My working title: The Pregnancy Underground – the stuff they won’t tell you about in all the other books, otherwise women would never get pregnant

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Okay, so here it is: My first post about my second pregnancy. It is not about morning sickness (technically, didn’t have any), or persistent nausea (technically, had a lot), or exhaustion (mmmmm, couch), it’s not even about how insanely dedicated and supportive Steve has been throughout these first few months, when my single – and only – accomplishment each day is to get Stella to and from day care and myself to and from work. Or that if it wasn’t for Steve, we would probably skip dinner 2-3 nights a week, with the remaining nights left to peanut-butter sandwiches and orange juice – which, when not asking me to mainline sugar, seems to be the only thing this new kid likes. Heck, I am not even going to complain about the fact that I cannot drink (at least not in this post.)

No, this post will be about another one of those small but significant things left out of pregnancy manuals. The fact that I cannot dye my hair – at least not without running the risk of giving my new child a third eye. Roll your eyes if you will, but this is one of those things that I – a hair dyer since age 15 – am forced to make some tough decisions about. Instead of my usual $9.99 investment in a box of Loreal Feria Light Auburn every couple of months, I am now forced to actually go to the salon and pay an exorbatent amount of money for a highly convoluted and insanely expensive hair procedure that has to be maintained at twice the regular rate and, to be perfectly honest, doesn’t even really look as good.

Now, I need to emphasize this whole expense issue: While pregnant with Stella I actually paid $193 for a single visit to the salon. ONE HUNDRED NINETY THREE AMERICAN DOLLARS. I don’t know about you, but in my world a $193 pregnancy hair-do had better come with a salon-girl who will follow me home and wash & style my hair each morning for the duration of my pregnancy, PLUS a gallon of Ben & Jerry’s AND free car washes for a year.

This whole can’t-dye-your-hair-while-pregnant issue gained new urgency this weekend when I looked in the mirror at my painfully obvious roots and noticed a handful of wiry, witch-like gray hairs sticking straight up from my otherwise brunette scalp. We can launch people into space but we cannot come up with a pregnancy-safe hair dye? WHAT-EVER!

So, I guess I am only left with one option: Honey, I need the checkbook.

The land of drama, it has a new queen.

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At least once every day, I accuse Steve of being a drama queen. It has even gotten to the point where I don’t even have to say anything – I just look at him and do the international symbol for drama queen-ish behavior: jazz hands. He tries to deny it, but the truth is self evident. No one wears the crown like my man.

Along with the wide grin and the tall-girl gene, Stella has also inherited her daddy’s flair for the dramatic. Her ability to assess a situation and work it is quickly being honed. She has recently learned the power of the word ‘hurt’. “Teeth hurt!” “Toe hurt!” “Arm Hurt!” You name it, this girl is hurtin’ from it. It is getting to the point where she will come running in, telling us of the latest ailment she has contracted (no Stella, your hair cannot hurt) and all we do is look at her like “Yeah, right. I fell for that the first 37 times, but you can’t fool me this time.” Her favorite time to use this tactic? You guessed it: Nap Time. Funny how laying in her bed seems to trigger her chronic elbow pain.

Once again I must refer to those sage parenting books. None of them seem to mention the fact that as of age 21 months, your child will begin to manipulate you like a wad of play dough. I keep looking at that cute little cherubic face and wonder “what is going through that brain of yours?” More and more she looks me straight in the eye with a slowly emerging smile, indicating one thing: be scared.