It’s time to introduce a new game on the blog. I like to call it, “Guess What I Ordered – No Really – Guess.” The way it works is I order something in the mail and slowly reveal what I found inside the package and you get to guess what I ordered. You can only look at one picture at a time and no skipping to the end. If you can guess what I ordered before looking at the final picture, you win… your mind-reader’s license. This is a good one. Ready? Okay.

Picture number one:

If you guessed that I ordered something from Misikko, you’re RIGHT! But that’s not specific enough. Try again.

Picture number two:

If you guessed bubble wrap or a box full of pink and monkeys, you are incorrect.

Picture number three:

Mid-grade false flower in eggshell? Nope.

Picture number four:

Did you guess pink soap flowers in a recyclable recepticle with a pink bow? Incorrect!

Picture number five:

Gorilla with convenient velcro hands? So very wrong. Both you and the gorilla.

Picture number six:

Pink satin bag or pink satin bag full of emery boards with their own individual ball chains? Uh-uh.

Picture number seven:

Bargain brand hand sanitizer? Not a bit.

Picture number eight:

Purple satin clutch? This was a free gift.

Picture number nine:

White satin bag nesting inside the purple satin bag? We’re getting close.

Picture number ten:

TA-DA! If you guessed Hana Shine Shield Advanced Heat Styling Therapy, you’re a winner!

I’m excited to try it out. It comes as a recommendation from Abby, my hair guru, who has a blog that I lurk on and then spend hours trying to copy her hair… because I am creepy like that. If things don’t work out with me and Hana, there’s always the velcro monkey. What a haul!

Magoo has developed a great love affair with markers. He likes to write all over his body with them but only if they are of the non-washable variety. We’ve been upping the consequences each time and at this point anyone under the age of 30 is forbidden from using non-washable markers at all.

It’s not like he draws a cute little flower on his toe, or writes his name on his bicep. No. Recently he drew multicolored tiger stripes all the way up both arms, starting at the wrists. Laylee knows the rules and she loves nothing more than to be the enforcer. For a while there, every time I would punish Magoo, she would lean in conspiratorially and loudly whisper, “MOM! I AGREE WITH YOU!”

So it didn’t surprise me the other morning when we were sitting in our living room, having a serious meeting with someone we’re hiring to do some work for our family, and Laylee came in and quietly but frantically waved this note in my face. The kids had been warned not to disturb us during this meeting but she knew something had to be done. Apparently there wasn’t time to find a piece of paper.

Translation: Magoo drawed on himself again now. Stop him right now. He is in TROUBLE!

Chrubol indeed. He had given himself a nose which he was quite proud of.

It was this deed that moved me to outlaw all un-washable markers. Hopefully when he does this in the future it will not take 4 days to wear off and on the 3rd day, his nose will not look painfully bruised. I think a man should have to earn that look with a good honest rumble.

Laylee’s planning on moving out soon and I don’t think I’m invited. It has something to do with my personal appearance.

Read more at Parenting.com

As we walked into church on Sunday, my friend Carmen said, “Wow. You should really get that girl some tap dancing lessons.” And she’s right, because then not only could I publish her childhood details online but I could possibly make some dough by selling her into showbiz.

And regardless of the Lohan-esque horrors that brings to mind, I think she would be pretty darn cute tapping it away on the silver screen as her curls bounced fiercely up and down. She doesn’t have dimples, but I’m sure there’s some sort of surgery for that.

If you know Laylee at all, you can guess that she was quite pleased with this latest hair care masterpiece. When I suggested we put in her hearing aids before leaving the house, she balked, “I don’t want to mess up my curls.”

“Medical devices before beauty.” That’s what I always say. Some people attribute that quote to Confucius or Coco Chanel but I’m pretty sure I said it first.

When we got home from church, she created this self portrait.

I think it’s pretty good but in my opinion, she didn’t spend nearly enough time shading her upper lip.

In March I got the best haircut ever from a woman named Karina who my sister-in-law introduced me to in Utah. Although I’d never met her before, I instantly trusted her and she picked a new hair color for me and gave me bangs. And I loved them. And I was highly attractive. And I knew it.

And then a week or two passed and the bangs grew out and I was back in Seattle so I tried to cut them myself and then I put them up in a clip indefinitely. And then a couple of months passed and it appeared that the roots of my hair had not gotten the memo. They started to grow in this revolting dishwater blond color. Random.

So I’ve been limping along, dying my own hair all kinds of colors and stopping at random salons hoping for a good cut and being disappointed.

Then I went to visit my parents in Montana. On Saturday night I was begging my sister to take a whack at my bangs. To give her the courage to proceed, I decided to tell her all about how Karina is the only one who ever cuts my hair successfully and about how no one else could possibly measure up. She did not seem encouraged but she promised to try.

The next day was Sunday and I found myself sitting in my mom’s church congregation with all 5 of my siblings pretending to pay attention while we passed our children back and forth across the pews. And then I saw her. Several rows up in the center section of the chapel was KARINA THE HAIRDRESSER FROM UTAH. Seriously. I drove down from Seattle only to find my favorite Utah hair dresser in my parent’s church.

I leaned over to my sister Heather and whispered, “That’s HER. My hairdresser from Utah I’ve only met once and haven’t seen in 6 months. We will stop her after the meeting and ask her to tell you the secret of how she did my awesome bangs.”

So I did stop her and, dragging Heather along behind, I tore her away from the family she was visiting, re-introduced myself, introduced my sister and asked her to do an impromptu hair lesson. Although a bit taken aback at first, she was too rad not to help and started tugging at my hair and explaining to Heather how to make a proper line. Then she stopped.

“Oh, just go to the library and get a pair of scissors.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. I’ll meet you back here.”

So I went to the library and asked the cute ladies for the sharpest pair of scissors they had. They went through the drawer testing each set. “What are you gonna do, stab someone?”

“No… Um… I just need to cut something very precisely.”

I whisked Karina off to the bathroom where she cut my bangs with paper scissors while the rest of my family headed off to Sunday School. Heather stayed with me and stood in the bathroom with her hands cupped under my chin to catch the hair clippings as they fell.

Either she didn’t catch them all or I sprouted a unibrow in a way-too-short period of time. Luckily I was able to brush it away and my bangs looked fab and I flitted off to my next meeting.

I think next Sunday I’ll stop by the children’s nursery and see if anyone’s willing to minister to me in the form of a mani-pedi.

I’ve had a few comments about my new profile picture over at Parenting.com. What?! I actually had a decent photo taken of myself to use as a bio picture when I write and attend conferences?! I’m no longer using the 2-year-old picture of myself makeup-free, crouched by the door at my in-laws’ house cropped close so you couldn’t see the kids snuggled up to me?!

My sister Becky is a photographer and she took me and the kids into the studio for an impromptu photo session while we were in Utah. We had a blast and came out with some great shots, although I sort of wish I’d thought to wash Magoo’s face and lose 30 lbs beforehand. I also wish Dan had been there. She’s a great photographer, eh? (Mouse over the photos for commentary.)

I DID get my hair cut and colored a few days before. I went in for highlights and had been so impressed with the hairdresser’s style that I told her to do whatever she wanted. She gave me bangs and made me blonde. It’s not something I would have ever been brave enough to ask for but I really love it. This is the first time since Junior High that I’ve had bangs I liked.

When Laylee saw me, she said, “You don’t look like my mom!”

The truth is I look like her mom with a wig on her head. But it’s a good wig, a wig I enjoy wearing, a wig I probably can’t afford to upkeep for very long. It’s fun.

I was teaching my 9-year-olds at church today and they were sort of blown away by the transformation. One little girl kept repeating, “You look SO different.” Finally I told her, “Yeah, it’s different but we’ll get used to it.”

“No,” she said, “I will NEVER get used to it.”

Okay.

Someone recently told me that my face at rest looks a little angry, mean or possibly snarkish. Since I rarely see my face when it’s truly at rest, I had no idea that I was possibly sending people a rageful vibe.

This has troubled me and I’ve begun practicing my neutral face. I want to look happy but I don’t want to sit around with a goofy grin on my face, my eyes popping open with inexplicable joy at the thought of the traffic I’m sitting in or the produce I’m squeezing.

I also don’t want to be one of those people who walks around with a secret smirk on their face, a look says, “Sh-yeah. I am so much cooler than you. You don’t even know that your fly is undone.” Do you know those people, people who make you self-conscious by the simple fact that they always seem to by laughing on the inside, not in a nice way?*

So, I’m trying to cultivate a look of friendly, happy, effortless contentment. It sounds easy, but oh no it is not.

I want to keep my mouth closed to avoid what my dad refers to as “looking like an idiot” and I want the corners of my lips to turn up ever so slightly but not enough to make me look demented or promote wrinkles or other facial decay.

I spent 45 minutes on the elliptical trainer at the gym today sweating away my troubles and trying out various relaxed facial expressions in the equipment video screen which is quite reflective and conveniently placed.

I’ll tell you, I’m not making a lot of progress in this mission. I end up looking like someone who’s trying to look relaxed, friendly and effortlessly at peace while bouncing up and down with a heart rate of 160. It’s very strange and when I’m practicing facial expressions, I always end up doing the fake laugh like I’ve just thought of something mildly hilarious from earlier in the day. One corner of my mouth twitches to the side, I wrinkle my nose and make a mild “hmph” sound while nodding my head ever-so-slightly. Trust me — I look really cool and nonchalant while I do that.

In the end I decided that perhaps I should work on learning to make a face that does not inform everyone that on my MP3 player I’m listening to Vanilla Ice, Paula Abdul and Shakira in Spanish (which I don’t understand) and I’m grooving so hard on the inside that it would be embarrassing to the other gym patrons if they knew what was happening inside my head.

Hola Isabel! I feel you dawg. Move to my town. Iron something on for me!

I had no idea things were deteriorating this quickly. She’s always shown a preference for soft fabrics but I thought it would take her more than 4 years of life to spiral downward into a world clothed exclusively by stretch pants. Her future now seems certain. She’ll be shuffling around in a floral house dress by age 12.

Yesterday when I was getting her dressed for school, she complained that her jeans were uncomfortable. “When I wear them I feel like my legs are bleeding,” she whined dramatically, tugging at the legs of her pants. “I want to wear soft pants only.”

“But these are warmer and the fabric is stronger. They look really nice.”

“But they hurt so-ho-ho ba-ha-had! If I need warm pants, I can wear the ones that are made out of fleece.”

Her useable wardrobe is now limited to sweats, stretch pants, leggings, pajamas and princess gowns and I’m a little worried. Don’t get me wrong. I love me a comfy pair of “yoga pants.” The new title “yoga pants” sounds so much more chic and active than “stretch pants” or “spandex”. I’m well pleased with it. However, I don’t wear them out in public, except to the gym and it’s taken me years as a stay at home mom to love them as much as I do right now. I’m guessing I’ll need to give birth to at least 2 more kids before I degenerate to the point where I wear them at all times and in all places.

Laylee on the other hand has already given in. She has no desire to rage against the dying of the light. She cares only for comfort.

I think my only option is to get her hooked on yoga or some other brand of near-eastern fitness craze. Then we can always tell people that she’s on her way to work out.

Now when the stretch pants get too scratchy and she’s ready to move on to muumuus, I’m not sure what I’ll tell people. Maybe, “Her grandkids are coming over and she’s got a whole bushel of beets to pickle.”

The answer to the question — “Where do you keep the scissors?” — should always be — “Higher.”

Today Laylee gave Stephanie’s 3-year-old a serious mullet. She shaved groovy designs in Magoo’s tender scalp, and was just taking her turn in the butcher’s chair when I walked in to see what the kids were up to. Half of her pony tail was on the floor. Luckily it was the top half.

I’m just glad she’s not old enough to notice how uneven it is after I “fixed” it for about half an hour, around and around in circles with the scissors, shorter and shorter and always the little crazy feathers and tails hung down mocking me.

So it’s sort of bobish and Magoo’s is baldish. I had to shave it shorter than his eyebrows in order to get to the point that he didn’t look like he was losing his hair in chunks due to some hideous mange. I hope his friends can still tell that he’s a mammal. I wouldn’t want him to be mocked on the playground.

I came back from a late church meeting last night a couple of hours after Laylee and Magoo should have been sleeping in their beds. I closed the door behind me and turned around to see Laylee at the top of the stairs grinning down at me in the last pair of footy jammas she owns, the fuzzy pink ones I can’t bear to part with yet, the ones that are 2 sizes too small.

My first thought was consistency. We’ve been really inconsistent this summer with bedtimes, snacks gone wild, discipline, and pretty much every aspect of parenting and family life. This week we’ve been really focusing on getting back into routines and teaching our kids that because we love them, we give them limits and now we’re finally gonna get back to actually holding them accountable to those limits.

So my first instinct when I saw her up out of bed was to say, “What do you think you’re doing? Bed. Now.” But I just couldn’t do it. Looking at her sweet face beaming down at me, I thought, “She just wants to greet me. How does she want me to respond? How would I want my mom to respond? What will she remember about me when she’s grown and gone?”

I let my face break into a very sincere grin and exclaimed, “Oh LAYLEE! I’m so glad you’re still awake! I’m so happy I get to see you before I go to bed.” I rushed up the stairs and gathered her in my arms and could feel her face squishing joyfully against my shoulder.

“Why don’t you head back to bed sweet pea?”

“Mom,” she whispered in my ear, “I’m making a copy of my Jesus book for Ellie. I’m working so hard and writing and drawing and do you wanna see it?”

I looked at the black pen on her freshly bathed face and hands and considered for a second. Again, my instinct was consistency. “She should already be asleep and she’s up coloring in her room. We have to get up really early for church and she’s covered in pen and if I go look at her picture, I’m encouraging her to disobey her dad and stay up late when she should be sleeping.”

Again I looked at her face, so eager to please, so excited about her project, not at all calculating or manipulative (Trust me. I know what those faces look like too.) and I told her to run quick and get her picture to show me.

She’s just beginning to really enjoy writing letters and she has latched on to this little tiny book and wanted to copy it for her friend. I was overcome with cuteness and sent her off to sleep. A few minutes later I walked by her room and saw her hunched under the nightlight, carefully transcribing. I remembered late night games and books read with flashlights under the covers and I smiled and left her to her fun.

The products of last night’s adventure were a snuggly and happy preschooler today who was patient with me when I did tell her she couldn’t do certain things, and this little book that’s sure to be a family treasure. Looking at the outrageously happy faces on the pictures she drew last night, I realized that love is the most important thing I need to be consistent about with my kids.