Posts Tagged ‘picture’

And possibly the last one.

Seriously, the haircut could not have gone worse.

Here is my adorable son (treasure this picture as I don’t like to put pictures of him out on the internet):

16 month surfer boy

Notice his long shaggy hairstyle.  It’s pretty cute, but strands were dangling in his eyes while the back was beginning to resemble a mullet.  Overall, not the best look.

Today my mom and I decided C should have his first haircut.

My mom was hopeful that the process would be painless, while I was pretty sure we were in for a serious tantrum.  Guess who was right.

From the first second the stylist touched C’s hair with a comb, he began to squirm.

Squirming led to crying.  Crying led to flailing. Flailing led to full body tantrum, including head thrown back screaming in agony.

In order to just get an inch off of his hair, I literally had to pin his body to my own, holding his arms down with mine, with one hand on his head, while my mom held down his free arm. Really a lot of fun.

Even then, even with all of this adult restraint being placed on his 16 month old body, my freakishly strong son was able to occasionally free a hand to pull my hair or toss his head.

All the while he was screaming, crying out “Mooooooooommy Mooooooooommy MOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMYYYYYYY!”.  When the crying and the pleading didn’t work, C’s sounds devolved into grunts and growls, low guttural sounds that were primal in nature.  The stylist at one point compared him to Linda Blaire in Exorcist (which is really what every mom wants to hear said about her child).

When at last we were done, or as done as we could be, C clung to me sobbing, drained of energy, as if he was the true Samson relieved of his long locks and rendered powerless.  I almost want to write a legend about the struggle he put up to keep his hair and how important it was to him.

But then, unlike Samson, C actually kept most of his hair.  We barely cut anything off due to his astonishingly strong reaction.  He looks more emo than surfer now, but at least the emerging mullet is gone.

After this crazy experience I am going to by C’s stylist.  He may end up with bowl cuts or a slightly uneven fringe, but until C enters the age of reasons in a couple years, we’re all just going to have to grin and bear it.  I think he’ll still be pretty cute.

Wiped out after his haircut!

(On a final note, I tried desperately to remain calm and stoic throughout the whole experience, while my mother fell apart.  Thinking back over the experience, though, I kind of want to cry a little.  My poor baby!!!)


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The title is borrowed from The Amazing Mumford seen here:

The Amazing MumfordThe Amazing Mumford using magic to demonstrate the wonders of addition and subtraction.  The magic of math is truly astounding (I wish I’d paid closer attention as a child and maybe I would struggle with math so much)!

So why am I bringing this up, other than my apparent obsession with all things Sesame Street?  Well, Baby C has taken to carrying things around with him as he walks; typically long stick like objects: foam baseball bats, tv remotes, wrapping paper cylinders, drum sticks.

The last, in particular, is somewhat worrisome as the drum sticks are pretty dangerous.  C’s toy drumsticks are hard colored plastic styled to look like caterpillars:

Drumstick or weapon? You decide.

While they are cute, clever toys, these drumsticks also scare the crap out of the dogs as C wildly waves it around as he walks by them.  And given C’s propensity to “hug” the dogs several times a day (which is actually him just running into them with his arms out), these drumsticks often function as weapons more often than they are actually hit on a drum.

I’m sure C doesn’t mean to cause harm, but when the dogs flee from him as he waves his drumstick in the air, C thinks it’s a game and squeals in delight, chasing after them, swinging his toy with even greater ferocity.  I usually intercede before drumstick meets fur, but I can’t help laughing as all my “children” engage in a game of chase.

When not chasing the dogs or hitting the walls with his drumstick, C waves it around as he walks, looking like a miniature wizard more than anything.  I, for one, have been trying to get him to say “A La Peanut Butter Sandwiches” when he does this (an unreasonable request, but it would be funny none the less). However, certain members of my family have different ideas as to what the little wizard should say.

Apparently my sister’s boyfriend, AVP, would like Baby C to be an evil wizard.  The first “spell” AVP tried to get C to say was “Avada Kedavra”, which (if you know your Harry Potter) is the killing curse.  What made this even funnier is the evil, husky voice AVP adopted when saying “Avada Kedavra” to C.

My sister was mortified!

You’re teaching him the killing curse??!?!? Why don’t you teach him something different? EG said, outraged.

Ok. C say “Crucio”. –AVP

That’s not better! You’re teaching him to torture someone.  How about something nice, like “Lumos”? –EG

I only remember the bad ones.  C say “Septum Spectra”. –AVP

NO! What is wrong with you?!?!?  He doesn’t need to know the bad spells.  Stop teaching him those. –EG

Snicker, snicker. –AVP

I was likewise outraged that AVP would think to teach my son the evil, torturous, murderous curses before teaching him the nice ones.  My initial reaction was one of shock!  I’m serious! I was shocked when AVP said “Avada Kedavra” to C!  That’s the killing curse!  He shouldn’t know that!

Once the initial shock wore off I began to realize we were all having a conversation about fictional spells and curses as if they were real!  Why should I be shocked if C knows the make-believe words used in an alternate reality to kill someone?  I don’t know why, but I was.  I understand rationally that there is no such person as Harry Potter, Hogwarts does not exist, and magic, if real, is utterly lost to most of humanity.  Still, that I (and my sister) would react so violently to those two words really says something about us and our imaginations (or maybe our tenuous grip on reality).

I’m still going to try to teach C to say “A La Peanut Butter Sandwiches” because it’s a heck of a lot nicer, even if magic doesn’t exist.  Call me crazy, but I don’t want to hear those evil curses come out of my son’s mouth.  It’s just not right.

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As a mom forced to go solo with her one year old, I am constantly looking for ways to simplify my life.  And while some of you environmentalists may cringe at this, but I have found the disposable wipe to be one of my primary weapons in my daily battle for efficiency.  Do I feel bad about the 3-4 wipes I dispose of daily? No, I absolutely do not.  Three extra wipes in a landfill is totally worth my sanity.

(If you are neither a mom, dad, or lazy you will not find this post entertaining or informative.  Just a warning!)

Wipe 1-Clorox Wipes:

Lemony fresh timesaver

Because my baby likes to self feed, his high chair gets mighty dirty.  C also has a habit of squeezing food in his hands or mushing and then spreading food around on his tray, especially when he is tired.  C is also typical in his demands to get out of the high chair as quickly as possible, leaving me with little time to clean his hands and tray before freeing him from his plastic prison.

My lifesaver here is the canister of Clorox wipes I keep on the buffet next to the high chair.  These wipes clean and disinfect (which is awesome because that slick banana oil that gets everywhere seems to seep in, and by the way, is disgusting).  They are also much thicker than other wipes I’ve used, meaning they’ll actually scrub off dried spaghetti sauce as well as whisking away bits of soggy Cheerios.  One wipe can typically take care of the whole tray, unless we’ve had pizza and then I just use his stained bib to wipe up the tray (it’s already ruined, so why not?).

Wipes 2–Pledge Wipes:

Handy and Dandy

It is no secret that I have little time in which to clean, nor is it any secret that I don’t actually like to clean.  OK, it’s no secret that I HATE to clean, but that doesn’t prevent me from being house proud.  In order to save a little face, I will take 5 minutes (because that’s all I have) to wipe down every surface in sight before someone comes over.  I usually only have one hand to do this with, given C’s propensity to “explore” while my back is turned, so he sits on my hip as I move from bookcase to counter to mantle, swiping each with these miracles of home care.

Wipes 3–Neutrogena Makeup Remover, Cleansing Towlettes Night Calming

Fresh faces just a wipe away

So this last one is mostly because I’m lazy, or maybe just because I’m worn down at the end of everyday, but there are days, many days in fact, that I just want to go to sleep rather than deal with a whole rigmarole of nightly cleaning.  Sometimes I just want to go to sleep.  After I’ve put Baby C to bed, if I’ve managed to put C to bed, the last thing I want to do is stand at the bathroom sink washing, cleaning, toning, moisturizing, etc.  I just want my fact to be clean so I can get some sleep!  Is that too much to ask?!?!

Apparently it is not.  Several makeup and skin care companies now make these convenient towlettes.  So for those nights when it is just too much to get out of bed one more time, I keep a little box of these towlettes on my nightstand.  I just grab one and wipe away the day.  30 seconds later, my face, and my conscience, are clean, ready for some much-needed rest.

It may not be exciting, but sometimes it’s the little things that make each day a little easier.

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To borrow a phrase from one of my new favorite movies, Up, Dodger has been put into the “cone of shame”.  If you don’t know what I’m talking about here’s a picture:

The comfy cone "of shame"

It’s a heck of a lot better than those hard plastic ones that the vet’s office makes dogs wear.  Or at least I think it’s better.  I’m not sure what Dodger thinks.  I don’t think he’s very happy with any kind of cone.

As a result of his unhappiness with the cone situation, Dodger has spent most of the day pouting.  I tried to tell him this comfy cone “of shame” is better than the plastic one, but he just looks at me with big sad eyes and flops back down on the landing.

After hemming and hawing for the last week and a half about getting Dodger a cone, I finally sent my husband out to get one (in the few minutes my husband was home I sent him away to the pet store–I am an awesome wife).  I did so in a huff; not that I was annoyed with my husband, no.  I was annoyed with Dodger for forcing me to put him in the cone.

Why would this annoy me?  Well, because every time I look at him I feel guilty.  Ooooooh sooo guilty!  Dodger looks at me with his big black eyes and his poor little ears pushed forward under the cone, and I just feel terrible.  It doesn’t help that he keeps running into everything.

My already somewhat clumsy, but very lovable, pittbull has lost his peripheral vision and now catches his cone on everything from my legs to the wall to the baby gate.  Dodger even managed to catch his cone on the garden light when he went potty this morning (meaning I had to go outside at 7am in my nightshirt, picking my way through the dirt and dew, to release him from the mud pile he chose to stand on).  To his credit, Dodger just stood in the mud looking forlorn, making my guilt even worse than if he had been trying to escape.

Because my guilt overwhelms me at times, I remove Dodger’s comfy cone “of shame”, allowing him a few moments of respite, to shake his shame off.  Yet every time I do this, the result is the same: Dodger starts licking his sore paw again (it had healed but he licked all the scabs off until it was raw and sore again, thus the cone).  So once again, I have to sadly fasten the cone around his fat little neck, worrying about it being too tight, too loose, too high, too low, all the time trying to avoid those big sad eyes.

The only upside of this cone situation is that it reinforces Dodger’s diet, as he can only eat when I take the cone off.  However, the treats I keep giving him all day due to my guilt are probably not helping.

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This is a game that Baby C and I frequently play.  It’s fun.

The game instructions go something like this:

Baby is crying.

Step one: pick baby up.  If crying stops, hold baby for just a bit longer and then resume normal activity.  If not, continue on to step two.

Step two: check the clock.  Is it time to eat?  When was the last time baby ate?  How much did he eat?  Could he be hungry?  If he’s not hungry and/or crying increases proceed to step three.  Otherwise, for pity’s sake, just give the kid a cookie.

Step three: check baby for obvious wounds.  Is he bleeding?  Does something appear to be crushed?  Nearby broken toys/glass/wood may be a clue.  Does he appear to be sweating profusely?  Is he hot to the touch?  If yes to any of those, seek medical attention.  If not, proceed to step four.

Step four: check baby for subtle signs of pain.  Is he pulling on his ear/mouth/hair? This could be a sign of teething, ear infection, or a cold, or if you’re really lucky, all three. Dose baby with baby pain medicine/gum number/ cold medicine.  If none of these symptoms appear proceed to step five.

Step five: check the diaper.  Clean diaper.  They are always dirty, so just change it.

Step six: attempt to put baby down for a nap, as he is probably tired.  If he isn’t then you are.  Either way, someone could use some sleep so do yourself a favor and put on a cartoon, prop the baby up next to you on couch/bed and try to nap.

If nothing is working, try one of the following:

drive around until baby quiets/sleeps/shuts the heck up

call spouse/mother/sister/neighbor and beg them to take over the baby for “just a little bit”

try to get dogs/tv/musical instrument/washing machine to amuse baby.

put baby in crib and let them cry, at least for a little bit so that you can go cry in the bathroom

start drinking wine or eating chocolate.  Here’s my current choice of chocolate:

Samoa Girl Scout Cookie or "Crack for Moms"

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