Today my class was supposed to be going on a field trip that includes a nature hike and sploshing around in a river, picking up slippery rocks and looking for macroinvertibrates. I wish there was an emoticon that truly captures the look my doctor gave me when I asked him about it. Part: Are-you-serious? Part: Don’t-even-dream-of-it. Part: Do-I-have-to-chain-you-to-a-couch-and-feed-you-a-diet-of-Common-Sense-&-Caution.
Outcome: I won’t be going; apparently nature trails and river explorations are not acceptable activities for people who can no longer see their feet. So I took the day off… and woke up to it bucketing out and the trip being postponed.
I am not handling this well. My parent chaperones received four different e-mails with instructions for today (& then cancelling today) – and this was only partially due to baby brain causing the omission of important details like WHEN they should show up at school. I also called the substitute at home twice to give her directions and left her two sets of plans: one for the trip and one for in case the trip was cancelled. My cell number is circled in red in case she runs into any questions. Not that she’ll need it, the kiddos in my class this year are the definition of angelic.
And here I sit, at home, fighting the urge to pick up the phone and call in to my classroom to make sure there are no last minute questions. Did I mention that the school day only started 15 minutes ago?
If I need to, (once I finish typing this) I will sit on my hands. Hide my phone. Go outside and pace the backyard — *looks out window*. Maybe not that last one. And, er, maybe I shouldn’t hide my phone. With baby brain it’s likely I’ll never find it again.
I will not, however, call, e-mail, or go visit the school to check on the kiddos. Will. Not.
Can you sense that I’m having some separation anxiety? There are two weeks until I have to walk out of my classroom door and teach myself not to look back. After October 15th, they are not MY class anymore.
Once the Schmidtlets arrive, I know I’ll be far too enamored with my bundles of baby to miss them. But it’s the interim weeks, the couch rest leading into bed rest weeks, that keep me up at night.
I’m not a sitter. I’m not a TV watcher. I’m not a do-for-me-what-I-can-do-for-myself girl. And more than all that, I’m not good at good-byes or letting go. Each year I cry at elementary school graduation as my kiddos prepare to leave for the summer and middle school. This year I’ll be the one leaving, and I need to learn to be okay with that.
So today is practice. And just in case I’ve forgotten the reason for all this sitting, I’ve scheduled an ultrasound for this afternoon. One look at those squirmy Schmidtlets on the screen and I’m sure I’ll find all the strength I need to park my Twin Belly on the couch. It’ll be a great reminder to stop looking backwards and to look forward to a time when those babies are out of the Twin Belly and in my arms.
So, I have haircut issues. I have other issues, too, but today’s post is about my haircuts.
I don’t like them. I mean, I like them fine when I’m the one getting my haircut. Other people? Sure, cut it off, perm it up, straighten, highlight, dye it stripey, shave in swoops.
I guess I should clarify, I have St. Matt Haircut Issues.
This is not a new thing. It harkens back to the first summer we were dating, when he’d gotten a haircut before coming to visit me in MA. Only, he didn’t warn me first.
I should clarify some more. St. Matt only really has three hairstyles:
- Short on the sides, a little longer on top. Generic boy.
- The I’m-too-lazy-to-get-a-haircut stage that drives him crazy, but I openly encourage because it leads to Option 3:
- Curls! Which drive him more crazy, but which I love, Love, LOVE.
Okay, back to summer 2000.
So, this boy shows up on my parents’ doorstep and wants to hug and kiss me. Granted I’m loopy on pain meds because I just had ankle surgery, but I nearly fall off my crutches trying to back away from him. *Stranger Danger!* Where was my curly-headed boyfriend? Who was this guy with ears?
This is where the haircut issues originated. They haven’t abated. Since then we’ve come up with a coping method: I require multiple reminders of any forthcoming haircuts; I’m also allowed a moment to *absorb* my husband’s new appearance before he approaches.
And he doesn’t take it personally when my reaction is always, “I’m not quite sure I like it.”
Friday was haircut day. I walked in the house and he did the required *freeze in place* so I could examine and adjust.
And since he knows my haircut history and has only ever had the three hairstyles, he took it in stride when I said, “I don’t know, you look different.”
“I’m still me.” This was offered with a Saintly grin and arms extended for a hug.
“No, something’s different. It’s not right.” I continued to circle him.
Saintly sigh. “You always say that. Wait until tomorrow when I shower and style it. It’s fine.”
I gave him a wary nod of agreement and tried my best not to study him all night.
Saturday morning things did not look “fine.” They were still different.
“What did you tell the barber?”
St. Matt frowned at the mirror; even he could see something wasn’t quite right. “I said, The usual. Short on the sides, longer on top.”
It is short on the sides and longer on top. That much I have to agree with. But, the sides are shorter than usual short. The top is longer than usual long. And the sides climb higher on his head than normal. They climb SO high that they’re invading the top’s territory.
This is when we realized the truth about his haircut: it’s an Accidental Mohawk
Since reaching this epiphany, I haven’t even attempted to hide my glee.
First, the sight of a mohawked St. Matt is enough to reduce me to instant gigglefits.
Second, I know someone who’ll be reluctant to head back to the barber anytime soon.
Say hello to a curl-headed winter!