Daffodil goes to a ball: If I wear a long gown, do I have to shave my legs

I got invited to a ball in a few weeks time.

I have never been to a ball before, but I have watched Cinderella a million times, so I am going to the pet store for some nice mice and birds who could help a girl out. It seems like the easiest way to deal with what is otherwise a kind of overwhelming process.

Here are some reasons why I might need some help:

-I shaved the back of my head a few months ago. This grow-out period is a bitch.
-95% of my makeup is on the floor of my linen closet, and came free with purchase of a moisturizer.
-I have one "formal" dress - which is more than most people, I know, but leaves a lot to be desired in terms of choosing a dress. I own a dress. I am wearing it.
-I am wearing the aforementioned dress with a pair of sandals I just found in a bag under my bed. This post is really helping to keep me on track.
-I have a 6 week old. If you have kids that you have raised since birth, you may understand what I am saying when I tell you I am barely coherent some days, rarely showered, and usually in sweatpants. I haven't brushed my hair since February.

I could go on, but you get the picture. I am the last person on the planet that should be going to a ball, and it will take every ounce of strength I have to stay awake past 9pm. Since the after party starts at 10, I will begin drinking caffeine-laden beverages at noon.

There is a really good reason for all of this:
The ball benefits Imua Family Services.

Imua has been a part of our lives for years - they have worked with several of our foster children and the results of their comprehensive approach to therapy - mostly through play and exploration - is a wonder to behold. Dude, in particular, benefitted from their services and for that I am forever grateful. When we brought Dude home from the hospital he had a lot of odds stacked against him, from low birth weight to drug exposure in utero. He made incredible progress working with Imua, and Imua worked long and hard on his behalf, partnering with his mother and father to be sure he was making the progress he needed to make before entering preschool.

this is Dude in an infant carseat, which was clearly too big for a Dude-sized infant

But Imua provides more than just services for our foster children - they provide peace of mind. So many people ask me how I can bear to give these foster children back, and the honest truth is that it would be impossible if I didn't know that the team - the doctors and nurses and therapists and social workers and lawyers that I have gotten to know and trust over the years from case to case - would be following the baby for months or even years to come. Because I know that they will be getting to know the family, and supporting them through the child's early years, sometimes even doing the visits in the family home, I am able to have some peace of mind when I hand these babies over for the last time and say goodbye.

They do good work at Imua Family Services, and I was proud to be asked to support their fundraiser this year. But then I realized it would mean actually pulling myself together for a fancy evening event.

This will be interesting.

To hold myself accountable, and also to make sure I get some feedback, I will be undergoing my makeover in public. Right here. Hair will be dyed, skin will be waxed, wrinkles will be blasted, dresses will be tried on to see if I can find one I like better then the one I have, and then of course, the grand finale:

The updo.

I might even wear a corsage.

Good lord, it's like 1993 Senior Prom all over again. But this time I won't be driving a turquoise Cadillac with a white leather interior (sadly, because that car was amazing) and I'm pretty sure I won't have a perm, either.

I'm not ruling it out, though. The thrill of the reveal, coming soon!

What is the opposite of Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy. I'm that mom.

I told him not to. I told him not to ride that damn Razor scooter down the hill without shoes or a helmet on. I told him not to, I told him it would end in disaster.

So when I heard the screams three minutes later, I knew exactly what had happened, And considering that the screams were coming from everyone BUT Max, I knew that he knew that I knew. Or maybe he was unconscious. Which was what I had said would happen if he went down that hill without a helmet on.

Becky looked out the window. "Uh oh," she muttered under her breath. "That doesn't look good."

"I am not going down there," I announced, my hands covered in that night's meat entree. "I told him not to do it."

To her credit, Becky did not give it a second thought. She put down her glass of wine, dusted off her hands and opened the door. "I'll do it," she said bravely.

"Good. You do that." Since her kids were the ones clearly traumatized by Max's injury based on the yelling coming from the street, it was probably best that she go down there. I had dinner to cook.

"It's Father's Day," Sam shouted from the back deck. "I'M NOT INVOLVED."

I stuck my head out the window. "Um, pretty sure being a father means dealing with this kind of thing."
"Not today, it doesn't."

While his parents were steadfastly refusing to come to his aid, Max was gimping his way back to the house. He had left a good 30% of his face in the cul de sac, plus half of the skin on his knees and elbows. And judging by that limp, he had probably taken one to the groin. But he gave me a sheepish grin, and all of his teeth appeared to be in place. I threw him a roll of paper towels and went back to cooking.

This was a few years ago. Since then Max has doubled in size, but that just means he does dumb stuff on a bigger scale. I think almost every mother of a 13 year old will agree with that statement. And you know what, live and learn. I can't protect them from everything, least of all themselves. As my dear pants-less friend Matthew McConaughey says, "Just Keep Living". He may not use it in terms of parenting, but it fits nicely doesn't it?

Some people are all fired up about RIE parenting but my parenting style sits squarely in the Darwinism category. Do something stupid after being advised of the possible outcome, and you will suffer the consequences. If you just crushed your chances at reproducing, I'll consider that your contribution to thinning the herd, and thank you very much for saving everyone else the trouble.

So here we are years later, and Max, despite being warned of the consequences, continues to tempt the fates. This week he is recovering from an unspeakably gross surgical procedure to open his nasal paasages. I will spare you the details. The recovery time was remarkably brief and straightforward.

"You will feel stuffy," his doctor advised, 'but do not blow your nose. That is just the swelling from the surgery."

It was great fun to watch Max under the effects of anesthesia. He spent the entire time in pre-op grinning like a loon. Just before they rolled him away, the anesthesiologist added something to his IV as she crooned in her sweet Filipino lilt "Are you feeeeeling druuuunk, Maxie?" To which Max replied "I don't know. Am I?" He spent several minutes twirling his fingers in the air and giggling to himself. As they rolled him away, he wiggled his fingers weakly overhead one last time. "Bye bye, mommy."

"You have fun with that." I advised the entire surgical team, and went out to find a cup of coffee.

When we got home from the surgical center, Max was still a little woozy.

I went out to run some errands, and when I got back, Max had a large dark stain of blood on the gauze under his nose. "What the hell happened?" I asked, looking at both Sam and Max for an answer.

Apparently, Sam went to change the gauze from under his nose as he had been instructed to do, and Max said he needed a tissue. "Now, don't blow your nose," Sam reminded him. "It only feels stuffy."

"Uh huh." Max said agreeably. Then he grabbed a tissue and blew like hell.

"JESUS H." Sam screamed. Max stood, stunned, holding a tissue full of blood and possibly part of his brain matter. (By all accounts, it was hard to tell.)

"Huh" Max said.

"It's your own fault," I told both of them later when they recounted the story. "It is NOT my fault." Sam said flatly. "It's all my fault," Max agreed.

Accountability. That is what I call success in parenting.