This morning was normal for the most part. Kids and I got up and had breakfast, and then they went to work destroying the house. My four year old son, Joey, poured himself and Jake (age 2) juice, and left several small sticky puddles from the fridge into the breakfast room. A short time later I observed Jake sticking his fingers into Cecilia’s ( age 11 months) mouth. Of course, I immediately told him to stop and asked what he was doing. Apparently Cecilia ate a “Corn Pop” which had been left over from Jake’s breakfast and stuck to his shirt. I assume he was saving it for later. Overall, I’d call the morning a success even though I had to semi-mop the floor (thank you Swiffer) and almost having to perform the Heimlich maneuver on my daughter.
Despite this morning’s normal speed bumps I was feeling rather productive since at about 1:30pm I had fed the kids breakfast, lunch, and put them down for naps, showered and was now on my way to my annual girlie doctor’s visit (don’t worry I won’t start talking about va-jay jay’s). What I failed to realize was what was currently transpiring on top of my head. My hair, as I ventured from my air conditioned house into the 90 degree heat, was transforming. Just in those few moments from house to car, and another 5 minutes pumping gas, was enough to bring out my summertime afro. Those of you who know me, please visualize FULL afro. Those who don’t, picture the offspring of Macy Gray and Richard Simmons. By the time I reached the doctor’s office, my hair was sticking nearly straight up. Now, keep in mind, I do whatever I can to NOT have to take my kids on trips like this or other routine errands. There’s three of them (all under age 5) and one of me. Taking my kids out alone is just asking for crying, screaming and meltdowns (and I’m just talking about me). I arrange for someone like my husband or mom to stay with the kids so I can venture out and appear sane, even well maintained, whether it be true or not.
“What a waste,” I thought to myself as I walked in the 90 degree heat and humidity from the back of the parking lot into the doctor’s office. As I checked in I was given the usual forms to complete, showed my insurance card, and was asked “May I take your photograph for our records?” Ummmm. What’s that now? Apparently, my OBGYN’s office is going digital and along with my records, they now require a photograph. WTF!? The receptionist actually had to zoom out, presumably to fit my whole head, afro included, into frame. In an effort to further embarrass me, I was allowed to view said photo, and all I can say is this… I would have happily used ANY of my previous DMV photos in its place. So I suppose now I will be seen not as the “domestic diva” I try so hard to portray to the public, but frozen digitally for all of time in my medical file as my normal frizzy, frazzled, flustered self.