Thank You

I'm terrible at writing thank-you notes. Let me clarify. I'm actually quite good (if I do say so myself) at writing a very thoughtful, personal thank-you note. I'm not good at taking the time to actually write it.

It's not because I'm not thankful, because I am. And it's not that I forget about the gift, because I don't. I don't even forget about writing the note. I'll think about it at totally inopportune times, like in the shower or when I'm grocery shopping. Sometimes, I start writing the note, or I even get so far as to finish it and put it in an envelope. But we never have stamps, or I can't find the address, or I get distracted by a kid wanting a snack. It gets put in my "pile" and never seen again. Okay, not never. But when it finally surfaces again it's been long enough that I'm embarrassed to send it. But more often than not, I never get to writing it in the first place.

Of all the thank-yous I have forgotten to write, the only ones that continue to bother me are the ones I have forgotten to write to my Aunt Thiry. She's my godmother and she's the only relative (outside my immediate family) who remembers my birthday. She sends a check in a beautiful card and always writes a long message inside telling me what she's been doing and asking about my family. She includes a Bible verse, one that she chose just for me. This year she included a hand-made wooden cross. I used to write back. But since having kids (they seem like a convenient enough excuse) I haven't done that. Not because I'm any less appreciative of the card and Bible verse; I'm actually more so now that I have a nephew and a niece-on-the-way. I recognize now what a special relationship that is. But in an attempt to show her how much it means to me I reject the idea of a simple thank-you note and decide to write a letter instead. However, if I couldn't find the time to write a short note, it's even more daunting to find the time to write an actual hand-written letter.

The other piece of my guilt is my mother. She takes it as a personal failing on her part that I don't regularly write thank-you notes. And my Aunt Thiry is her sister. So while my mom has no idea that I didn't send a thank-you note to my friend Jen for the dinner she brought after Lily was born (I did, however, say several verbal thank yous...that has to count for something, right?) I'm sure she asks my aunt if I have sent a card yet. I can almost hear the conversation:
My mom: Did Sara send a thank-you yet for the birthday card?
Aunt Thiry: No, but I know she's thankful, I don't need a thank-you note.
My mom: She really should send a card. I raised her better than that.
Aunt Thiry: Oh, Sara is so busy. I don't need a thank-you note.
My mom: She's not too busy to write a thank-you.
Aunt Thiry: Well, I think Sara is beautiful just the way she is. I really don't need a thank-you note.

Ok, so I know what you're thinking (or at least what my mom is thinking). If I can take the time to write this post, why can't I take the time to write a thank-you note? That's a good point. And it has been bothering me all while I've been writing this morning. But there's another aspect at play. What do you do with the thank-you notes you get in the mail? I'll tell you what I do. First, of course, I read it. They pretty much all say the same thing ("Thank you for the such-and-such. It's just what I wanted. Love, So-and-so"). Then I, very gently and with great care, place the card and envelope at the top of the pile in my...garbage can. Is there anyone out there that keeps thank-you cards? If so, I will keep an eye out for you on the next episode of Hoarders. I won't get into one of my environmental kicks, but it just seems like a waste. Wouldn't a phone call make more sense? Or better yet, saying thank you in person? Unless you're going to write a letter (like I keep planning to do for my aunt) I don't see the purpose of wasting that money/stamp/paper. (BTW - I feel the same way about ALL cards. Except for Christmas cards. There's something special about Christmas cards.).

I'm not going to make any promises about being better at writing thank-yous. I know myself better than that (and lately I'm trying not to constantly set myself up for failure). But one thing I do want to be better about is saying thank you over the phone or in person. First off, I want the giver to know that the gift was safely received. And, obviously, I want the giver to know that I'm grateful for whatever it is that was sent. However, if I can't find the time to write one thank you note, I'm probably not going to find the time to call everyone who has ever given me anything. So, I ask that this post serve as a public thank you to all of the wonderful people in my life who have given me things and not gotten a thank-you card in return. You are owed more than this, but right now this is all I'm able to give. I'm hoping I can now consider myself up-to-date on thank-yous. Except for the one I owe my Aunt Thiry. I'm going to turn off my computer and write her a letter right now.

Dog Days

I have a dog, a black lab mix (with what we don't know). She's a good dog, doesn't bite the kids and sometimes sits when asked. She currently has a huge thing growing out of her eye that the vet doesn't seem too worried about, but that I think gets a little grosser every day. She's getting old. My husband loves her. My kids adore her. I tolerate her.

About eight years ago, after being married for just over 6 months, Wade and I decided to get a dog. Okay, before he gets all in a bunch, I decided to get a dog. Whatever. The point is, we looked at a few different Humane Society locations and after seeing many dogs of all shapes, sizes and temperaments we saw Sadie. Amongst all the barking and jumping she was lying in her kennel quietly. She was beautiful, silky black fur and a streamlined body. We took her out for a walk and fell in love. We brought her home and introduced her to my cat.

For some reason we decided to get a dog when I still had one week of teaching left in the school year. But she was a year old and already house trained, so I thought it would be an easy transition. And starting at the end of that week I would have the whole summer to work with her. Our first evening at home with her we lounged on the couch and watched T.V. It was exactly what I pictured having a dog would be. The next morning I fed her and gave her a pat on the head as I headed out for the day. I thought about coming home to her wagging tail, she'd be waiting at the door for me to come in. I had been coming home to Mona (my cat) for years at this point, but she always seemed more annoyed to have me back in the house. A dog, on the other hand, would be excited to see me.

Sure enough, when I arrived home I could see her on the other side of the door. She was wagging her tail. She was happy to see me. Perhaps she was wagging her tail a bit too hard, she was a bit too happy. As I opened the door and was greeted by her happy, energetic face, I was also greeted by the overwhelming, suffocating stench of poop. Everywhere.

Oddly, it never occurred to me to take her back. I was angry. I was disgusted. I was completely out of love. But I was also committed. I immediately went out and bought a kennel. All evening I worked with her on getting in and out of the kennel on command. I put a blanket in it to make it comfortable. And the next morning, in the kennel she went. Problem solved.

That afternoon I rushed home to let her out, feeling slightly guilty that she had been cooped up all day. As I approached the door I was, at first, happy to see her wagging tail. But then it dawned on me, Wait?! What's she doing out of the kennel!? Stupidly I had bought a kennel where the door simply slipped into a metal bar, there was no lock, and the latch was easily (apparently) maneuvered from the inside. And once again... Poop. Everywhere.

This time I went out and bought a combination lock. Not so maneuverable from inside the kennel. Morning. Kennel. Locked in this time for sure. But, you guessed it, she met me at the door once more. How did she open the lock, I thought, She doesn't even know the combination!! I wish I had taken a picture of the kennel. It was bent. Twisted. Completely mangled. And she had somehow squeezed her body through a tiny opening and yes, pooped. Everywhere.

I was at a loss by this point. But Wade realized we could put her in one of the rooms in the basement until we figured out what to do. It was an old house and had an old unfinished basement. She couldn't do much damage down there. So, I left her whining behind the closed door. Although I was fully expecting it, she did not meet me at the door that afternoon (wouldn't that have made an amazing story?), but when I opened the basement door the first thing I saw was wood chips and blood. She had completely scratched away the inner side of the cheap, hollow door. The next day, had we left her down there, she would have broken through.

We solved the problem by putting a huge chain-link fence in the basement. She never got out of that. We had won. I had won. But here's the thing, it was never really about winning (well, maybe a little about winning). I just wanted this dog to know she was safe with us. I hated that she was pooping all over my house. I hated coming home to that smell. I hated scrubbing the cream carpet. But what I hated most was knowing that she had spent all day worrying, scared to death that we weren't coming back. I don't know what her life was like before we got her, but it couldn't have been good. I wish I could have explained to her that with us it could be.

Having a dog is not what I had pictured. She is hyper, nervous and always underfoot. She makes my house dirty. She pushes my patience. But she's also gentle, protective and great with kids. I'm not gonna lie, I dream of a time when my house isn't hidden under a layer of dog hair. But I also know that when that day comes, there is going to be a missing member of our family.

On the Edge

I spent the last three days on a camping trip with three other moms and our collective seven children. It was fun and adventurous and rainy and relaxing and uplifting and terrifying. Yes, absolutely terrifying. Well, only parts were terrifying. And only for me.

We camped in the Gooseberry Falls State Park. Clean bathrooms, nice campsite, quiet evenings. Lake Superiour was breath-taking. Both in the sense that it was beautiful, and in the sense that at times when I stood by it I, quite literally, couldn't breathe. It seemed that every direction we turned there was a cliff. Steep, high, dropping to rocks, crashing water and certain death below cliffs. Well, I'm assuming that's what the cliffs were like. I never actually got close enough to look over the edge.

The first snippet of fear hit me when we took a walk after dinner on the first night. We thought we would wear the kids out a bit before stuffing them in the tents and commencing with mom-time, which consisted of sitting around the campfire drinking beer. The kids ran off ahead of us a bit and one of the other moms yelled "Don't get too far ahead!" Another said "Beware of the cliffs!" I laughed. Kids running near cliffs! Preposterous! And then we emerged from the path onto the top of a cliff overlooking Lake Superior. I'm sure the view was gorgeous, but I couldn't see it. I was too busy screaming at my kids to stay away from the edge. We'd had a long rainy day of driving and setting up camp, so we only stayed a moment and then headed back. I'd only gotten a taste of what was to come.

The next day started with doughnuts and a trip to Split Rock Lighthouse. We spent the afternoon watching the kids play at Agate Beach while us moms sat with our feet in the cool lake water. Probably my favorite camping adventure. It occurred to me that I didn't seem to worry as my kids climbed huge rocks. But that evening, on another after-dinner walk, we went to what appeared to be a tad-pole breeding ground. It was a large, flat area that had several puddles, ranging from an inch to several inches deep. But beyond the puddles was, once again, a cliff. The kids had all been there earlier, when one of the moms had taken them on a hike. They had wanted to bring the rest of us back to see the tadpoles. On their first visit, they had been so excited about the puddles, that they hadn't ventured near the cliffs. But this time, feeling gutsier and excited to be showing off their cool find, the kids were running everywhere. I was filled with dread. Dread and panic. Hysterics, actually. Every ounce of my being, every cell in my body was terrified. I was tense and almost shaking. It was hard to catch my breath and all I could do was yell ("yell" doesn't quite describe it) at my kids to come closer to me. The fear must have been written all over my face and in my voice because Sophie asked why I was so scared. She said she knew not to go near the edge. I looked around. None of the other moms seemed so panicked. Of course none of them wanted their kids near the cliff's edge, but they seemed to trust that their kids knew better. They didn't seem to think that the answer was to repeatedly bark "Stay away from the edge! Get back here! Please, get back here!" And now that I think about it, none of the kids were going close enough to the cliff to actually fall.

I watched as one of the moms walked right up to the edge, looked over, and walked back. She did this as if it wasn't any big deal. As if looking over the edge of a cliff didn't automatically mean plummeting to her death. Later, as I thought about how all consuming my fear had been that evening, I once again pictured her standing there, looking down. I thought to myself, The only way I could ever do that is if there were a rope tied around my waist. But then again, if the rope broke... I thought about a time, about four years ago, when we went to a family reunion in Colorado. Wade, my dad, my brother, my sister-in-law and myself took the cog rail up to the top of Pikes Peak. At the summit there was a restaurant and gift shop. I was difficult for me to step out of the building to look at the amazing views. But I did, and I was fine. However I wouldn't walk within 30 feet of the edge. As long as I was no where near the drop, I knew I couldn't fall. I didn't feel scared. I didn't feel panicked. As long as I kept that distance, I was okay. But at the top of the cliff over-looking Lake Superior, it wasn't just about me. I knew I could stay far away from that drop, but there were seven kids who were filled with excitement and wonder and who weren't willing to hold my hand.

Here's what I rationally knew, even at that time: I knew all of the kids are smart, good kids. I knew that the other three moms weren't going to let anyone get hurt. I knew that I was the only one who was reacting that way. And I knew that my hysterical screaming was doing nothing but sucking the fun out of that moment for everyone. But I couldn't stop myself. I couldn't stop because what I knew was overpowered by what I felt. And what I felt was that something terrible, something catastrophic was about to happen. And I wouldn't be able to stop it.

Even typing that sentence brought the panic back for a second.

I've never thought I had any phobias. But on this camping trip it was clear that I do. What I had felt around those drop-offs was more than just wanting to keep my kids safe. It was irrational. It was all consuming and completely beyond my control. I thought I might be afraid of heights, but after talking with my husband about my experience, he pointed out that I have climbed to the top of St. Paul's Cathedral with no problem. I don't mind flying and one of my dreams is to slowly float above the world in a hot air balloon. I'm not afraid of heights. I'm afraid of edges.

After searching Google I found some explanations:

"Fear of edges is not a fear of heights. I don’t mind being up high at all. Planes, elevators, skyscrapers, none of those bother me. It is standing at the edge and being confronted with an unreasonable belief that I am going to tip over and something horrible will happen."

"This Edges phobia is generally caused by some influence of "Edges" in the person's life through the media, cinema, childhood experiences, family experiences, dreams, books, news events, etc."

Apparently, there are over 250,000 people in the US who have the same fear. I'm still reeling a bit as all of this is coming together. Note the influences in the second quote. My entire childhood, and even rarely as an adult, I have had dreams of endlessly falling. I wake up out of breath and in a panic a split second before, in my dream, hitting the ground. And now that I'm thinking about it, I'm terrified of the edge of the platform for the Subway in NYC. Bridges with little or no railing are almost impossible (although I can make myself do it) for me to cross. Even walking along the dock at Rabbit Lake, which I have been doing my entire life, has never been easy for me. It's actually a bit of a relief to finally understand why.

On the last morning of our camping trip, before packing up and heading home, we went to Gooseberry Falls. There were edges, but we mostly stayed away from them. I'm sure for my sake, although none of the other moms made me feel badly about it. At one point they took six of the kids, including my Sophie, to the other side of the falls, where it was a bit "cliffier." Max had wanted to stay back and play in the water. As I sat at the rocky shore and watched him, I thought about the fact that Sophie was off with all the other kids and moms, out of my sight, too far for me to hysterically scream at her. I said a little prayer that she stay safe and tried to make sense of how I had been feeling. Before too long I saw the kids emerge and begin making their way across the shallow river back towards Max and me. Sophie, filled with excitement, came running up to me, barely able to contain herself, and said, "Mom! I touched the top of a waterfall!" I hugged her and told her that it must have been amazing.

Clearing Out

I purged my Facebook friends recently. I "de-friended" over 100 people. Anyone I didn't really know or who I couldn't remember when last we communicated was out. It was kind of addicting, actually. Deciding who got to stay and who didn't was very powerful. I think I'm in a purging place in my life, because I'm starting to feel that way about things, too.


With three kids, my home gets overrun with clutter on a regular basis and every once in a while I can't take it anymore. I've hit that point, once again. I have dedicated this summer to getting rid of stuff. Big and small. Whether it's a picture frame somone gave me 11 years ago or a sofa and love seat set that we just don't need anymore, it's outta here! I'm tired of keeping something because I don't want to hurt the feelings of the person who gave it to me. Most of the stuff I classify as "junk" is actually nice stuff. It works, it's pretty, it has a use, just not for me. So, if someone else can use it, I want it to stop taking up space in my home and go be used (or take up space) in theirs.

I know I have said this in previous posts, but things are just things to me. There is very little with which I feel an attachment. My mother-in-law, on the other hand, wraps up memories in things. That's not wrong, but it's different then the way I work. I often feel badly when she offers up something and I say no. She sees memories and meaning, I see one more thing I have to find room for on the basement shelves. The item that first comes to mind is an old fryer that had been in her mother's basment. Cheryl asked if we wanted it. Wade remembered making donoughts with his grandma, but all I saw was something that would be thrown in storage and never used. I was too quick to say no and hurt Cheryl's feelings, which I did feel badly about. But later, when I talked to Wade about it, he agreed that we would never use it and it didn't make sense to move it from her basement to ours.



It's not just my mother-in-law. My mom also gives us things and because she is my mom, it's harder for me to say I don't want it. But, I'm learning that saying no is okay. I just picture where it will be in my home. If it's going to be put to use, I'll take it. If not, no thank you. It's kind of empowering, actually. And I've stopped feeling bad about donating things she has given me. For years I kept clothes in my closet because she bought them for me. How silly! They were old, or didn't fit, or weren't my style. But they would work for someone else, so someone else should have them.



And it's not just stuff that other people gave me. It's stuff we bought, too. Probably the hardest decision I have made in this process is to sell my piano. We bought it off of Craig's List about a year and a half ago for $100. It's about what you would expect a piano for $100 to be, but at the time I thought it was perfect. Over time, however, I realized it's too big for the space, doesn't fit in with the decor of that room and it will cost a lot more than $100 to get it in good working condition. And while I played every day when we first got it, since Lily was born I don't think I have sat down to play more than two or three times. So, it's back on Craig's List. I know we'll have a piano again someday, but that isn't the right piano and this isn't the right time.



I'm struggling, however, with stuff I find during my purging of stuff that we have a plan for, but no actual use for at the moment. And by "plan" I mean something that may or (more likely) may not happen. For instance, in my purging mode I started cleaning out a closet on the finished side of the basement. I found a bunch of stuff that we shoved there when we first moved in 5 years ago and haven't seen or thought about since. When we bought the house Wade thought we could put a bar in the basement. We were new parents then and hadn't quite realized the impact that our one-year-old would have on our house. Fast forward five years and two more kids. I found boxes of Vikings pint glasses, glass boots and tiki cups. And the real kicker, a huge 3 liter Heineken beer bottle (yes, actually filled with beer). I completely agree that all of these things would be fun to have in a bar. Someday. But realistically, are we really going to put a bar in this house? And are these items meaningful enough to justify keeping them for the next 20 years, when we're empty-nesters and might actually have the time/room/space for a bar in our next house? I'm pretty sure I know what my husband's answer will be, but I'm not so sure.



We put our treadmill and elliptical machine on Craig's List. Unlike many people who never use their excercise equipment, there was a time when I used the treadmill every day. But we joined the YMCA awhile back and now I would much rather work out there then in my basement. So, the treadmill is gone and someone is coming to look at the elliptical tomorrow. So whether the buyers use them for exercise or as clothes hangers, I'm happy to have them out of my house. The finished side of our basement is almost going to double in size once the exercise stuff is out! I can't wait!



Funny thing. Even after losing 100 "friends," I haven't missed anyone yet. As a matter of fact, I have more room now for the updates from people I actually care about. I know the same will hold true for the stuff. I won't miss it. And I'll have more room in my house for the people I actually care about!

Three Days

My parents took my two oldest kids, Sophie and Max, up to Rabbit Lake for the rest of the week. I've been looking forward to this ever since my mom casually mentioned taking the kids once school was out and I forced her to pick dates and make it official. Just kidding, sort of. My mom and dad wanted this time with my kids and I think it's good for kids to get away from time to time. And my parent have lots of fun things planned, so I know, from my kids' perspective, these days are going to fly by.

Leading up to this morning, when my parents came to get the kids, I fantasized about what I would do with all of my time. Granted, I still have Lily, so I'm not completely child free, but she's only one kid, and she naps. And she's still fairly easy to take places. I thought about all of the shopping I could do (I'll finally get a rug for the kids' bathroom!) and the projects I can get done around the house (clean out closets and organize the rough side of the basement!). I also thought about the friends I could see now that I have three totally non-scheduled days ahead! Suddenly three days didn't seem like enough time!

And then they left.

Believe it or not, I actually had to fight back tears as they pulled out of the driveway. What am I going to do without my babies, I thought. Who am I going to talk to all day? I started thinking about how funny they are! How sweet. How Sophie likes to write "I love you. Yes I do." on every piece of paper that she finds. Or how Max, in the middle of coloring in his Super Heroes coloring book, will stop and say "Mom, I love you." I'm going to miss watching Sophie ride her bike like a pro, and the way Max forgets he's wearing his helmet and will suddenly realize it when he's watching TV. I miss their hugs and kisses. I miss how they entertain Lily for hours on end. I never really realized it before, but I like my kids. I mean really like them. Not because I have to, but because they're great kids!

Then, after I put Lily down for her nap, I did something I haven't done in years. I sat and watched Young and the Restless. Don't misunderstand, I watch Y&R almost every day. But I never sit and watch it. There wasn't any laundry to fold. No kitchen dishes to wash or put away. No toys to pick up. No one interrupted me to ask if I could get some tape/scissors/gum/water/snacks. I watched the entire thing without getting up once (Adam is alive! I knew it! And what do you think about Billy...does he really love Victoria or is he scamming her?). It felt strange, like I was doing something wrong. I kept looking around as if I heard someone approaching, but no one was there. I kept thinking I should vacuum, but then remembered that the cleaners were here yesterday and my house is spotless. I'd already done my project for the day (cleaning out the front closet), so all that was left to do was relax.

It's a fine balance. My kids aren't here, and I miss them. But when they are here, I miss the freedom to do what I want to do, like sit, when I want to do it. Even though I'm going to enjoy my three-day break (and I am, trust me), more than anything, it's going to be a good reminder of how much I like having my kids around. (Mom, I might need this reminder one or two more times throughout the summer. Just kidding, sort of.)

Good Touch, Bad Touch

A month or so ago a mom in the neighborhood sent out the name and phone number of a babysitter she was using. I have sitters that I trust and that my kids know very well, so I never called this new recommendation. Thankfully. Earlier this week that mom warned us against ever having that babysitter around our children. She said it was the worst we could imagine. The sitter had touched her four-year-old daughter.

Something like this is every parent's nightmare. I have always been hyper aware, maybe too much so, when it comes to other people being around my children. I don't want to instill fear in my kids, but I want them to know that it's not okay for anyone, ever, to touch them inappropriately. And even more importantly, that we don't keep secrets from each other. I know that someday, as teenagers, my babies aren't going to tell me everything. But I believe this is the first step in letting them know that they can. And they aren't teens yet. At this point there is nothing they should be keeping from Wade and me.

I'll never forget when our pediatrician, during Sophie's regular well-check, had to put his hands just under the waistband of her underpants. Before he touched her he told her what he was going to do and then said, "The only reason this is okay is because your mommy is standing right here." I was so grateful that he had handled it that way. It didn't scare her or make her think she needed to be afraid, but it also clearly sent the message that someone touching her "there" was not normally acceptable.

I have had several conversations with Sophie and Max concerning "good touch and bad touch." I, like most parents, have heard to teach your children that no one should touch them where their bathing suit covers. Of course, I agree with that, but I have taken it a step further. I tell my kids that if anyone touches them and it makes them uncomfortable, they need to tell me. I figure, I can decide what's a good touch or a bad touch better then they can. For instance, if someone puts their hand on Sophie's inner thigh, I consider that a "bad touch" (this has never happened, I'm simply making a point). But her swimming suit doesn't cover her inner thigh, so by those rules it's a "good touch." I believe that kids know, instinctively, if something feels out of sync. I also believe that for the creep who is inappropriately touching a child, it's not always about where. So if my son comes to me and says his friend's dad touched his leg and it didn't feel right, I will trust that intuition with all of my being and Max would never be allowed near that man again (once more, this has never happened...and I pray, every time I send my kids to a friend's house, that it won't).

I tell my kids they should never be alone with an adult when they are at a friend's house. I tell them that I will never send someone they don't know to pick them up from school (or anywhere). I tell them if someone tries to take them, it's okay to hit and scream and bite and kick. Never approach someone in a car or a van. I tell my kids that their body is theirs and no one, NO ONE, should touch it in any way that makes them feel uncomfortable. From time to time, in a light-hearted way, I quiz my kids on what to do in certain situations. So far, they give me the right answers.

Unfortunately, the only way to know if I'm handling this in the right way is for one of my kids to come to me and tell me something has happened. So, obviously, I'm praying that all of my worry and preparation will be for naught. But I suppose the almost invisible silver lining for that mom in my neighborhood is that her daughter did tell her about that babysitter. Because if she hadn't, who knows how many kids around here would have fallen victim. Hooray for that brave four-year-old little girl. And kudos to the mom who taught her not to keep a secret.

Bad Hair Day

Lately I have been quite self conscious about my appearance! I know that everyone is staring at me, wondering why I would allow myself to walk around looking this way. It's not completely my fault, and I am doing something about it. I have an appointment at the end of the week that will fix everything, but that's days away. So, I must, we all must deal with it until then. In the mean time, please, don't stare at the hair on my upper lip.

Because of my short locks I have a haircut every 5 weeks or so. I have a routine. Sheena (Hi Sheena!) cuts it a bit shorter than I actually want it cut. So for the first week after the cut I curse her a little bit for listening to me when I told her to take more off (I ALWAYS tell her to take more off). But the next week my hair is perfect. The perfect-ness lasts for about two or three weeks. Eventually I start noticing little things, like it won't lay right or there's a random chunk that points in the wrong direction. It's at this point that I start thinking about contacting Sheena for my next appointment. However, I don't actually do that until the day that I can no longer stand it. So, I send her frantic text messages asking if she can fit me in, or if she'll be home that afternoon for me to stop by with all three of my children to rampage her house while she does my cut and color. That's my very strict routine.

Unfortunately, the hair on my upper lip is on a different schedule. It needs "tending to" more often. Every three to four weeks, maybe. The tricky thing is that by that point I figure I might as well wait until I'm going to see Sheena for my hair. But that leaves a week, now for instance, when I feel like I'm walking around with a handle bar mustache.

But in one visit Sheena will make me feel beautiful. For over six years she has been cutting, coloring and waxing my hair. It started when I walked into Regis Salon in Southdale looking for someone new to cut my hair. Short hair is tricky and not just anyone can cut it. I don't want my dad's haircut (Love you, Dad!) but I do like it short. Very short. The stylist I had been going to previously was moving to California. I seriously considered following her out there so she could continue cutting my hair. Enter Sheena (after I entered Regis, that is). I was pregnant with Sophie and wearing a horrid pink shirt. I don't remember what Sheena was wearing, but I do remember that I liked and trusted her right away. I followed her when she moved to Total Image of Edina (this was a much easier decision then deciding if I should pack up and move to CA). And now I usually just go to her house where she has a salon and our kids can play and stay out of our hair (well, my hair. Ha.).

I see Sheena about once a month, so of course we are more then stylist/client now. I consider her a good friend. We started as young marrieds and now, between us, we have five kids. As a matter of fact, both times Sheena told me she was pregnant, it was while she was leaning over me waxing my lip! She knew I was pregnant with Max before Wade did. We talk about our husbands, houses, jobs and kids. Other than Wade, Sheena was the only person who knew I planned to get a tattoo on my last trip to New York City.

Sheena gives me a fantastic deal. I won't tell you what it is because you would be angry and jealous and I don't want to foster those emotions. But I do have a bit of a dilemma. Obviously, when I started having Sheena cut my hair, I tipped her. Generously, I hope. Like I said, it's difficult for me to find someone who does a good job (tried Great Clips once and literally left in tears) so I'm happy to pay well when I find someone who cuts it the way I like. But over the years, as our friendship has formed, tipping has started to feel strange. It's not about the money, I'm happy to pay. But I feel like tipping has become patronizing. Especially now that I'm usually at her house. On the other hand, I would hate (HATE) for her to think that I don't appreciate her time, effort and talent. We've come to an agreement (although I don't think we've ever actually talked about it) where I write the check out for the amount she tells me. But I still feel a little badly every time.

I am excited to see Sheena at the end of this week. My kids love seeing her boys and we always have lots to talk about. I'm not looking forward to the waxing, but it'll be an easy 5 pounds, gone. And of course, my hair is in desperate need of a trim. In all honestly if Sheena ever moves to California, the decision would be easy. We'd pack up and move in a heartbeat!