "ooh, take my picture here.  and here.  and now with PDG."

We arrived late Friday night, and after giving PDG an extra dose of Benadryl, we all conked out in a Best Western and slept til 7am PST.  (Yes, PST.  How is that possible?) We woke up totally refreshed and magically already adjusted to the time change.  

First stop was the Castro.  Kinda random, one might think, but J-Man has a good friend there we'll call TJ.  He's a friend from the frat who, when we last saw him, had just come out and had decided the best place for a newly comfortable gay guy to move would be SF.  No one argued, and three years later he is happy as a lark.  We had some good sushi, and walked to Dolores Park.  No, no one offered us drugs. Yes, the kids section there is fantastic.

PDG loved the swings but hated the sandbox.  He wouldn't move an inch.  His distrust of the shifty ground made him sit perfectly still and frown until I got tired of other mamas and their kiddos looking at me like why isn't your kid actually playing...

The afternoon was a walking tour with my friend ELE.  We started at Ghirardelli, hiked up Hyde to the top of Lombard, took the photo above, and then strolled gradually downhill to the Marina, where she lives. Note the Seahawks gear.  J-Man insisted that the logo be visible at all times during our stay, which was made possible with his hat, jersey, and jacket in constant rotation.

Sadly I only had the phone camera for most of SF, since we were sweaty and tired walking everywhere pushing the stroller. 

The next day we met up with a friend from Princeton and we saw even more sites.  This time the bottom of Lombard

We kept with our free streak visiting the sea lions.  

Where we took a lot of photos

Because sea lions are cool and make funny noises.  That are even funnier when J-Man imitates

We walked to the Ferry house, where of course J-Man had oysters, but managed to avoid the jerky, before trekking back to our hotel.  The Intercontinental.   

Monday night we couldn't sleep, but that just gave us plenty of time to get up and ready for a morning walk downtown to Google to see ELE again, her awesome office, and eat all the free food they get.  Fresh waffles and omelettes? Pre-sliced fruit?  I felt as spoiled as an undergrad.  And like in undergrad, I understood that free food is never really free.  ELE is paying somewhere along the line.  But for us, not a penny spent, and even a high chair.  Score.

With a few more meals, a trip to Berkeley (which, honestly, wasn't pretty enough for me to take pictures of - no offense any Berkeley-lovers.  I'm sure you're hipster enough to believe I just don't see its inner beauty or whatever), and even a family nap, we headed out Tuesday midday to go north to Tac-town.

Let the travel log continue next post....

First Haircut

You may have seen on facebook already, but we cut PDG's hair.

I'm not going to pretend like it was some planned-out, carefully considered decision.

It was spur of the moment.  It was almost instantly regretted.  Then, moments later, appreciated.

In typical G style, I got too emotional at the future looming nostalgia for the present moment.  I told J-Man I was nervous about when we would eventually cut the hair.  J-Man brought me back to reality.

I overcompensated by saying, "let's just do it now.  if we're going to do it anyway, why wait?"

J-Man waited, asking if I was sure, knowing this can often be a charade to get him to do things my way while pretending I was on board to do it his way.

I didn't change my mind.

 So we strapped PDG in the high chair, pulled out the same shaving kit J-Man uses on his own hair, and went to town.

Some tears later (none of mine though) PDG looked like a little boy.

Thank heavens he isn't walking yet or he really wouldn't seem like my baby at all!