HTT - Waxing Edition

I read this article last week.

I then threw up in my mouth.

If you are too lazy to read it, and 9 out of 10 people are, then I'll sum it up: Moms are taking their young (i.e. 10 and under) kids to be waxed - eyebrows, legs, back, bikini line - all in the name of beauty. Because, you know, young kids with hair (gasp!) are so disgusting.

I'm disturbed by this, just like I am by all beauty trends that that dictate maintenance standards until we are waxed, plucked and primped into copies of each other. And I'm even more disturbed that mothers are behind this latest craze.

Let me make this clear - your child is beautiful just as he/she is. Right now. With a unibrow. With an unnatural amount of back hair. With average peach fuzz on her legs.

Now, I should clarify that there are two types of moms they discussed in the articles - those who bring their children in to avoid/curb teasing and those who do it to improve their child's appearance. I can sympathize with the former, but the latter may be the scum of the earth. (Oops! Just checked and that title still belongs to people who take advantage of the mentally disabled ... but it's a close second.)

In my house, we didn't get to shave until 12. I cheated at 10, but I fell into that early puberty category that necessitated it. But I was probably the only girl in fifth grade with smooth skin. We all wore our unruly hair in ponytails and loose T-shirts and distinct child body odor scent with pride. Whereas today's fifth graders are sporting highlights, fitted designer gear and hairless gams. It's sad.

Kids deserve to be kids, and teenagers deserve to be young, as well. The pressure to be perfectly primped is too much to ask emotionally, physically and financially of people who can't even drive themselves to an appointment.

But what do you think?

Is this just a harmless trend?

Or is it hurting our kids?

Discuss.

Sundays with the Dubs

For those of you who don't have the pleasure of attending church with us every week, let me summarize Miss Dub's behavior in two words: loud and crazy. Yesterday, for example, she hung herself from the pew and swung her body, shouting, "Swiiiing, Mommy, swiiiing!" Sounds cute on paper, but it was actually pretty annoying, mostly to the people sitting in the pew in front of us.

And that's just a sampling of her bad behavior, which included roaring during the sacrament and playing peek-a-boo with the general audience. Eventually, Mr. Dub gave up and took her out. She just doesn't get the concept of whispering and nothing about her personality is demure. That's also why I love her. She will dance on command. She can speak in full, albeit hard to understand, sentences. She has a vivid imagination already. She gets many adult concepts. She says, "Cool man," "Cool dude," and "Cool beans" without prompting. But she is very loud, very stubborn and very energetic. (This is probably the part where my parents chuckle and say, "Pay back!")

It's funny how certain qualities are appreciated at different times in life. I have no doubt her enthusiasm and stubborness will make her a very successful career woman. I also think her outgoing personality will make her quite popular in school. But as a toddler, it's a lot to control. I find myself looking at more subdued, proper children and wishing Miss Dub could be a little more like that, but then I remind myself, "That kid is on the road to nerdom." And nerdom brings its own set of challenges, like bad fashion sense.

I really have no one but myself to blame. I'm loud and crazy myself. And I'm just not a discipliner. I don't tolerate really inappropriate behavior, like biting or kicking, but I can turn a blind eye to most other things - including pouring water all over the ground and pretending it's a pool. I don't have the energy to fight every battle, plus I just love to see her imagination and independence at work.

But on Sundays, it really comes back to bite me.

Fourth grade and 5'5"

Did you know that I’ve only grown less than an inch taller since fourth grade? It’s true, though we won’t discuss how much I’ve grown wider – sufficely to say it’s somewhere between an inch and a yard. And not only was I the tallest girl in the fourth grade, but I was the most curvaceous. Puberty chewed me up and spit me out in about three weeks, leaving only emotional angst in its wake.

My advanced looks combined with my sweet elementary fashion skills and pathetic eyewear – let’s just say I now refer to those glasses as my “safety goggles” – made me part beauty queen, part circus freak. Some boys focused on the former. (Like Ben, who later told me he only “went out” with me because I was the only girl in our grade who “wore a bra for a reason.” Class act that one.) Some boys focused on the latter. Like Seth.

I loved Seth with all the passion a fourth grader can muster. I loved him so much that my shoes were covered in his name, though my proper upbringing gave me the restraint to only mark up the soles. I loved him so much that I had to refer to him in code so that no one besides me and my 78 best friends knew who I was referring to. We selected the name “54” as his code name because, for some unknown mathematical reason, all boys had to have code names that were multiples of the number 9. (It’s the hottest number, perhaps?) Apparently I was good at math because other girls settled for names like 18 and 27. But Seth – Seth was a 54.

He made this giant wave in the front of his hair that rippled all the way to the nape of his neck. He wore mock turtleneck Jimmy’Z shirts in bold geometric patterns. He rode a bike with the grace of a sixth grade boy. (And he was in sixth grade so he didn’t ride very special at all.)

I batted my lashes from across the blacktop. I wore my best Gap plaid shorts. I passed notes to a friend of a friend of a friend of Seth’s cousin, inquiring about his affections. I crank called him at slumber parties just so he knew I was out there, waiting for the moment when I could mutter, “Hi, is there Seth there?” without fear.

Then, a magical thing happened. At the big Battle of the Books competition held after school on a spring day, Seth and I found ourselves only a table away from each other, being quizzed on the nuances of “Bridge to Terabithia.” I tried and tried to make eye contact with him, but to no avail. But then, out of the corner of my eye, I caught him mouthing something to me.

“I love you.”

No, it couldn’t be. I looked again.

“I love you.”

There was true peace in the universe! Seth loved me. I loved him. We would be married shortly and start a family. We would be happy for always and forever.

“I love you,” I mouthed back with zeal.

Within moments a note came my way.

From Seth.

With a heart on the outside.

Anxiously, I undid the origami folding open and revealed the following message:

“I said, ‘I elephant you.’”

The old “I elephant you” trick. I had been duped.

My heart broke into a million pieces and I was despondent for what seemed like forever but was actually only two days. Which is when I met Jason, but that’s another boring post.

But I like to think the experience made me stronger.

But not taller.

No, never taller.