Sooooo, I’ve been working insanely hard at Day Job these past two weeks. Hard, as in, I left work yesterday thinking my brain hurt from the sheer mental exhaustion from concentrating all day. Which, as a side note, led me to believe that I’ve been coasting along on wit and sheer charm for a while. Whatev. <—-not a typo. I've randomly adapted this shortened form of "whatever" because, frankly, there's just not enough time in the day to mess with -er.
On Friday, I worked late. I drove home, shivering, because we're still in our Arctic freeze here (nothing says cold weather like having to hold your breath as you scurry from your car to the office, simply because the air is so cold it hurts your lungs. Hurts your lungs), and I was thinking about how nice it would be to get home and eat. I was hungry. And The Hubs was cooking dinner.
The Preschooler met me on the front steps, loudly proclaiming that The Toddler had corn in his nose.
Well, that's just ridiculous." rational, Work Me thought. "I mean, sure, that happened a few months ago, but I got that kernel out."
Then it dawned on me. Sure. That happened a few months ago. But it's The Toddler we're talking about here. The child who I caught trying to ride his toy trike off the couch and into a pile of pillows and blankets. The child who was running around with a frying pan on his head last week, yelling, "That's MY bacon tray!"
I wasn't excited to go in the house anymore.
But I did, because that's what responsible people do, and the image that met my eyes was The Hubs leaning over The Toddler, peering up his nose with a flashlight. He looked at me when I walked into the room. "He's got corn in his nose."
"So I've heard."
"I got one piece out, but there's a kernel way back there I can't reach." He handed me a nasal aspirator and the flashlight. "Do you want to try? We can take him to Urgent Care."
Having just worked a ten-hour day and feeling the hunger pangs starting to cloud my judgment and polite verbal communication abilities, the last thing I wanted to do was rummage around a two-year olds nose, looking for corn kernels.
But I did. And I couldn't reach it.
So, we went to Urgent Care, a walk in clinic. And they couldn't reach it either. "Take him to the emergency room in the morning," they said, "unless he starts hemorrhaging, in which case take him tonight."
You know……I feel as if I'm perpetually waiting for someone to hemorrhage. When I was pregnant and having Braxton Hicks, the doctor said everything was probably fine unless my water broke or, I started to hemorrhage. Blood pressure a little high? Just follow-up with your primary care, unless you start to hemorrhage (thanks again, Urgent Care). Corn stuck in your nose?
Watch out for hemorrhaging.
It is corn in the child's nose. Not a thumb tack.
So, having medically been given a window to try getting the corn out on our own, we went home. I begged him to blow the corn out. I flashed the flashlight beam in his eyes and made him sneeze (okay, that was accidental, but he sneezed). I used the saline solution Urgent Care gave us to try to flush it out. No success. "Grumble grumble grumble." I said and ate some cheese and crackers. What a maddening Friday evening.
In the morning, I decided to give corn extraction one last try, because frankly the emergency room is expensive and I didn't want to spend all day trying to wrangle two children, while waiting the seventeen hours we'd probably have to wait to been seen for a non-emergency medical emergency. "Please." I begged. "Please just blow the corn out. Blow hard."
"Please just blow really, really hard." I hesitated. "Mommy will buy you a milkshake."
Two fierce blows later, the corn rocketed out of his nose, bounced off my face, and landed on my shirt.
I've never been so proud as a parent.
So, following this minor, skirting on major, disaster, I decided to trim my hair. Now…I've been cutting my own hair for well over a year now. It's been going well. I mean, I'm the kid who always wears her hair in a ponytail. This is a trend I've maintained since I was in kindergarten. Anyway, I've been flirting with the idea of cutting my hair a wee bit shorter. It's been long for several years now and I'm going through my annual "I need a change" crisis. I held my hair up above my shoulders and admired how cute it would look. Then I held my fingers just below my shoulders and contemplated cutting.
Put the scissors down.
Picked them up again. Put them down again.
Then I just leaned over and cut.
This was probably a poor move, as when I stood up, around three to four inches of hair length was laying on the counter. My brain said "Holy mother." My mouth said, "Whhaaaaaaaaaaa?" Well, now I had to cut the other side and even it up because a person can't go through life looking like that. When I walked out of the bathroom, The Hubs said, "I like it!!"
The Preschooler said, "Oh my."
And, there you have it. The accidental haircut. The, "I'm just going in here to trim my hair a bit" haircut which turned into now my hair just barely touches my shoulders massacre. I'll post a picture eventually, but when I attempted to take a selfie yesterday, I still had a vague look of horror in my eyes. Sigh. As my father would have said, "Smooth move, Ex-lax."
In other news, now that my hair is uber-short, I have the urge to dye it dark red. I don't know why. But the fancy has struck me and now I can't be stopped. More forthcoming on that one. Probably.