Vagina. Vagina. Vagina. I just want you to get used to that for a second and get over it, so I can move on.

I don’t know what to do about mine.

As a mother of two very small children I barely have time to get through an entire shower, let alone concern myself with hair maintenance. You remember this effort? And the days I spent with a half-shaven whoo-ha? Well it hasn’t improved and I’m not sure of the best course of action.

I like things neat in that department. Not “awesome,” “cool” neat, but either bald or close-cut neat. It’s well established I have no real time to trim and shave in the shower, but I can’t drop $100 every month for a wax. So that really only leaves self, shower, vagina hair clippin’ time-budgeted in my week. I have to schedule time to trim the jungle that is my whoo-ha.

So now that I’m scheduling crotch clipping time-maybe when the Kaiser can watch the kids on a Sunday or something…do I buy special crotch clipping scissors, or do I use the same ones that open packages of markers and cut wrapping paper? Is there protocol established for this?

And then there is the matter of what to shave. And how much. Am I selfish if I take the 30 minutes to rid the whole thing of hair? Am I, somehow, a better mother for only taking the 5 minutes to do the sides? Is the compromise a landing strip?

…and a big welcome to my mother and other family members to my blog. Enjoy your stay.

Wow. It’s been a hell of a few days around here, huh? And it’s not slowing down…

The cat is out of the bag on my semi-anonymous blogging status. You see, I accepted a position Tuesday that forced me to let my family in on my little spot in cyberspace. And despite the Queen Mother’s insistence she has no desire to read about our fondess for Playboy or my bitching about the inlaws…I expect she’ll show up in the comments sooner rather than later.

Monday I’ll be adding my insight (stop laughing) as a contributing editor over at BlogHer’s new site. As many of you are aware, in my previous life I was a news reporter and it just so happens they need someone with my credentials to weigh in over there a few times a week. If it’s a news story and women are blogging about it-I’ll be making sure you know where to find it.

So make sure you join us on Monday for the big launch!

8pm Count Waffles announces he will sleep in his room. In his bed.
815pm Princess Peanut asleep.
830pm The Kaiser moves toddler bed from master bedroom to nursery.
845pm Storytime in toddler bed underway
9pm Count Waffles announces he no longer wishes to sleep in his own room, in his own bed
915pm Everyone back in Mommy and Daddy’s bed
930pm Count Waffles chatting away. Peanut asleep
10pm Count Waffles visits Daddy downstairs to rock in rocking chair, talk
1045pm Peanut awakes, Count Waffles returns to Mommy’s and Daddy’s bed
11pm Count Waffles asleep, Peanut awake
12am Peanut awake with fever, motrin given
1am Peanut awake with fever
2am Peanut awake with fever, is stripped to diaper
230am Peanut awake with fever, tylenol piggybacked on motrin
315am Peanut asleep
325am Mommy finally asleep
345am Count Waffles awake and announces he’s peed the bed
4am Count Waffles changed, Mommy (who feels pee on her arm) changed, towel laid on pee spot while Peanut and Daddy sleep
415am Count Waffles, Mommy, Peanut, and Daddy asleep
530am Peanut begins coughing but does not wake
6am coughing continues
615am more coughing
630am more coughing
645am Mommy gets out of bed with coughing Peanut to get her elevated, and so as not to wake Count Waffles, Kaiser
7am Mommy blogs with Peanut
715am Mommy wonders about BlogHer in July…anyone going?

No, I haven’t won a fabulous trip to the Bahamas or anything. Just a good dose of…drumroll please…….

Post Partum Panic/Anxiety disorder. with a shot of post traumatic stress disorder (too many years of news reporting)

Treatment: drugs, yoga, walks, education on this “medical condition,” therapy. (note medical condition remains in quotes. i will admit this is a real, medical diagnosis when i’m ready, dammit. my new mantra is: its a medical condition, not a weakness. its a medical condition, not a weakness. its a real, medical condition, not a fake, woman problem. this is not my fault. this is not my fault. this is not my fault. i can not control this. i can not control this)

Feeling: humbled. Emotionally spent. like a burden. weak for having to go. strong for having gone. tired. Relieved. uncertain. scared. exposed. a little better. a little worse. somewhat humiliated. somewhat encouraged. hopeful.

In need of: reassurance. family time. kaiser time. reassurance. reassurance. a medical degree. a martini. reassurance. lots of books on post partum depression and panic disorder. reassurance.

**editor’s note: It landed in the severe category. we got the cheap co-pay. and that is my silver lining. i didn’t have to crazy it up or anything.

I just spent 40 minutes looking for an “I’m not crazy” top to wear.

I started with a v-neck sweater, but decided the embedded imprint of the rectangle Target “L” tag running under my left boob might not work. Coupled with the hanger mark on the right shoulder, it screamed “not together.”

Then a pink, long sleeve shirt. But upon noticing the stain hovering around the belly button I thought that might be a dead giveaway that I slacked in the laundry department for awhile.

I landed on jeans, a white t-shirt, and a sweater coat I haven’t worn in ages. Add my glasses and I now look like a clinical pyschologist. Or a professor. So I guess the doctor today will just think I’m suffering from delusions of being something I’m not instead of post partum…

Only a crazy person spends this much time trying not to look crazy.

You may have a hard time telling in that photo, but Her Royal Highness Princess Peanut is scowling at me. She’s pissed off because of the tooth that won’t cut. And, possibly, because I stuck her in this ridiculous, fuzzy, bear coat/snowsuit. Not that it snows around here, but she doesn’t know that. And it was cold (like, 50’s…shut up, that’s cold for Southern California) and we were going outside.

Her left top tooth is in. Her right top tooth, however, just seems to be waiting for the right moment (I’m guessing 2am, maybe 4am) to poke on through. This has put our little peanut in a rather foul mood for, oh, a month. Ok, maybe more like a week…but whatever.

The Highland teething tablets are not working. The infant motrin is not working. The Highland gel is not working. The only things that seemingly soothes this savage beast is my left boob. You read that right. The LEFT boob. The right one, apparently, does not rub the right spot.

So Mom’s left breast is mangled. It’s literally being gnawed on 24-7. It has scratch marks, bite marks, and even a cut. My right boob, meanwhile, is deflated from all the non-use.

HRH Princess Peanut also seems to think that randomly waking, oh, 40 times a night is the correct protocol for her current state of discomfort. And she doesn’t just fuss a little and groggily grope for boob. No, no, not our little sunshine. She prefers to go from sound asleep to ear-piercing scream in no time flat. No warning. No slight awakening movements. Just sit straight up and pulls you out of your only REM cycle of the night with, what you’re sure, is the sound of a baby being mauled by an animal.

As you can imagine, we’re all a bit warn out from the drama. If you wouldn’t mind a little blogosphere chant…say it with me now…”CUT THAT TOOTH! CUT THAT TOOTH! CUT THAT TOOTH!” Thank you.

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There is something unbelievably sad and selfish that happens to a Mom when she witnesses one of those “growing up” moments. Or two, today…in my case. All we did was play at the park and then get Count Waffles a haircut. That’s all we did. Yet somehow, everything has changed.

Count Waffles did his usual thing at the new park here in Suburbia. He ran. And ran. And ran. Then he ran up to some kids and asked, “do you want to play with me?” and promptly ran away. How he will ever make friends this way is beyond me.

The usual playgroup crew was present, plus maybe a half dozen other non-school aged kids with their nannies (we were on the other side of town today…the one where both parents work). A little baby boy, about Princess Peanut’s age came crawling over to our little girl and sat. At 9-months they really just sit. So HRH and the boy basically just drooled and stared.

Then came trouble. A friend’s 12-month old. Who thought it would be fun to use the butt-heavy babies as bowling pins and plow through the two, knocking both the weebles on their sides.

From NOWHERE, Count Waffles raced over. Scolded the 12-month old with a very, very harsh, monster voice “That’s MY sister…no hurt MY sister.” And ran away.

I stood there, stunned. Baby still rolling on her back. Wondering who the hell that protective brother might be…and how the hell I could get him to manifest this alter ego more often.

Then came the haircut. Because, you know, Mom hasn’t had enough fun for one week. It’s standard practice around here that Count Waffles just NOT get haircuts. Trust me, it’s much easier this way. There are no tears. No screaming. No globs of hair stuck to a lollipop. But the hair, officially getting caught in his eyes, finally had to be dealt with.

We entered one of those kid salons and I put on my game face. You gotta have a game face for haircuts. I told you, it’s a blood sport.

Ready to pry fingers off chairs and strap him down if need be, I announced to the lady at the desk (poor, unsuspecting woman) that Count Waffles the Terrible had arrived.

“Ok, sweetie, we’re ready for you…come on back”
Game face. Game face.
“Ok, time to get my hair cut Mom. Good Bye.”
Good bye? Uh, wait…I’m going with….uh…good bye…umm…
Count Waffles marched to the Jeep haircut chair. Sat down. Played with a basket of toys while they clipped away.
I sat in a chair.
Feeling totally obsolete.