We have three full-time walkers now. Callista followed in Eleanor’s footstep about a month later followed by Toby just days later. Eleanor and Toby can both get up without assistance, but Callista needs a boost to get into a stand-and-go position.
Since getting steady on their feet, our new nighttime routine is all about going here and there, mostly up and down the front hall. They make lap after lap, chased often by us and sometimes by each other. All three share secrets and giggles doing God only knows what with the front door (sometimes they peek around it or through the crack at each other, sometimes they just sit and laugh), and they just generally yuck it up together each night spending the last stores of energy from the day.
I’ve tried to catch them in their natural habitat on video several times lately but am often discovered and attacked for my camera. Tonight, I found success.
It’s almost been two years since I first attempted DIY funky hair colors.
The first attempt didn’t go so well, even in the light of day.
The second attempt was kinda worse.
Then I threw in the towel and had my stylist fix it all. I watched and learned, and I was then able to maintain it at home for another 18ish months. The last of the pink was fading when my kiddos were born. Shortly after their birth, I went in for a back-to-natural color job and gave up on anything needing maintenance while we adjusted to life with triplets.
Now that we’re 14 months in, life is routine, and I’m confident in my ability to shower on a regular basis. I decided this week it’s time to shake up the mundane on top of my head and bring back the color.
This time, I went with purple. We were getting ready to start last night when I found the jar of pink dye leftover and decided to shake it up even more with adding pink to the tips.
Go big, or go home, AMIRITE?!
We started by separating four chunks of hair just beneath the top layer. I wanted the color to show, but I didn’t want to see the roots as it grows. I can’t maintain it that quickly!
Rob was my (reluctant) at-home artist. But in the name of thrifty fun, sacrifices must be made, you know? We went with a chunk on either side of my head then a larger, split-into-two section in the back. The top of my hair got pinned up, and we were off.
Step one: Cut a hole in the box.
Kinda.
Step one was getting my brownish-blonde hair prepped with a bleaching kit. I chose Clariol Born Blonde. Rob worked with gloved hands (easier than applicator brushes), we wrapped it in foil and let it sit for 20 minutes, got the mix on my roots then let it sit another 20 minutes before rinsing/washing/conditioning.
This is the hardest part.
I was able to rinse the sides myself, but I needed help with the back. For all sections, I held a plastic shopping bag against the not-to-be-colored hair that was exposed under the treated hair. That was where we went wrong way back in the day when we first attempted this mess.
Success! The dye stayed only where it was meant to be, then I jumped in the shower to do the final rinse – the easiest way to get that thick post-dye conditioner out at home.
I dried everything, then we set back to add the color (Jerome Russell’s Punky Colour line, using Violet and Red Wine). The process was the same as the bleaching step, just different goop. For the tips, Rob did the pink first, we wrapped it in foil to protect it, then he added the purple to the rest. I let the color sit for a long time – the longer, the brighter – probably close to 90 minutes.
Again, the rinsing process was the same, but I had Rob do all the rinsing/washing this time. It’s just easier that way. I held the plastic bag in place while he sprayed using the kitchen-sink sprayer (the kitchen sink is safest in our house because it’s stainless steel), then I did the final conditioning rinse in the shower.
Success! Times two!
From start to finish, the whole process took about three hours (including breaks to bathe and feed babies, and I pumped while the purple and pink sat), and it cost a whopping $15. FIFTEEN DOLLARS.
The only trial-and-error part that separated our first attempt (hot mess) from now (success!) was the genius idea that most of the wash/rinse step needs to be done while keeping the dyed hair separate from what you’re not dying. Once we figured that out, it was a breeze to do and not at all scary.
In case you’re wondering, the kiddos were pretty unimpressed. They didn’t notice it on their own and were kinda, “Yeah? So, what? I can eat my toes!” once I pointed the colors out.
Kids. Whatever. I love it, so there!
Then: We were holding our breath and praying for no apnea or bradycardia events that would set back a looming discharge date. All three were off oxygen and jammed into one patient room to make space for too many sick babies. Our discharge anniversary is in five days!
Now: All three are walking either full time or at least half the time. Eleanor has six teeth and says duck, dog, ball, hi, down, mama, dada, goWAAAH and gobba (the last two are a mystery, but she says them ALL THE TIME). Tobias has eight teeth and says duck, ball, hi, bye-bye, dog, baby, mama, dada and no no no. Callista has eight teeth and a molar trying to appear and says duck, dog, ball, book, bye, hello, mama, dada and bah, which means “animal,” by my interpretation.
Mothers, what wisdom, encouragement or straight-up truth would you tell yourselves during your introduction-to-motherhood phase? Dear New Mom is a new site, founded by Nikki Katz, that answers that question.
Contributors write as if they could send a letter back in time, sharing “The bad. The good. The ugly. The beautiful. The depression. The elation. The gossip. The advice. The trials. The triumphs. Real stories from moms, writing back to their “New Mom” self.”
I added a letter of my own, remembering a time I sought reassurance from other moms of multiples and asked, “When will I feel like a mom instead of an assembly-line grunt?”
Dear New Mom,
You are not an assembly-line worker. You are a mother.
Though you may swear you can hear the echoes of rhythmic machines, chug-chugging, whir-whirring and clank-clanking as you work through a routine of feeding, rocking, soothing, diapering, laundering, washing, retrieving and so on, and you wait with baited breath for the sound of the work-day whistle, something you long for but never hear – you are not an assembly-line worker.
I spent my first 18 or so years thinking cream cheese was a repulsive substance I would only choke down if I were forced.
Would. Were. I use subjunctive verbs because … well, it never happened.
That’s right. I didn’t eat more than scant traces of cream cheese until I was an adult, probably shamed into trying it on something because, ohmygodhowdoyounotlovecreamcheese?
How? I never tried it. Not really, at least. Why? It just wasn’t around. Cream cheese was a foreign substance in my home kitchen, and I honestly thought putting a creamed cheese (Like cheddar? gross!), in desserts (Cheddar cheesecake? With chocolate and berries? What is wrong with you people?!) or on top of a perfectly good blueberry bagel (Cheese on a garlic bagel is no biggie, but blueberry? SICK.) – I thought the cream-cheese-loving world was straight up b-a-n-a-n-a-s.
To quote my least favorite Yo Gabba Gabba creature (Brobee – why is he such a whiny little bitchboy?), I tried it, and I liked it!
I had a mile-long list of foods I hated (aka had never tried, probably had never even smelled and/or seen), and this hate was perpetuated by my (awesome, loving, albeit) narrow-foodminded parents. My mom isn’t really a fan of cooking, and my dad really isn’t a fan of a lot far beyond beef, potatoes and green beans.
As you can imagine, my options were limited.
I didn’t care, though. It was what I knew. I was healthy, I grew, I had favorite foods. There was nothing wrong with how we ate. And then I discovered all I had missed out on.
Sweet potato fries. Steamed mussels. Eggplant parmesan. Heck, did you know parmesan cheese doesn’t only come from those green-labeled cans? I HAD NO CLUE.
And don’t forget cheesecake. There’s nothing cheddary about it.
Tonight for dinner, my 14-month-old triplets ate orzo cooked in chicken stock then mixed with sautéed garlic, chickpeas, sun dried tomatoes and asiago cheese with a side of roasted broccoli. Nothing fancy, but it isn’t boring, either.
It’s a normal adult thing to expand one’s pallet and learn to like foods you never would have dreamed of eating as a kid. It’s a normal kid thing to have food preferences as diverse as a four-pack of restaurant crayons.
As a parent, I want to offer my kids as much of the world as I can. I’ve started in my kitchen, with the simplest of adventures. They may not try or love everything I offer, but at least I’m giving us all (including my parents!) opportunities to fall in love with an array of good food.
