Adventures in Real Parenting: What not to shave

I have a special post here. It contains one shaved eyebrow, a talking belly button, beauty advice from my father and a chance to win a $50 gift card.

I’ll see you there.

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.

Rules:
No duplicate comments.
You may receive (2) total entries by selecting from the following entry methods:
a) Leave a comment in response to the sweepstakes prompt on this post
b) Tweet about this promotion and leave the URL to that tweet in a comment on this post
c) Blog about this promotion and leave the URL to that post in a comment on this post
d) For those with no Twitter or blog, read the official rules to learn about an alternate form of entry.
This giveaway is open to US Residents age 18 or older. Winners will be selected via random draw, and will be notified by e-mail. You have 72 hours to get back to me, otherwise a new winner will be selected.
The Official Rules are available here.
This sweepstakes runs from 7/26 – 8/23.
Be sure to visit the Venus brand feature page on BlogHer.com where you can read other bloggers’ reviews and find more chances to win!
Have you checked out the Life Well Lived section of BlogHer.com? There are some great tips and expert posts on everything from Looking Your Best to Getting Happy and Getting Organized!

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. 

Down by the river on a Friday night

I’m here. Asking questions, getting some answers.

 For susan. xo
(The song was Chloe’s suggestion. Apparently they play it at every Atlanta Braves game.)

This is Tara, Mr. Steinbeck

Mice, men, getting laid, having plans. Schemes on rye toast.

Want to guess what did and did not happen Sunday?

You don’t need to guess. You know.

MathMan suggested that my book choice is the problem. It isn’t compelling enough for me. Bless his heart. That is not the problem. I am the problem. I can’t make myself focus. One thing turns into another. Wiping down the kitchen counter ends with me cleaning out a closet while phoning my father to find out what year he got his first pair of roller skates.

Things derailed quickly. Sophie announced she was hungry. I referred her to my blog post.

A few minutes later, she returned to my room sporting an expression I couldn’t quite make out. Maybe it was  resolve. She was going to make pancakes. Pancakes sounded good to me, too, but without providing some level of sanitation supervision, I wouldn’t want to eat them. I’d help if only to avoid taking a bite of pancake only to find a long hair in it, I told my inner control freak.

Okay, so pancakes. That was it. After that, I’d read.

But first I had to play Words with Friends with Sarah W. (she’s kicking my butt!) and four other people (so are they!) because it would be rude to leave them hanging.

A great wailing from the kitchen alerted me to the absence of milk with which to douse the cereal the children would be having for three meals apparently. Such carrying on.

Okay. A trip to the grocery because we needed more than milk and no one else can be trusted to do the coupons correctly. Must make that list and remember the reusable bags.

After the store, I told myself, I’d read. There was still time.

The girls and I returned from the store. MathMan had made dinner so we had a meal together followed by a brief celebration of National Ice Cream Day. Oh, Ben & Jerry, we hardly knew ye.

I waddled upstairs, back into reaching distance of the novel. In a minute, I whispered to the stonyfaced dust jacket. I had to wash my face and apply an anti-aging mask. Oh, and tidy up my nails, fix the cuticles, file them, buff them.

And, oh for heaven’s sake, can no one else ever scrub the damn toilet and sink? Better do that before my nails.

More Words with Friends, a quick check of Facebook and Twitter told me that everyone was retroactively having fun at Mitt Romney’s expense and that would be Breaking Bad. See! That didn’t take long. No celebrity deaths to clutter up the feeds with RIPs, no sports happening. I enjoyed a sense of smugness. I was all caught up even if I couldn’t find a way to use that dang Z in my game with Sarah.

I returned to the bathroom to rinse the mask from my face. MathMan joined me upstairs. I thought he must not be feeling well. Turned out he was playing with his Atomic Fart app on his phone. Again.

I sat down with the novel and began flicking the pages. That would fix him for providing a long, squishy soundtrack to my trip to the WC. He and his phone could turn a quick tinkle into a severe gastrointestinal event.

MathMan doesn’t like it when I flick the pages of any book. He says it’s because it’s bad for the book and the ghost of his mother the Librarian will haunt me if I don’t stop. I know it’s because he can’t tune out the sound of it like he can tune out the sound of my voice.

He grabbed the spray bottle he keeps on hand to discourage the cats from getting onto our bed and aimed it in my direction. He is a crack shot. I stared at him hard and gave the pages a definitive flick.

This would not end well.

We called a truce. If I read now without flicking the pages, it would appear he won. If I read and flicked the pages, I was breaking the truce. I put the book on the night stand and sighed. We watched a third of an episode of Downton Abbey, one Foyle’s War episode, and the new Inspector Lewis – Generation of Vipers (I have the worst crush on Sergeant Hathaway) before finally falling asleep.

Despite the fact that I read zero pages of the intended novel, the day was not wasted. I even managed to do somethings just for me. I ran an hour on the elliptical and finished off my manicure with a lovely shade of purple. I can live with that.

Taking the Scarlet O’Hara approach helps, too. It is another day. I have another chance to read to my heart’s content.

I have the day off.

Are you a rifle or a shotgun?

This is Tara, Mr. Steinbeck

Mice, men, getting laid, having plans. Schemes on rye toast.

Want to guess what did and did not happen Sunday?

You don’t need to guess. You know.

MathMan suggested that my book choice is the problem. It isn’t compelling enough for me. Bless his heart. That is not the problem. I am the problem. I can’t make myself focus. One thing turns into another. Wiping down the kitchen counter ends with me cleaning out a closet while phoning my father to find out what year he got his first pair of roller skates.

Things derailed quickly. Sophie announced she was hungry. I referred her to my blog post.

A few minutes later, she returned to my room sporting an expression I couldn’t quite make out. Maybe it was  resolve. She was going to make pancakes. Pancakes sounded good to me, too, but without providing some level of sanitation supervision, I wouldn’t want to eat them. I’d help if only to avoid taking a bite of pancake only to find a long hair in it, I told my inner control freak.

Okay, so pancakes. That was it. After that, I’d read.

But first I had to play Words with Friends with Sarah W. (she’s kicking my butt!) and four other people (so are they!) because it would be rude to leave them hanging.

A great wailing from the kitchen alerted me to the absence of milk with which to douse the cereal the children would be having for three meals apparently. Such carrying on.

Okay. A trip to the grocery because we needed more than milk and no one else can be trusted to do the coupons correctly. Must make that list and remember the reusable bags.

After the store, I told myself, I’d read. There was still time.

The girls and I returned from the store. MathMan had made dinner so we had a meal together followed by a brief celebration of National Ice Cream Day. Oh, Ben & Jerry, we hardly knew ye.

I waddled upstairs, back into reaching distance of the novel. In a minute, I whispered to the stonyfaced dust jacket. I had to wash my face and apply an anti-aging mask. Oh, and tidy up my nails, fix the cuticles, file them, buff them.

And, oh for heaven’s sake, can no one else ever scrub the damn toilet and sink? Better do that before my nails.

More Words with Friends, a quick check of Facebook and Twitter told me that everyone was retroactively having fun at Mitt Romney’s expense and that would be Breaking Bad. See! That didn’t take long. No celebrity deaths to clutter up the feeds with RIPs, no sports happening. I enjoyed a sense of smugness. I was all caught up even if I couldn’t find a way to use that dang Z in my game with Sarah.

I returned to the bathroom to rinse the mask from my face. MathMan joined me upstairs. I thought he must not be feeling well. Turned out he was playing with his Atomic Fart app on his phone. Again.

I sat down with the novel and began flicking the pages. That would fix him for providing a long, squishy soundtrack to my trip to the WC. He and his phone could turn a quick tinkle into a severe gastrointestinal event.

MathMan doesn’t like it when I flick the pages of any book. He says it’s because it’s bad for the book and the ghost of his mother the Librarian will haunt me if I don’t stop. I know it’s because he can’t tune out the sound of it like he can tune out the sound of my voice.

He grabbed the spray bottle he keeps on hand to discourage the cats from getting onto our bed and aimed it in my direction. He is a crack shot. I stared at him hard and gave the pages a definitive flick.

This would not end well.

We called a truce. If I read now without flicking the pages, it would appear he won. If I read and flicked the pages, I was breaking the truce. I put the book on the night stand and sighed. We watched a third of an episode of Downton Abbey, one Foyle’s War episode, and the new Inspector Lewis – Generation of Vipers (I have the worst crush on Sergeant Hathaway) before finally falling asleep.

Despite the fact that I read zero pages of the intended novel, the day was not wasted. I even managed to do somethings just for me. I ran an hour on the elliptical and finished off my manicure with a lovely shade of purple. I can live with that.

Taking the Scarlet O’Hara approach helps, too. It is another day. I have another chance to read to my heart’s content.

I have the day off.

Are you a rifle or a shotgun?

Abdication

Dear Children:

Today I shall read a book. All day. Go ahead and laugh. You don’t believe I will or can do it, but my goal is to do what my friends do – read a book in a day.

Let this serve as notice. This will be me doing something for me. All that is required of you is to entertain yourselves and leave me alone. Forbidden activities include, but are not limited to:  Finding me wherever I may be and staring at me. Screaming matches outside my closed door. Text messages and/or phone calls.

There are a limited number of reasons for which you may approach me. They are:

1. Fire that you cannot put out on your own.

2. Arterial blood.

3. Someone ringing the doorbell while holding an enlarged check with lots of zeros at the end. 

Note:  You should involve me only if your father is unavailable. Unavailable is defined as: 1) Away from the house; 2) Comatose; 3) The person gushing arterial blood; 4) Is on fire.

If this warning is not enough, let me be clear. I don’t want to hear from you. At all. I know that our views on what constitutes a legitimate need differ so here is a short list of what I do not consider worthy of my attention.

Hunger. Boredom. Exasperation with another sibling. Exasperation with your father. Exasperation with me.  Flea bites. Hungry cats. Lack of clean laundry. Lack of  “food” (read: junk food). The weather. The parsimonious thermostat setting The fact that summer is coming to a swift end and we still haven’t done anything fun. The lack of money.

Take a good look at that list. You are all old enough to handle these issues. Telling me about them instead of simply dealing with them in a positive manner reminds me that I’ve been a failure as a mother and that is not conducive to happy reading. I will become angry at myself which will transform into angry at you which will manifest as slammed doors and shouting of things a mother should never say to a child.

Let’s prevent that because it always ends in tears and I look like hell after I’ve cried.

If you don’t think you can comply with my request, I recommend you leave the house. And no, I won’t give you a ride anywhere. Look down. See those projections at the end of your legs? They’re feet. Use them.

And don’t forget to text your father to let him know where you’ve gone.

Love,

Mom

Abdication

Dear Children:

Today I shall read a book. All day. Go ahead and laugh. You don’t believe I will or can do it, but my goal is to do what my friends do – read a book in a day.

Let this serve as notice. This will be me doing something for me. All that is required of you is to entertain yourselves and leave me alone. Forbidden activities include, but are not limited to:  Finding me wherever I may be and staring at me. Screaming matches outside my closed door. Text messages and/or phone calls.

There are a limited number of reasons for which you may approach me. They are:

1. Fire that you cannot put out on your own.
2. Arterial blood.
3. Someone ringing the doorbell while holding an enlarged check with lots of zeros at the end. 


Note:  You should involve me only if your father is unavailable. Unavailable is defined as: 1) Away from the house; 2) Comatose; 3) The person gushing arterial blood or; 4) What is on fire.


If this warning is not enough, let me be clear. I don’t want to hear from you. At all. I know that our views on what constitutes a legitimate need differ so here is a short list of what I do not consider worthy of my attention.


Hunger. Boredom. Exasperation with another sibling. Exasperation with your father. Exasperation with me.  Flea bites. Hungry cats. Lack of clean laundry. Lack of  “food” (read: junk food). The weather. The parsimonious thermostat setting The fact that summer is coming to a swift end and we still haven’t done anything fun. The lack of money.


Take a good look at that list. You are all old enough to handle these issues. Telling me about them instead of simply dealing with them in a positive manner reminds me that I’ve been a failure as a mother and that is not conducive to happy reading. I will become angry at myself which will transform into angry at you which will manifest as slammed doors and shouting of things a mother should never say to a child.


Let’s prevent that because it always ends in tears and I look like hell after I’ve cried.


If you don’t think you can comply with my request, I recommend you leave the house. And no, I won’t give you a ride anywhere. Look down. See those projections at the end of your legs? They’re feet. Use them.


And don’t forget to text your father to let him know where you’ve gone.


Love,
Mom

Tell me, did I go on a tangent?

Slices of life.

Like pie. Or cheese.

Needs a stronger prescription.

It’s been hot, but hey, it’s summer in Georgia (I don’t know what to say for the rest of you sweltering away where you are.) Heat is to be expected. The real problem is the humidity. But then, that’s expected, too. Expected, but still lamented.

I step out of the shower, towel off and I can’t get dry. It’s disgusting. And it makes pulling on those Fanx (faux Spanx) an unpleasant, curse-word laced activity. Before I even attempt it, I aim to rid myself of some of this moisture. And then there’s the fact I despise under-boob sweat. One’s chest should not be a swampland.

MathMan is still in bed with his eyes closed. I assume he’s asleep. I quietly pick up the box fan next to the bed and hold it in front of me. The air feels deliciously cool on my skin.

“You can just stand there and do that all day.”

The sweet man. Of course, I can’t take a compliment. “Good thing you’re not wearing your glasses. I’m so fat and gross.”

“I stand by my statement.”

Interactive

Don’t you think we need some more word play based on Fifty Shades of Grey?

I mean, in this age of online reality, nothing is a phenomenon until it’s been parodied four hundred and seventy-two different ways.

Here are is my attempts at Shading:

Fifty Shades of Kiss My Ass.

Okay, that’s it for me. Do something with this. I know you’re dying to.

Pointy

I’m listening to the audio book Jennifer Egan’s Look at Me. (Salon review from November 14, 2001)

First – Egan is an excellent wordsmith.

Second – Egan was incredibly prescient or I have truly forgotten how deep we already were into the internet in 2000.

Third – I’m an impatient reader/listener. Although Egan’s writing is beautiful, blah, blah, blah,  I am often thinking “Get on with it! Get to the point! Tell the damn story!”

Do you do this or am I just an asshole?

Holidaze

I’m going to take the month of August off from the internet. I’ve got some work travel coming up and a stack  of books to read. School starts back up and that’s a busy time at Golden Manor.

All of which is to say, expect me to blog every single day next month because whenever I say I’m taking a break is precisely when life presents me with all sorts of writing material.

Crank it wide open and let your thoughts spill out, yo.

And this because I love the lyrics, that’s why.

Tell me did I go on a tangent?

Slices of life.

Like pie. Or cheese.

Needs a stronger prescription.

It’s been hot, but hey, it’s summer in Georgia (I don’t know what to say for the rest of you sweltering away where you are.) Heat is to be expected. The real problem is the humidity. But then, that’s expected, too. Expected, but still lamented.

I step out of the shower, towel off and I can’t get dry. It’s disgusting. And it makes pulling on those Fanx (faux Spanx) an unpleasant, curse-word laced activity. Before I even attempt it, I aim to rid myself of some of this moisture. And then there’s the fact I despise under-boob sweat. One’s chest should not be a swampland.

MathMan is still in bed with his eyes closed. I assume he’s asleep. I quietly pick up the box fan next to the bed and hold it in front of me. The air feels deliciously cool on my skin.

“You can just stand there and do that all day.”

The sweet man. Of course, I can’t take a compliment. “Good thing you’re not wearing your glasses. I’m so fat and gross.”

“I stand by my statement.”

Interactive

Don’t you think we need some more word play based on Fifty Shades of Grey?

I mean, in this age of online reality, nothing is a phenomenon until it’s been parodied four hundred and seventy-two different ways.

Here are is my attempts at Shading:

Fifty Shades of Kiss My Ass.

Okay, that’s it for me. Do something with this. I know you’re dying to.

Pointy


I’m listening to the audio book Jennifer Egan’s Look at Me. (Salon review from November 14, 2001)

First – Egan is an excellent wordsmith.

Second – Egan was incredibly prescient or I have truly forgotten how deep we already were into the internet in 2000.

Third – I’m an impatient reader/listener. Although Egan’s writing is beautiful, blah, blah, blah,  I am often thinking “Get on with it! Get to the point! Tell the damn story!”

Do you do this or am I just an asshole?

Holidaze
I’m going to take the month of August off from the internet. I’ve got some work travel coming up and a stack  of books to read. School starts back up and that’s a busy time at Golden Manor.

All of which is to say, expect me to blog every single day next month because whenever I say I’m taking a break is precisely when life presents me with all sorts of writing material.

Crank it wide open and let your thoughts spill out, yo.

And this because I love the lyrics, that’s why.