Always have your own money; it’s important to have that independence. That’s what both my step-mother and my mother taught me, ingrained in me. It stuck with me, as it should, that I should be able to care for myself should something happen to my marriage leaving me to fend for myself: to raise my children with little (or no) support, financially.

Because of those lessons, I keep my own personal bank account, I have my own RRSPs (retirement fund) and I make my own money.

Before I continue, I, in no way am trying to belittle those who have made alternative arrangements, those who have decided to live entirely from one bank account and whom have given up their personal aspirations of a career to raise their children, because I have no doubt that sacrifices have been made and they (you?) are definitely contributing to the family. There is no question.

(Huge run-on sentence, sorry; but did I manage to use ‘whom’ in the correct context? I have NEVER been able to use that word correctly!)

And though I have my own money, I have made sacrifices for my family (ie: Maternity Leave) which has decreased my personal income, in turn has left me more dependent on my husband’s income to buy clothing and things for myself. I do not feel guilt for buying them, for treating myself once and a while. Like yesterday: yesterday I went for a badly needed haircut, a new style and dye. I don’t keep a regular regime for my hair care, I go when I can and because it’s rather pricey, I try hard to stretch the time between visits - like four to six months!

I came home really excited about my new do, most notably, gained a little self-confidence with the drastic change. (Of bangs! OMG!) And waited patiently for him to come home so I could show it off a little.

(Ah, delusional. Men don’t care about new hair. I know.)

He came in the living room and just looked at me. It’s different. You’re definitely a blonde hun. Dark doesn’t really work for you. Wha? Definitely a blonde? That’s what you think of my hair? Fine. I can handle that. Whatever, you’re a man, which means you don’t know shit about hair and fashion.

(Ya, I was a little disappointed with his reaction. But whatever.)

The kicker?

How much did you waste on that? Well thank you Prince Charming! Aren’t you fabulous!?

He then tied into me about wasting money and how I didn’t need to spend that much on my hair. It’s just hair.

(Okay. I can handle that. But then…)

I don’t work my ass of for 15 hours a day for you to spend it all on your hair.

Um. Wha? What just happened there?

Granted he has been working a lot. I will give him that, but in no way will I tolerate him telling me that he works all those hours and I am just frivolously spending his hard earned money!

I have held a job since I was 15 years old. I have worked to pay my way for all these years and I have sacrificed forwarding my career in order to start a family and have children. For him to sit there and belittle me as though he were my keeper struck a cord to say the least. It struck a cord indeed.

Woman sacrifice so much in for their families - some men, yes - but more often than not, it is the woman who says goodbye to the career and work life to stay home and rear their children. It is us who give up the education, the paycheque, OUR BODIES!!!, the adult interaction to care for our children, our homes, the groceries, the laundry, the bills, the cleaning, the gardening and whatever else may need tending to.

We leave behind the satisfaction of a job well done, the promotions, the lively (haha!) board meetings, the lunches with co-workers, the stimulation; we leave all this for the vomit, the spilled milk, the dirty diapers, tantrums and piles of laundry. And for what? The satisfaction of knowing that we are caring for our offspring and our husbands? Puhlease.

I would maybe enjoy it a little more should he even acknowledge the fact that I’ve sacrificed so much for this family. For us. For him.

But instead I’m told that I am wasting our money on myself!? What a kick in the proverbial nuts!

Need I remind him (and you) that while I sit here with my two boys, I am being paid. Sure, it’s not my full salary but I am being somewhat financially compensated by the government to spend this year home (as well as designing to try and compensate for the salary cut I’ve taken). Yet, I feel as though I am viewed as a slacker, a leech, a nothing.

I can’t pinpoint the reason he feels the need to belittle me this way. I don’t know how I can break through to him that I am still being paid to sit her on my ass and eat bonbons while I watch soap operas - because that’s what he thinks I do all day. When it came time to start my Maternity Leave I offered him the possibility to take Paternity Leave (where he can stay home for a couple months while I return to work). He outright refused stating that he makes much more than me and we can’t afford for him to stay home. Resorting to belittling me AGAIN! as an excuse not to stay home? I don’t know.

I am just beyond irritated that he views my being home as though he is given full right to dictate my spending habits as well as treat me as though I am inferior to him because I am not working. Call it jealousy, or envy, whatever. I just know it’s not right, or fair.

I am so beyond pissed and I just can’t get past how fuckin‘ mad I am at him for treating me this way!

Style and trends and not my forte. Not by a long shot; I’ve always been a t-shirt and jeans kinda gal. Can’t help it, I wasn’t raised by fashion conscious people, I lived in the sticks and now? I just suck.

There. I said it. I suck.

I will never be Stacey London. (Stacey. I love you. CALL ME! I could desperately use your advice. Yes, you can bring Clinton along…)

I’ve been trying, slowly to become a little more daring with my hairstyle (I figured I’d start there) since I typically wear my hair up in a messy bun. (Typically? Read: ALWAYS) and threw in some highlights, then lowlights, then chunky lights. I cut off seven inches and now? Now I am thinking a medium length angled bob with…

*deep breath*

…

*exhale*

…

BANGS.

I haven’t had bangs since I was eight years old. I remember how painful it was growing them out then, but hell, I was EIGHT. What the hell did I know about cute clips, headbands and whatever.

(Ya, still don’t know. But I can learn!)

I’ve slowly been working towards this. I went from all one length, to fringe, then side swept bangs… now I figure it’s time to go all out.

Bangs.

Wow.

My last cut I went for this Jessica Simpson-like shoulder length cut (removing seven inches of hair!!!)

I really liked it, but it just wasn’t styled like this (ever) and looked cute, but child-like cute.

I’m thinking maybe the same blunt cut at the bottom, but Reese-like bangs??

My natural colour is an ash blonde, which is not so favourable since it just looks greasy and washed out. (which it’s not really because I do occasionally shower.) It’s not the bright, white/ash blonde it was as a child. Seriously, I wish I had photos… it was like this:

(I was cuter though, sorry kid. It’s true)

Now? Not so much…. so I’m going darker - about a shade darker than my natural colour and with chunky blonde highlights randomly throughout.

I can invision it, I just pray it works. I know, it’s just hair and it’ll grow back (but! Not before Friday when I leave for the BlogHer ReachOut Tour in Boston. *wOOt*)

(But more to come on that later.)

My appointment’s on Monday morning and I’m still unsettled on whether or not I go with bangs.

*sigh*

Then? After? Shop.

(Maybe something coordinating for baby and me?)

I desperately need pants since the only jeans that fit at maternity and I’m nearly FIVE FUCKIN’ MONTHS postpartum. I have no idea where to start because, like I said: I HAVE NO FASHION SENSE.

Are flares still in?

Do I have to succumb to the ’skinny jeans’?

What about boot cuts? Does that mean I need some heels?

Mah brainz r swirling with the ideaz.

Maybe I’ll just wear my pink crocs.

You know when you write something and you’re kinda proud of it, but a little embarrassed at the same time? I’m sure we’ve all done it at some point. You know the one; you’re about the spill your heart out to The Internets and share something that will expose you to theyour very core, but you’re concerned about being a little too open? One where you teeter between hitting hit publish or delete?

I had one of those, and for some cosmic reason my computer freezes (Um, fuck you Vista. Kthxbai.) and said post has vanished. I was a little relieved, while slightly disappointed because I put so much effort into it; that disappointment turned to heartache when I opened my reader today to see that two other wonderful people are suffering just the same (Coincidence that our children are just weeks apart in age?). Heartache because I know writing it doesn’t only help myself, but others who may be in the same situation.

It’s a funny thing, that darkness. The way it brings out characteristics which would normally be wrapped tightly within our psyche. The lack of sleep warps and blends reality into a dreamworld where one tends to lose grasp on what is right and wrong. Flirting at the realm of what’s real and dream is a scary and dangerous ground which seemingly overcomes us at our weakest.

Each night I fear that place; the place which my silent house and lack of sleep takes me. Nights should be peaceful and comforting while everyday distractions are dismissed and it’s finally just me and my baby. But when I hear him stir resentment overcomes me; as my husband snores peacefully beside me, deep in sleep I dread getting up and tend to the baby’s needs. Each movement, sigh and grunt increasingly infuriates me the less sleep I get. I hate that I become this tyrant when my sleep is interrupted; I hate that I want to put my selfish needs before my innocent child.

Friday I fought to stay awake the whole day and by nightfall I was more then ready to succomb to sleep. To relax and put an end to the day, but my night would stretch beyond my comprehension. Deliriously tired, I sat in the darkness as my baby sucked the last of my willpower from my breast.The fussing, the whining, the inability to relax sent me over the edge of my sanity. I was at the point where I invisioned, too clearly, shaking my baby, throwing him down in the crib and walking away.

As the tears rolled down my cheeks, splashing silently upon his head, I immediately felt guilt. I felt horrible for even thinking I could do harm to my child. Knowing that I would never, the image was so vivid it was truly frightening, embarrassing even. Repeatedly telling myself this was just a phase, I rocked back and forth, coddling, cooing and shushing through tears, eventually calming us both.

His serene and porcelain-like cherub face resting pacefully wedged between my arm and breast made my heart melt. As I kissed his rosey little cheek, soaked with my tears, his released a peaceful sigh.

At that moment, I knew it would be alright: at least for now.

Sitting at the dinner table sometimes I forget that my child is there. How could I forget you’re wondering, well… I guess I don’t. My mouth does.

Mike: *some derogatory comment.*

Me: Suck it.

Carter: Suck what mommy?

Me: Oh nothing Carter.

Mike: Tell Mommy to Suck it.

Carter: Suck It mommy.

Me: You tell Daddy to Suck it.

Me: Hey Carter? Suck it.

Mike: Carter tell Mommy to blow a goat.

Carter: Mommy, Daddy said blow a goat.

Me: Carter, you blow a goat.

Carter: No, I blow goat when I get bigger

:::

Mike: Carter, go get naked. It’s time for a bath.

Carter: NO!

Mike: I said get undressed.

Carter: Daddy, Suck It!

Carter: Mommy, I told Daddy to Suck It!

Oh, you want us to babysit? Sure. No problem.