That hair!

I’m a lists kind of gal. I write lists for any and everything. My type-A, first-born personality relishes the feeling of accomplishment upon scratching off an item situated among an array of tasks displayed in a vertical line on yellow legal pad. Relishes. There is nothing I love more (except maybe Ben & Jerry’s Half Baked ice cream and the smell of a sea breeze). I write lists for everything. And I mean everything. Not just for the grocery store, or Christmas gifts, or thank you notes; for inane everyday tasks, like oh say, waking up, showering, eating breakfast, wiping my ass, putting on deodorant, etc.

Given that I am entering my third year of what some may refer to as unemployment (although I prefer the phrase “alternative work”), my day’s are HIGHLY unstructured, so my lists guarantee I at least semi-resemble a functioning, productive member of society. I’ve become especially addicted to lists now that I am wrought with mommy-brain. In order to keep my life straight, I must have reminders for my daily routine. My current TO DO list looks something like this, with lovely reasons why each task must be accomplished in case I forget with all the poop, and spit up, and breast milk plugging up my neuro-synapses:

1. Get your ass out of bed by 9am (or whenever the hell the baby wakes up. She’s the boss. You’re the nuts*).

2. Shower (or at least put on deodorant. Remember you made your daughter smell like an armpit)

3. Floss (because you can’t afford a trip to the dentist, you uninsured-ho)

4. Take the dog to the park (you will regret it later if you don’t. The reign of Ursa-energy terror).

5. Exercise, particularly CRUNCHES (because you got knocked up and have the poodge to show for it).

6. Eat breakfast (or you’re daughter will become the poster-child for a 1-800 number and donations in the form of $1/day).

You get the idea.

I’ve made this particular list electronic thanks to the wonders of iPhone applications. And to try to cut down on my daily paper waste, because with the amount of list writing I do I could take out a small forest in a week. (I’m ECO-FRIENDLY, remember?!).

I began a new list today detailing the pros and cons of having a baby with long-flowing locks. Yes, her hair. Her most distinctive characteristic. Everywhere I go I cannot escape the inevitable “THAT HAIR! OH MY GOD!” reaction. And I go through the same conversation every time: Yes, she was born with it. No, it sticks up on its own. No product. (Who the hell puts hair gel on an infant?!) Yes, I had that kind of hair when I was born. No, my husband and I are both blonde.

So here it is folks, the pros and cons of the BabyHawk:

Cons:
1. Everyone thinks you are a little boy because the hair has grown in like a boy’s haircut. I mean everyone. Until I obnoxiously deck you in pink and frills and bows. And then your daddy vomits in a corner.

2. Daddy vomiting in a corner because of the pink, and bows, and frills.

3. You pull your own hair. Constantly. And you howl and scream in horror and stare at me pleadingly to make the evil demon who is wreaking havoc on your scalp stop. You wake yourself up doing this. And it’s getting worse now that grasping objects has become quite intriguing. Especially soft, wispy tufts of YOUR OWN HAIR!

4. It’s terrifying to watch a blob of black, slimy, placenta ridden hair get squeezed out of your vagina. It’s the stuff of horror movies. Birth is crazy enough as it is. Throw in hair and you’ve got Hell Razor or Dr. Giggles crashing L&D.

5. You’re hair gets greasy. Every. Single. Day. You look like a little hobo baby whose parents don’t have the decency to bathe you even though we do so religiously every night.

6. When you fall asleep nursing and let breast milk pool out of your mouth and spill onto your check it gets encrusted in your hair. And then you smell of sour milk. Sour milk + B.O. + grease= HOBO BABY!

7. People judge mommy when they see your deep, dark roots and then the blonde, blonde, blondest of blonde-ness that is your father. Forcing me to admit that YES, I HIGHLIGHT MY HAIR! WE AREN’T ALL BLESSED WITH GOLDEN LOCKS! I PAY FOR THIS SHIT! (And thanks so much for insinuating adultery, asshole).

8. Knowing from the get-go that I will similarly have to finance the highlighting of your ‘do. An Addison Hair Fund has already been established. Donations welcome.

Pros:
1. Um, maybe the cutest of cute cute pictures. Case and point.

2. You have gained acceptance into the punk rock crowd to which mommy and daddy will never be welcome.

3. No need for styling product. Ever.

4. It’s the one trait the resembles your mother, given that everything else about you screams CART! (except maybe your monster feet, those are mine too)

5. A conversation starter even in the most awkward of social situations. (Soooo, that baby has some wild hair, eh?)

6. The bows! Oh the little girl bows. You’re a living doll.

7. You blend. My little Cali, trendy, rocker baby.

8. So soft and utterly delicious. I just want to eat you up after bath time when the soap aroma clings to each strand. Nothing could be more delectable (maybe it’s a con that I want to eat my baby? Question mark?)

And there you have it folks. Additions welcome.

*When my brother was little he used to tell my mother, “I’m the boss, you the nuts” because apparently my mother used to utter the following two phrases to him with some consistency. “I’m the boss. You’re driving me nuts.” So it got thus interpreted.