So my new kid has cradle cap. You know, that yellowish, crusty stuff some unfortunate babies get and that WebMD says is completely normal? Well, if you’ve never seen it, it’s gross. It embarrasses me. I feel like I should mumble apologies to people who tell me he’s cute. “Yeah, if you can look past the horrible, flaky scales on his forehead, I GUESS…”
But that’s what makes me a charming parent, no? Displaced self depreciating humor? No?
I assume this level of shallowness is due to the fact that I am no longer shallow about my own appearance. I have not worn people clothes in nearly a year. I do not count yoga pants as people clothes. Or flannel shirts. Definitely not sweat pants. I only have one pair of jeans that (might) fit and they were purchased from Walmart out of necessity. I’ve worn them a grand total of twice. I only got my hair cut once in the past year and that was because I was too lazy to brush it.
I used to have a job and things to do, but those days are gone. Ok, so I still have shit to do but it’s not fun… and by “not fun,” I mean “not paid” so, therefore, I set my own dress code which is “meh… whatever.” I used to even wear pretty underwear to go under my pretty slacks/skirts/blouses and expensive hand bags to go with my fancy, uncomfortable shoes. I spent a hilarious amount of money on these things.
And here I am today… commando. Not sexy, come-hither commando either. It’s “You might die in this covert operation. If you’re goin’ in, may God be with you, soldier.”
I think the things I used obsess about in my own appearance I now focus on my poor, helpless child. You can take the business-casual workplace out of the girl but you can’t take the girl out of the business-casual workplace… wait.. what? Ok, opposite that for me. I’m on a strict, baby-dictated, time budget here. Cafe Titties must be open when baby calls…
In order to take care of this terrible affliction my son suffers from (more terrible, even, than severe over-dramatism!!!), I Googled some crap and it said to use pure olive oil on the affected skin to help it go away. My boy was very good while I massaged his head with olive oil–quiet and uncomplaining. I followed up with a large splooge of lotion since I began to doubt that my olive oil was PURE olive oil. Have you heard about this? The giant scam that is olive oil, in not just America but the world? Well, I have about five minutes before the kid wakes up so I’m not going to have time to explain it to you. Look it up.
Anyway, so I lubed up my kids head real good with lots of moisturizing agents and gently exfoliated with a damp, soft cloth. He was so calm. It’s shit like this that’s probably going to bite me in the ass when he grows up and starts wanting facials and expensive spa treatments one day. Well, I’ll just remind him how pointless it all is since all the rubbing and massaging and lubing still did nothing to remedy his weird sandpaper-head-thing he had going on. Plus, after the copious amounts of lotion and oil I slathered him in, his hair was all car-salesman-y, so he got pitched into the shower with his dad.
Hahah! It’s so funny I ramble on about stupid shit but can’t explain olive oil to you! Haha! It would take me, like, a minute but I’m not going to do it… hahahaha…..!!
Now, as I’ve mentioned, I’m slovenly. Pregnancy, weight gain and a whole lot of motherhood has done that to me. I have loads of makeup and dressy clothes and pointy toed shoes that were loved and used in my past life as WoRkInG MoM! But now I’m just mom. Boring, fa-lumpy, au-natural mom. I see all my pretties in the closet and I say to them, “Hi, Pretties!” and then I shove the folded towels into the closet and force the door closed. One of my most prized maintenance items was my Clarisonic face scrubber. It’s pink and voluptuous and expensive to use. The replacement brushes run, like, $20 each. I bought some generic from China and they SUUCCCKKK… So I don’t use it anymore. My face don’t care. It’s slovenly, too, all wrinkling up right before my very eyes. IN my eyes, actually… <sigh>… ANYWAY, I had this stroke of genius where I would both get to use one of my fancy “working gal” items again AND I might get rid of my sons hideous face issue.
(Ok, so really it’s not that bad. It just itches him and looks miserable. He’s the cutest little thing ever. Don’t let me, or the rash, fool you.)
So, I bust this puppy out and, miraculously, it’s still charged. I gently rub that brush over his head for no more than the 20 seconds the device recommends to use on one’s forehead. Ok, so maybe 22 seconds… 25 tops. Then we rinsed him off, slathered on some more lotion (but not TOO much this time) and played the waiting game.
And it worked!
In about an hour his forehead no longer felt like kissing one of those rough bricks and his skin looked smoother and not a scale in sight! I wanted to rush out to Walmart (where all my pretend friends are) and shove my shiny, pretty baby’s forehead in people’s faces and say, “See? My baby is better than you!”
But he’s not. We’re just normal people. To quote Tina Belcher, another imaginary friend of mine, “I put my bra on one boob at a time.” And then take them out one boob at a time. Because it’s a nursing bra. Haha! Just kidding. Like I have time for fucking bras!