Saturday, December 18, 2010
Monday, November 1, 2010
9/16 to 10/31
This week I almost lost my mom.
You've heard that before, right? You listen to your friends and co-workers talk about parents with failing health or worse, parents that have died. So you cluck your tongue and you shake your head in sympathy, thinking you're capable of imagining their fear or grief. Capable, at the very least, of some level of empathy.
Today, I was in my mom's hospital room talking to my Grammy. She told me about a Bible study she'd been attending in which the topic of conversation was: "Why do bad things happen?" One of several answers was that going through difficult times allows you to empathize with other people someday who might be going through the same thing.
I figured that was a pretty rotten consolation prize.
But I'm skipping ahead.
Yesterday morning, my mom and I were told that she had an aneurysm bleeding into her brain.
The day before, we were joking about what a squirmy bed mate Evie turned out to be during her first sleepover with Grandma....barely 24 hours later, I stood in a hallway and watched that same woman get wheeled through a set of double doors that might never return her.
There are no words to describe that feeling.
When all you have left to cling to are your memories and your faith.
Her scent, the feel of her hand squeezing mine. The long, swaying hugs. The smile I can't resist and the laugh I would know anywhere. The way she makes me feel like the most special, cherished thing walking around on two legs.
I've come to realize as an adult that my love for my parents expanded when I first looked into the eyes of my newborn son. Surprising? It was to me. Because as well as I thought I knew my mom and dad....as thoroughly as I understood and appreciated them...I could never truly grasp the magnitude of their love for me.
I want the world for my children. I want them to be happy, safe, warm. I want to raise them to be loving, generous, compassionate people. I want to kiss them constantly and tell them how much I love them until it's so deeply ingrained into their minds and hearts that they'll never stop being completely and perpetually aware of it.
I want to hold them close when they're hurting and give them a nudge when they lack confidence. I want to share knowing looks with them and secret jokes, silly songs and quiet whispers under the blanket. I want them to run to my bed when they're scared at night, and lay against my shoulder when they're tired of walking.
I want to be for my kids, what my mom was for me.
Because everything that I am as a mother, as a wife, and as a human being is because of the remarkable woman that showed me the way.
My mom is my best friend. And how lucky does that make me? As much as I loved and admired her through my childish eyes, it's a hundred times as powerful now. From that moment when it finally clicked, when I finally realized that this devastating, all-consuming love I have for my children is exactly the same love that my mother has for me...everything changed.
Through all of my quirks, my bottomless pit of sarcasm, my crankiness and my selfishness; in spite of all my flaws and my rough edges....my mom loves being around me, has threatened bodily harm if I were ever tempted to move more than a quick car drive away. And I understand that now. I understand it and I return it. Because as much as a father can demonstrate God's love and strength to a child, nothing quite exemplifies God's yearning for His children like a mother.
As I finally finish writing this blog, it's been six weeks since the day that I almost lost my mom. Six weeks of relief, fear, and relief again....of wondering if the woman that raised me would ever be quite the same person she was before. Six weeks of watching God work a miracle right before my eyes. Of watching my mom push her way past every hurdle with a speed that surprised even the most experienced doctors and nurses.
I wish I could say it's been smooth and easy. I wish even more that I could say the journey is over, that her recovery is complete. I wish, as I did during those early days in the hospital, that I could simply fast-forward the next weeks and months until I finally get to the point where I can say: "There, that's her. That's exactly the lady I know from September 15th. The same healthy, happy, energetic, outgoing, always-says-what-she's thinking-and-laughs-at-her-own-jokes-louder-than-anyone-else woman that I spent the day with before her brain started bleeding."
I wish I could, but time is something that can't be toyed with by us mere mortals. And thank goodness for that. Because if I had been able to skip past my mom's recovery, I would have missed everything God was trying to show me.
Grammy was right. There is a possibility, a good one, that I will encounter someone in my life who is struggling over the health of a loved one. There is a chance that I'll look into a set of fearful, wet eyes...and see myself.
I may not be able to make them feel better about what might very well be a hopeless situation. And I certainly can't promise them that their story will end as well as mine did. But I understand now that God isn't asking me to do that. I understand that there's more to this equation than my own words and memories.
I understand now that experiences like these reveal our Creator to us. And that's what I need to share.
Not meaningless, fluffy platitudes. Not empty promises.
What I can share now, that I couldn't before, is the face of Christ that can only be seen from the empty corridors of a hospital. When you're curled up in a too small, too hard waiting room chair and pouring your heart out to your Father. When the tears don't bring release and your mom isn't there to hold you like you really just need for her to do.
That's the moment. If you're willing to really look, that's the place in your life where you can say, with complete certainty, that you saw God.
Because our Lord is never more visible than when we are looking up from the darkness.
That's what I'll share with the hurting person that I meet someday. And while it might have seemed like a rotten consolation prize six weeks ago, now I simply feel blessed. Blessed that I have this story to tell, this comfort to bring, this Light to shine in their dark place.
And the best part? The best part is that I already know how to start the conversation.
I'll take their hand in mine, squeeze it tight, and say:
"Let me tell you about my Mom..."
________________
You've heard that before, right? You listen to your friends and co-workers talk about parents with failing health or worse, parents that have died. So you cluck your tongue and you shake your head in sympathy, thinking you're capable of imagining their fear or grief. Capable, at the very least, of some level of empathy.
Today, I was in my mom's hospital room talking to my Grammy. She told me about a Bible study she'd been attending in which the topic of conversation was: "Why do bad things happen?" One of several answers was that going through difficult times allows you to empathize with other people someday who might be going through the same thing.
I figured that was a pretty rotten consolation prize.
But I'm skipping ahead.
Yesterday morning, my mom and I were told that she had an aneurysm bleeding into her brain.
The day before, we were joking about what a squirmy bed mate Evie turned out to be during her first sleepover with Grandma....barely 24 hours later, I stood in a hallway and watched that same woman get wheeled through a set of double doors that might never return her.
There are no words to describe that feeling.
When all you have left to cling to are your memories and your faith.
Her scent, the feel of her hand squeezing mine. The long, swaying hugs. The smile I can't resist and the laugh I would know anywhere. The way she makes me feel like the most special, cherished thing walking around on two legs.
I've come to realize as an adult that my love for my parents expanded when I first looked into the eyes of my newborn son. Surprising? It was to me. Because as well as I thought I knew my mom and dad....as thoroughly as I understood and appreciated them...I could never truly grasp the magnitude of their love for me.
I want the world for my children. I want them to be happy, safe, warm. I want to raise them to be loving, generous, compassionate people. I want to kiss them constantly and tell them how much I love them until it's so deeply ingrained into their minds and hearts that they'll never stop being completely and perpetually aware of it.
I want to hold them close when they're hurting and give them a nudge when they lack confidence. I want to share knowing looks with them and secret jokes, silly songs and quiet whispers under the blanket. I want them to run to my bed when they're scared at night, and lay against my shoulder when they're tired of walking.
I want to be for my kids, what my mom was for me.
Because everything that I am as a mother, as a wife, and as a human being is because of the remarkable woman that showed me the way.
My mom is my best friend. And how lucky does that make me? As much as I loved and admired her through my childish eyes, it's a hundred times as powerful now. From that moment when it finally clicked, when I finally realized that this devastating, all-consuming love I have for my children is exactly the same love that my mother has for me...everything changed.
Through all of my quirks, my bottomless pit of sarcasm, my crankiness and my selfishness; in spite of all my flaws and my rough edges....my mom loves being around me, has threatened bodily harm if I were ever tempted to move more than a quick car drive away. And I understand that now. I understand it and I return it. Because as much as a father can demonstrate God's love and strength to a child, nothing quite exemplifies God's yearning for His children like a mother.
As I finally finish writing this blog, it's been six weeks since the day that I almost lost my mom. Six weeks of relief, fear, and relief again....of wondering if the woman that raised me would ever be quite the same person she was before. Six weeks of watching God work a miracle right before my eyes. Of watching my mom push her way past every hurdle with a speed that surprised even the most experienced doctors and nurses.
I wish I could say it's been smooth and easy. I wish even more that I could say the journey is over, that her recovery is complete. I wish, as I did during those early days in the hospital, that I could simply fast-forward the next weeks and months until I finally get to the point where I can say: "There, that's her. That's exactly the lady I know from September 15th. The same healthy, happy, energetic, outgoing, always-says-what-she's thinking-and-laughs-at-her-own-jokes-louder-than-anyone-else woman that I spent the day with before her brain started bleeding."
I wish I could, but time is something that can't be toyed with by us mere mortals. And thank goodness for that. Because if I had been able to skip past my mom's recovery, I would have missed everything God was trying to show me.
Grammy was right. There is a possibility, a good one, that I will encounter someone in my life who is struggling over the health of a loved one. There is a chance that I'll look into a set of fearful, wet eyes...and see myself.
I may not be able to make them feel better about what might very well be a hopeless situation. And I certainly can't promise them that their story will end as well as mine did. But I understand now that God isn't asking me to do that. I understand that there's more to this equation than my own words and memories.
I understand now that experiences like these reveal our Creator to us. And that's what I need to share.
Not meaningless, fluffy platitudes. Not empty promises.
What I can share now, that I couldn't before, is the face of Christ that can only be seen from the empty corridors of a hospital. When you're curled up in a too small, too hard waiting room chair and pouring your heart out to your Father. When the tears don't bring release and your mom isn't there to hold you like you really just need for her to do.
That's the moment. If you're willing to really look, that's the place in your life where you can say, with complete certainty, that you saw God.
Because our Lord is never more visible than when we are looking up from the darkness.
That's what I'll share with the hurting person that I meet someday. And while it might have seemed like a rotten consolation prize six weeks ago, now I simply feel blessed. Blessed that I have this story to tell, this comfort to bring, this Light to shine in their dark place.
And the best part? The best part is that I already know how to start the conversation.
I'll take their hand in mine, squeeze it tight, and say:
"Let me tell you about my Mom..."
________________
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Desert Photos
Took the kids out romping in the desert today. We mostly stayed in the truck, but I did snap a few shots. Here they are...
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Layla Grace
I just read a blog about a little two-year-old girl that died earlier this month from neuroblastoma, an aggressive form of childhood cancer. Her name is Layla and she was absolutely beautiful.
Layla's death was slow and agonizing, an allergy to morphine making it difficult to manage her pain effectively. For her last several weeks of life, her parents brought her home to make her as comfortable as possible. Day and night, they watched their daughter deteriorate before their eyes. Watched as she grew too weak to eat, drink, speak, or move.
They lived through every parent's worst nightmare, lived through the wretched suffering of their little girl. They understood what it meant to be impotent, utterly helpless.
But not hopeless.
Until the very end, these people prayed for a miracle. They never lost their faith, but grew in it, depended on it. Even when they cried out in anger and grief, it was still to the Almighty God. And now they know, beyond a shadow of doubt, that little Layla Grace is being cradled in the gentle arms of her Savior.
Reading Layla's story has been an awakening for me. How easy it is to get caught up in this life, to become fixated on the trivial, the temporal.
I was worried about money a few weeks ago while a baby girl lay dying in her parent's arms. I was stressing over laundry while she struggled and failed to raise her head. I was yelling at my kids while she was crying out in agony. I was fighting, lying, coveting and gossiping. I was jealous, frustrated, short-tempered and ungrateful. All while this little angel took her final shuddering breaths and closed her tired eyes.
I am so ashamed. And so humbled by this child's life, her courage. I am awed at a faith that I can't even begin to imagine, a faith that her parent's found strength in. Strength to see them through what must have been the most difficult ordeal of their lives. Of anyone's life.
I want a faith like that. I want a faith that is more than an idea, more than a belief.
More than a lifestyle.
I want a faith that is all-consuming, overpowering, breathtaking. I want Jesus to be more than a vending machine, more than a friend. I want to be made low so I can see how big He is.
I looked at my children tonight and really saw them. I saw their arms and legs, fingers and toes. I saw skin that was clear, heard breath that was easy, stroked hair that was soft and full.
Tomorrow, they will play together, fight together and make huge messes together. Tomorrow they will be normal, healthy children.
Layla's mom is still finding her daughter's clothes in the laundry, seeing her toys scattered about the house. Layla's mom is wishing for just one more minute of time with her daughter, wishing for one more tantrum, one more chance to comfort. One more smile.
What a privilege it is to watch my children grow. What a blessing to see the laundry continue to pile up day after day, to see those toys get played with and spread all over creation in a matter of seconds.
Thank you, Jesus. Thank you for my children. Thank you for their health, their happiness. Thank you for the messes and the tantrums, for the sloppy kisses and the accidental head-bonks. Thank you for the gift, the blessing of having one more day with them. One more day that not everyone gets.
Please help me to cherish Luke and Evie, Father. Remind me every day of your grace, your majesty, your goodness. Give me new eyes to see, new ears to listen. Help me to appreciate this blessed life, not search for the injustice in it. Humble me, Lord. Use me. Renew me.
Make me Yours.
Amen.
____________
Layla's death was slow and agonizing, an allergy to morphine making it difficult to manage her pain effectively. For her last several weeks of life, her parents brought her home to make her as comfortable as possible. Day and night, they watched their daughter deteriorate before their eyes. Watched as she grew too weak to eat, drink, speak, or move.
They lived through every parent's worst nightmare, lived through the wretched suffering of their little girl. They understood what it meant to be impotent, utterly helpless.
But not hopeless.
Until the very end, these people prayed for a miracle. They never lost their faith, but grew in it, depended on it. Even when they cried out in anger and grief, it was still to the Almighty God. And now they know, beyond a shadow of doubt, that little Layla Grace is being cradled in the gentle arms of her Savior.
Reading Layla's story has been an awakening for me. How easy it is to get caught up in this life, to become fixated on the trivial, the temporal.
I was worried about money a few weeks ago while a baby girl lay dying in her parent's arms. I was stressing over laundry while she struggled and failed to raise her head. I was yelling at my kids while she was crying out in agony. I was fighting, lying, coveting and gossiping. I was jealous, frustrated, short-tempered and ungrateful. All while this little angel took her final shuddering breaths and closed her tired eyes.
I am so ashamed. And so humbled by this child's life, her courage. I am awed at a faith that I can't even begin to imagine, a faith that her parent's found strength in. Strength to see them through what must have been the most difficult ordeal of their lives. Of anyone's life.
I want a faith like that. I want a faith that is more than an idea, more than a belief.
More than a lifestyle.
I want a faith that is all-consuming, overpowering, breathtaking. I want Jesus to be more than a vending machine, more than a friend. I want to be made low so I can see how big He is.
I looked at my children tonight and really saw them. I saw their arms and legs, fingers and toes. I saw skin that was clear, heard breath that was easy, stroked hair that was soft and full.
Tomorrow, they will play together, fight together and make huge messes together. Tomorrow they will be normal, healthy children.
Layla's mom is still finding her daughter's clothes in the laundry, seeing her toys scattered about the house. Layla's mom is wishing for just one more minute of time with her daughter, wishing for one more tantrum, one more chance to comfort. One more smile.
What a privilege it is to watch my children grow. What a blessing to see the laundry continue to pile up day after day, to see those toys get played with and spread all over creation in a matter of seconds.
Thank you, Jesus. Thank you for my children. Thank you for their health, their happiness. Thank you for the messes and the tantrums, for the sloppy kisses and the accidental head-bonks. Thank you for the gift, the blessing of having one more day with them. One more day that not everyone gets.
Please help me to cherish Luke and Evie, Father. Remind me every day of your grace, your majesty, your goodness. Give me new eyes to see, new ears to listen. Help me to appreciate this blessed life, not search for the injustice in it. Humble me, Lord. Use me. Renew me.
Make me Yours.
Amen.
____________
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Two for one
Luke was in bed tonight, cuddling with his stuffed sheep. Chris was tucking him in...
"Daddy, I love my sheep."
"I like your sheep too, Luke."
"Does Jesus love sheep?"
"Yes, and Jesus loves you too."
"Jesus takes care of me, and I take care of my sheep."
"Yeah, you're right."
"Does Jesus love babies?"
"Yes, He loves all the babies."
"Does Jesus have little Jesus babies?"
....
......
".......No, Jesus doesn't have babies, but He makes the babies. He made you when you were a baby and gave you to mommy and daddy."
And so, Chris got presented with the first Quick Thinking Award of 2010.
Which almost made up for the conversation he had with Luke about 30 minutes earlier...
Mythbusters was on and they were laying out some raw chickens (heads and feet still attached) on a tanning booth to see if they would actually start to cook after prolonged exposure. Which they didn't, incidentally.
Now, Luke has seen me carve a whole chicken before. And of course, he has seen actual, live chickens. But what Luke hasn't seen is a raw chicken (that he associates with food) looking quite so much like a live chicken (that he associates with farms and petting zoos and various animated features).
"Those chickens are dead?"
"Yes, Luke, they're dead."
"We eat 'em?"
"Yes, we eat them."
"We don't eat chickens!"
"Yes we do. Chicken sandwich, chicken nuggets..."
"No! Chickens are nice! Chickens are animals!"
Chris looks to me for help, but I just arch a brow...expecting him to come up with something clever to get out of the hole he dug and calm our now visibly upset four year old.
Instead, I hear:
"Well, Luke...sometimes, we eat animals..."
"NO!" I'm screaming from across the room before I can stop myself, and both of them look up at me in shock. I give Chris a significant look and he silently acknowledges that perhaps Luke is a little too young to be able to accept this concept with anything less than pure, unadulterated horror.
Besides, chicken is a major staple in this house and we'd be in trouble if the kids suddenly refused to eat the stuff.
Fortunately, Luke let the subject drop there.
Thank God for miracles, great and small.
________
"Daddy, I love my sheep."
"I like your sheep too, Luke."
"Does Jesus love sheep?"
"Yes, and Jesus loves you too."
"Jesus takes care of me, and I take care of my sheep."
"Yeah, you're right."
"Does Jesus love babies?"
"Yes, He loves all the babies."
"Does Jesus have little Jesus babies?"
....
......
".......No, Jesus doesn't have babies, but He makes the babies. He made you when you were a baby and gave you to mommy and daddy."
And so, Chris got presented with the first Quick Thinking Award of 2010.
Which almost made up for the conversation he had with Luke about 30 minutes earlier...
Mythbusters was on and they were laying out some raw chickens (heads and feet still attached) on a tanning booth to see if they would actually start to cook after prolonged exposure. Which they didn't, incidentally.
Now, Luke has seen me carve a whole chicken before. And of course, he has seen actual, live chickens. But what Luke hasn't seen is a raw chicken (that he associates with food) looking quite so much like a live chicken (that he associates with farms and petting zoos and various animated features).
"Those chickens are dead?"
"Yes, Luke, they're dead."
"We eat 'em?"
"Yes, we eat them."
"We don't eat chickens!"
"Yes we do. Chicken sandwich, chicken nuggets..."
"No! Chickens are nice! Chickens are animals!"
Chris looks to me for help, but I just arch a brow...expecting him to come up with something clever to get out of the hole he dug and calm our now visibly upset four year old.
Instead, I hear:
"Well, Luke...sometimes, we eat animals..."
"NO!" I'm screaming from across the room before I can stop myself, and both of them look up at me in shock. I give Chris a significant look and he silently acknowledges that perhaps Luke is a little too young to be able to accept this concept with anything less than pure, unadulterated horror.
Besides, chicken is a major staple in this house and we'd be in trouble if the kids suddenly refused to eat the stuff.
Fortunately, Luke let the subject drop there.
Thank God for miracles, great and small.
________
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
That which does not kill them...
You know the old story about the man trying to fix his wobbly chair? He realizes that one leg is shorter than the others, so he sets about trimming three of the legs to match. Of course, he ends up with one leg that's too long, so he cuts it down, etc., etc., until nothing is left but four nubs and the chair is worthless.
Apparently this concept of perfectionism-gone-wild also applies to haircuts, because tonight I unintentionally turned my son into a skinhead.
I wish I were exaggerating.
This actually started a couple of weeks ago when I (once again) grew tired of trying to let his pencil straight hair grow out into anything stylish or remotely appealing. Because when Luke's hair grows out...it grows out. As in "doesn't bend, curl, or otherwise conform to the shape of his skull whatsoever." Finally at about two inches long it starts to weigh itself down and lay flat...in some parts. The other parts (like the crown of his head) poof up like he's got his fingers stuck in an outlet.
So I cut it. I got out my trusty electric clippers and gave him the old military high-and-tight...which, roughly translated into civilian terms, means short on the sides and slightly less short on top. It's my personal specialty. Sounds easy enough, but poor Luke has a rather oddly shaped head (with hills and valleys where you least expect them) so when I try to do my standard high-and-tight, he ends up looking like Sloth from The Goonies.
So I improvise, trying to accentuate the good and hide the...not-so-good. A tall order, when the child starts crying hysterically and spasming on the floor at the first sight of the little black clipper case. I feel like a soldier running across a battlefield when I buzz him...leaping the blade over the valleys while staying low on the hills...all while dodging to the right or left as his head turns, trying to keep from gouging something permanent across his scalp.
Truly, it's an art form.
And something I had mastered for over four years until I somehow lost a few of the more crucial "guards" for my clippers. The guards are organized by size and control how short the blade cuts. Their pointy, comb-like prongs are also good for torturing young boys; accidentally poking and scraping against their scalp when they jerk and twist away from Mommy. But that's more of a fringe benefit, or "collateral damage" as I prefer to call it....whilst twisting my mustache and laughing maniacally.
So when you lose a guard, you lose that size completely...for all eternity. And if you want to blend in, say, a size 4 on top with a size 1 on the sides (and you don't actually have size 1...or 2, or 3) you're left with using a size 0.5, the smallest one available without using the bare blade. And since 0.5 and 4 are distant cousins, twice removed, you're left with a boy that has a line of demarcation around his head you can spot from several hundred yards away.
So that's what I've spent the last couple of weeks staring at. That stupid line.
No one noticed it but me, I'm sure of that. But I swear it's all I noticed. The uneven spots. The unnatural ridge of long hair meeting short. Those random, leftover hairs that the clippers missed which are now twice as long as the rest.
It was torture.
So tonight I thought I'd go a little shorter on top so the blending would be nicer and those strays would be cut down. I managed to locate the #2 blade, which is shorter than I've ever gone on top, but beggars can't be choosers. And perfectionists can't be bothered with trivial things like aesthetics. (Straight lines and symmetry? Crucial! Beauty and good taste? Secondary.)
It wasn't until I was finished buzzing and looked closely to see deep, uneven lines cut into his his hair (think: corn field vs. checker board) that I realized I hadn't found the #2 at all. I'd grabbed one of the stupid diagonal guards that are short on one side and longer on the other. (I have yet to determine the purpose of these guards, except to create a bizarre series of intertwining staircase patterns that M.C. Escher would be jealous of...but for some reason it never occurred to me to throw them away.)
So of course, I had to fix it. The shortest part of the diagonal blade was at least a 2...which I didn't have. Nor did I have a 1. So what did I do?
I buzzed him with the 0.5 all over, quite naturally. And did I do all of this in one sitting? Of course not, don't be silly! No, I cut it a little bit....gave him a bath to wash it off. Then stared at it a while before dragging him back into the bathroom to cut some more and give him another quick bath.
I think I even took him back a third time to clip that unruly cowlick.
Of course, to keep him from getting completely hysterical during what was surely a textbook case of child-abuse, I had to promise him a large bowl of chocolate ice cream afterwards.
So here's my boy. With hair so short he might just as well be bald, and chocolate all over his face and the front of his clean jammies.
Now all the poor child needs is a bad attitude and a swastika tattoo before the transformation to Neo-Nazi will be complete. Sadly, he's already halfway there....but there's nothing I can do about that now.
Not until we can afford the tattoo removal.
___
Update #1 (1-28-10): Chris came home today and declared our son a cancer patient. I, of course, found that to be in poor taste (and slightly disturbing) so I immediately re-classified him as a P.O.W.
___
Update #2 (2-02-10): This is Luke nearly a week later. Notice the barely perceptible regrowth that only seems to highlight his obscenely lumpy noggin.
____
Apparently this concept of perfectionism-gone-wild also applies to haircuts, because tonight I unintentionally turned my son into a skinhead.
I wish I were exaggerating.
This actually started a couple of weeks ago when I (once again) grew tired of trying to let his pencil straight hair grow out into anything stylish or remotely appealing. Because when Luke's hair grows out...it grows out. As in "doesn't bend, curl, or otherwise conform to the shape of his skull whatsoever." Finally at about two inches long it starts to weigh itself down and lay flat...in some parts. The other parts (like the crown of his head) poof up like he's got his fingers stuck in an outlet.
So I cut it. I got out my trusty electric clippers and gave him the old military high-and-tight...which, roughly translated into civilian terms, means short on the sides and slightly less short on top. It's my personal specialty. Sounds easy enough, but poor Luke has a rather oddly shaped head (with hills and valleys where you least expect them) so when I try to do my standard high-and-tight, he ends up looking like Sloth from The Goonies.
So I improvise, trying to accentuate the good and hide the...not-so-good. A tall order, when the child starts crying hysterically and spasming on the floor at the first sight of the little black clipper case. I feel like a soldier running across a battlefield when I buzz him...leaping the blade over the valleys while staying low on the hills...all while dodging to the right or left as his head turns, trying to keep from gouging something permanent across his scalp.
Truly, it's an art form.
And something I had mastered for over four years until I somehow lost a few of the more crucial "guards" for my clippers. The guards are organized by size and control how short the blade cuts. Their pointy, comb-like prongs are also good for torturing young boys; accidentally poking and scraping against their scalp when they jerk and twist away from Mommy. But that's more of a fringe benefit, or "collateral damage" as I prefer to call it....whilst twisting my mustache and laughing maniacally.
So when you lose a guard, you lose that size completely...for all eternity. And if you want to blend in, say, a size 4 on top with a size 1 on the sides (and you don't actually have size 1...or 2, or 3) you're left with using a size 0.5, the smallest one available without using the bare blade. And since 0.5 and 4 are distant cousins, twice removed, you're left with a boy that has a line of demarcation around his head you can spot from several hundred yards away.
So that's what I've spent the last couple of weeks staring at. That stupid line.
No one noticed it but me, I'm sure of that. But I swear it's all I noticed. The uneven spots. The unnatural ridge of long hair meeting short. Those random, leftover hairs that the clippers missed which are now twice as long as the rest.
It was torture.
So tonight I thought I'd go a little shorter on top so the blending would be nicer and those strays would be cut down. I managed to locate the #2 blade, which is shorter than I've ever gone on top, but beggars can't be choosers. And perfectionists can't be bothered with trivial things like aesthetics. (Straight lines and symmetry? Crucial! Beauty and good taste? Secondary.)
It wasn't until I was finished buzzing and looked closely to see deep, uneven lines cut into his his hair (think: corn field vs. checker board) that I realized I hadn't found the #2 at all. I'd grabbed one of the stupid diagonal guards that are short on one side and longer on the other. (I have yet to determine the purpose of these guards, except to create a bizarre series of intertwining staircase patterns that M.C. Escher would be jealous of...but for some reason it never occurred to me to throw them away.)
So of course, I had to fix it. The shortest part of the diagonal blade was at least a 2...which I didn't have. Nor did I have a 1. So what did I do?
I buzzed him with the 0.5 all over, quite naturally. And did I do all of this in one sitting? Of course not, don't be silly! No, I cut it a little bit....gave him a bath to wash it off. Then stared at it a while before dragging him back into the bathroom to cut some more and give him another quick bath.
I think I even took him back a third time to clip that unruly cowlick.
Of course, to keep him from getting completely hysterical during what was surely a textbook case of child-abuse, I had to promise him a large bowl of chocolate ice cream afterwards.
So here's my boy. With hair so short he might just as well be bald, and chocolate all over his face and the front of his clean jammies.
Now all the poor child needs is a bad attitude and a swastika tattoo before the transformation to Neo-Nazi will be complete. Sadly, he's already halfway there....but there's nothing I can do about that now.
Not until we can afford the tattoo removal.
___
Update #1 (1-28-10): Chris came home today and declared our son a cancer patient. I, of course, found that to be in poor taste (and slightly disturbing) so I immediately re-classified him as a P.O.W.
___
Update #2 (2-02-10): This is Luke nearly a week later. Notice the barely perceptible regrowth that only seems to highlight his obscenely lumpy noggin.
____
Monday, December 7, 2009
Frogs
____
Now that Evie's hair is finally getting long enough to braid, I decided to watch a tutorial for French braiding on Youtube. It was four minutes long and nearly made my brains leak out my ears. I honestly tried to follow the woman's blurred fingers as she twisted and pulled...but seriously, shooting a bird straight out of the sky using a straw and a small wad of saliva-coated paper looked easier than what this lady was doing.
Perhaps it is my disdain for the French people as a whole that has caused me to subconsciously block the ability to master this ancient form of braiding. Yes, you heard right; I can't stand that country. I'm a fairly open-minded person but I will admit to this one bigotry. Don't feel sorry for the Frenchies, though...anyone who can say that the worst slur to be hurled at them is the word "frog" can't possibly have it too bad.
Apparently there's a close cousin called the Dutch braid that is simply an "inverted French braid." I have no real problem with the Dutch, (though my Grandpa never seemed too fond of them) but anyone who tries to braid hair from the bottom up can't be given very much respect, in my book.
Of course, an inverted braid isn't actually what it sounds like it should be, but no one ever said discrimination had to make sense.
So for my own piece of mind (and a poorly applied sense of patriotism), I decided to start calling it a Freedom braid. And wouldn't you know it? With that mental block hurdled, I was finally successful!
Here is my first completed attempt at a Freedom braid:
Now that Evie's hair is finally getting long enough to braid, I decided to watch a tutorial for French braiding on Youtube. It was four minutes long and nearly made my brains leak out my ears. I honestly tried to follow the woman's blurred fingers as she twisted and pulled...but seriously, shooting a bird straight out of the sky using a straw and a small wad of saliva-coated paper looked easier than what this lady was doing.
Perhaps it is my disdain for the French people as a whole that has caused me to subconsciously block the ability to master this ancient form of braiding. Yes, you heard right; I can't stand that country. I'm a fairly open-minded person but I will admit to this one bigotry. Don't feel sorry for the Frenchies, though...anyone who can say that the worst slur to be hurled at them is the word "frog" can't possibly have it too bad.
Apparently there's a close cousin called the Dutch braid that is simply an "inverted French braid." I have no real problem with the Dutch, (though my Grandpa never seemed too fond of them) but anyone who tries to braid hair from the bottom up can't be given very much respect, in my book.
Of course, an inverted braid isn't actually what it sounds like it should be, but no one ever said discrimination had to make sense.
So for my own piece of mind (and a poorly applied sense of patriotism), I decided to start calling it a Freedom braid. And wouldn't you know it? With that mental block hurdled, I was finally successful!
Here is my first completed attempt at a Freedom braid:
As you can see, I wasn't sure when to put hair into what finger, so I winged it...adding clumps of hair whenever a digit started feeling lonely. Still, considering it was a moving target, I don't think I did too bad. Granted, it looks mostly like a traditional braid, with the hair on the front half of her head shoved haphazardly inside, but it's certainly a start.
And farther than my own mother ever got with me, incidentally. I can still remember the glint of hope she'd get in her eyes whenever she got the urge to try a French braid in my hair.
"This time I really think I can do it!"
I loved her too much to tell her the truth. That the ninety-third time will be no more successful than the first. She'd furrow her brow in utter concentration as her fingers scraped across my scalp, tightly gathering every last strand of hair and cinching into the tightest braid known to man. Even the French wouldn't be that cruel.
About half way through, it would start looking too sloppy so she'd quit. At the time, I thought it was an eye-hand coordination thing, but I realize now that she was simply being a perfectionist. I was either going to look like a Nazi Fraulein (who I assume wore severely tight braids since they were such hateful people) or I was going to wear my hair down.
So getting even this far with Evie's hair is a huge accomplishment, considering my genetics. Because of this, I dedicate my daughter's first Freedom braid to my loving mother.
I couldn't have done it with you, Mom! ;-)
____________
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Why I post more pictures of Evie...
This is my beautiful daughter posing for the camera:
*******
This is my handsome boy posing for the camera:
*******
This is how I'm going to get revenge on my handsome boy (preferably when he brings his first girlfriend home):
*******
Friday, November 13, 2009
A really, really, REALLY bad day.
I read once that little girls are all energy and determination. Which is a nice way of saying they want to get their own way and they have the stamina to make it happen.
Evie came out of the womb this way. The nurses all joked about it being too late to put her back and I laughed politely. It took a few months to realize the joke was on me.
My daughter has never been a good sleeper. Ever. When she was a newborn, she had reflux that kept her up at night and caused these horrible choking fits...which meant that even when she WAS sleeping, I wasn't. I was too busy staring at her.
She's gone through phases over the years, but none as bad as what we're currently dealing with in her "terrible two's." An insufficient alliteration if I've ever heard one.
Evie gets out of her bed at night. A lot. She used to come out of her room right away, until she figured out that was the quickest way to get busted. Now she stays in there for up to fifteen minutes at a time (which is as long as she can stand to be contained anywhere) before finally opening her door.
At first, she would make a lot of racket while she played, but (again) she quickly learned that noise alerted the parental units that much sooner. Now she's sneaky-like.
And I use the term "play" very loosely since she doesn't actually have toys in her bedroom. So what does she do to entertain herself, you ask? Well, at various times I have burst into Evie's room and caught her:
She got even more out of control, so I did the only thing I could think of. I turned her on her side and pulled her back into my chest. Then I wrapped my arms and legs around hers and gently, but firmly, held her still.
She completely lost it. Not sad, mind you. Just furious.
She strained against me, screaming and grunting until her voice was hoarse.
After having to do this a couple of times, she finally agreed to be a good girl and told me (rather rudely) to "Get ow mah bed."
When I finally left her room, she immediately fell asleep. I'd take credit, but I'm pretty sure she simply exhausted herself.
I immediately called my husband at work and told him what had happened. As always, he was a beacon of wisdom.
"It sounds like she's possessed!"
(sigh)
When he pulled into the drive an hour and a half later, she was still sleeping.
"So how's Linda Blair doing?"
"Will you stop calling her that!"
I went upstairs to wake her and she seemed to be her normal, sweet, slightly-groggy self. She cuddled in my arms all the way down the stairs.
Chris started in right away...
"Evie, say 'Jesus'." He looked at me, "Demons hate that."
Of course, Evie was still feeling contrary.
"No."
"Evie, please just say 'Jesus'!"
"No."
I tried to help..."Evie, sing 'Jesus Loves Me'."
"No."
Chris looked like he was actually starting to believe his little joke, so I went along with it. "I guess I shouldn't have let her play with that Ouija board yesterday."
"Very funny, Steph." He paused..."Should I rebuke her in the name of Jesus?"
I shrugged. "It couldn't hurt."
I love messing with his mind.
He held her by the shoulders. "I rebuke you in the name of Jesus Christ."
She blinked up at him.
"Now say 'Jesus', Evie."
"No."
Then, out of sheer desperation...
"If you say Jesus, I'll give you some chocolate."
"Jesus love me, this I knooow..."
So we might or might not have had an exorcism in our house today. Only time will tell...
_________
Evie came out of the womb this way. The nurses all joked about it being too late to put her back and I laughed politely. It took a few months to realize the joke was on me.
My daughter has never been a good sleeper. Ever. When she was a newborn, she had reflux that kept her up at night and caused these horrible choking fits...which meant that even when she WAS sleeping, I wasn't. I was too busy staring at her.
She's gone through phases over the years, but none as bad as what we're currently dealing with in her "terrible two's." An insufficient alliteration if I've ever heard one.
Evie gets out of her bed at night. A lot. She used to come out of her room right away, until she figured out that was the quickest way to get busted. Now she stays in there for up to fifteen minutes at a time (which is as long as she can stand to be contained anywhere) before finally opening her door.
At first, she would make a lot of racket while she played, but (again) she quickly learned that noise alerted the parental units that much sooner. Now she's sneaky-like.
And I use the term "play" very loosely since she doesn't actually have toys in her bedroom. So what does she do to entertain herself, you ask? Well, at various times I have burst into Evie's room and caught her:
- Standing in the middle of the room, completely naked.
- Standing in the middle of the room, wearing a dress or some other outfit she pulled out of her closet (as opposed to the pajamas I laid her down in).
- Sitting in her rocking chair "reading" a book that she had somehow retrieved from the top shelf of the hutch over her very tall dresser.
- Pulling the last piece of bedding from her mattress and throwing it on the floor.
- Hiding in her closet.
- Hiding behind her rocking chair.
- Pouring the entire bottle of lotion (that somehow got left in her room) onto the carpet.
- Standing on the edge of her bed railing and jumping to the floor.
- Standing on the edge of her dresser and...well, just standing there.
- Kicking the wall.
- Emptying the contents of her closet.
- Emptying the contents of her dresser.
The list goes on and on, but suffice to say that my daughter has found many creative ways to pass the time in a relatively empty room. And if that's all she did, I might be able to handle that. The room is super-baby-proofed, so I'm not too concerned about her hurting herself. And if I were to walk in the next morning and find her asleep on a pile of bedding on the floor wearing nothing but a dress that we bought for her church dedication at six months old...then who am I to complain? At least she SLEPT!
But no, she has to actually come out of her room. Sometimes she makes a mad dash before I can get upstairs and I end up searching the entire second floor before I find her rifling through the drawers in the master bathroom. And if you think that's bad, imagine what she could do with the rest of the house! I'll give you a hint...I've had to call poison control for Evie no less than FOUR times in her short life.
Off the top of my head, I can name at least three culprits: baby bath soap, children's sunscreen (which, apparently, contains Aspirin of all things), and a small packet of Tylenol from a first aid kit. And that's not counting the toothpaste she gorged on or the Windex she squirted in her own eyes.
Obviously, this child cannot be left unattended for a nano-second.
Today was day three that Evie refused to take a nap, following literally months of bedtime battles. And believe you me; Evie Grace needs her naps or else Evie-zilla makes an appearance by 5pm.
So I decided to make my stand this afternoon. Remember the Alamo? I didn't.
I told Evie that every time she got out of bed, she would be punished. She nodded in clear understanding. A few minutes later, I heard some banging around. I went back in to see her putting on a completely different set of pajamas.
So I disciplined her and laid her back in bed.
A few minutes later, I heard her banging around. I walked in to see her reading a book....in the buff.
So I disciplined her and laid her back in bed.
A few minutes later, I heard her banging around. I walked in to see her running laps around her room...in the buff.
So I disciplined her and laid her back in bed.
Etcetera, etcerera.
Finally, I decided to bring in a pillow and lay on the floor next to her bed, reasoning that she would be too intimidated by my presence to disobey. Riiiiiight...
That didn't work, and she was starting to get hysterical from crying. It had come down to a battle of wills.
"I wanna go pee-pee on da toy-wet!"
"No you don't, Evie, you just want out of bed."
"I WANNA GO PEE-PEE ON DA TOY-WET!!"
"Just go in your diaper like you do all day. You're NOT getting out of bed."
"Don't wanna go pee-pee in my diaper. I wanna go pee-pee on...da...TOY-*deep breath*-WEEEET!"
"No."
Every "no" made her angrier and angrier until she was screaming at the top of her lungs and flailing her limbs. And getting out of bed.
I decided to squeeze next to her in bed, thinking I could cuddle her and calm her down enough to start being reasonable. Riiiiight....
She kept demanding to use the toilet, but I stood firm. She started getting more agitated than I'd ever seen her, thrashing around in bed like some pint-sized lunatic, screaming at the top of her lungs and still trying to get out of bed. It was as if she were incapable of holding still for even a fraction of a second.
My determination settled in then, and I decided I would win this battle if it (she) killed me.
She was flailing so badly, that I eventually had to hold her hands at her side in an effort to settle her down. This is when I learned that an upset toddler has 2.5 times the strength of a full-grown adult.She got even more out of control, so I did the only thing I could think of. I turned her on her side and pulled her back into my chest. Then I wrapped my arms and legs around hers and gently, but firmly, held her still.
She completely lost it. Not sad, mind you. Just furious.
She strained against me, screaming and grunting until her voice was hoarse.
After having to do this a couple of times, she finally agreed to be a good girl and told me (rather rudely) to "Get ow mah bed."
When I finally left her room, she immediately fell asleep. I'd take credit, but I'm pretty sure she simply exhausted herself.
I immediately called my husband at work and told him what had happened. As always, he was a beacon of wisdom.
"It sounds like she's possessed!"
(sigh)
When he pulled into the drive an hour and a half later, she was still sleeping.
"So how's Linda Blair doing?"
"Will you stop calling her that!"
I went upstairs to wake her and she seemed to be her normal, sweet, slightly-groggy self. She cuddled in my arms all the way down the stairs.
Chris started in right away...
"Evie, say 'Jesus'." He looked at me, "Demons hate that."
Of course, Evie was still feeling contrary.
"No."
"Evie, please just say 'Jesus'!"
"No."
I tried to help..."Evie, sing 'Jesus Loves Me'."
"No."
Chris looked like he was actually starting to believe his little joke, so I went along with it. "I guess I shouldn't have let her play with that Ouija board yesterday."
"Very funny, Steph." He paused..."Should I rebuke her in the name of Jesus?"
I shrugged. "It couldn't hurt."
I love messing with his mind.
He held her by the shoulders. "I rebuke you in the name of Jesus Christ."
She blinked up at him.
"Now say 'Jesus', Evie."
"No."
Then, out of sheer desperation...
"If you say Jesus, I'll give you some chocolate."
"Jesus love me, this I knooow..."
So we might or might not have had an exorcism in our house today. Only time will tell...
_________
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Family Pics
I'm ashamed to say that this is actually our very first (decent) family photo since....well, since we became a family. Thanks to my sis-in-law, Tara, for using my camera to take the shot that I was in. Well done, Sweetheart.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
That's Nuts
______________________________
I thought I was buying a bag of salt, but it turns out there were pistachios in there!!!
I thought I was buying a bag of salt, but it turns out there were pistachios in there!!!
.
I'm only 98% satisfied. Maybe Wal-Mart will give me a refund....
Knowing them, it'll only be for 2%.
_______________________________
Monday, October 12, 2009
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Monday, August 24, 2009
The Name Game
Somewhere along the line, Chris and I decided not to be the kind of parents that constantly call each other "Mommy" and "Daddy" in front of the kids. It wasn't a conscious decision, really. Just somewhat of a necessity for us.
Because while most people can refer to each other one way during the daytime hours, and another way in the evening....say....when the kids are at Grandma's and the restaurant has romantic lighting....Chris and I seem to be among the few that can't.
Nothing kills date night faster than a poorly timed "Kiss me, Daddy."
Of course, I still refer to myself as Mommy in front of the kids.
In the third person.
Habitually.
Seriously, I couldn't stop if my life depended on it.
But for a while now I've been calling my husband by his given name around the kids, and vice versa. Which has caused a minor head trip for Luke.
"You call Daddy 'Chris'?"
"Yes, Baby."
*pondering*
"Daddy call you 'Steph'?"
“Yes, Baby.”
*eyes crossing*
"You call Grandma 'Mom'?"
"Yes, Baby."
*ears steaming*
"You call Grandpa..."
"Yes, Baby."
Before Luke started getting confused by all these different labels, I hadn't really considered how complicated it must seem to him. My mother is "Mom" to me, "Jennifer" to Chris and my dad, and "Grandma" to Luke and Evie. And in a family get-together, the kids will hear every single version used!
I'm no exception; answering to "Mommy", "Steph", "Aunt Stephie", and even "Hey, jerk!" interchangeably. And that's not even counting all the pet-names like Sweetie, Baby, Honey, Poopsie, Schnookums, and (my favorite) Snuggle Puff!
So I try to be understanding when both of my children imitate my husband and I by using our first names....though they're usually screaming "Chris!!" in an annoyed, nasally voice for some unknown reason.
*awkward silence**uncomfortable cough*
Anyhow, saying our names around the house is one thing, but my kids take it to the streets. They've learned quickly that calling me by my given name in public is sure to get a response. As a result, the good patrons at our local Walmart have (at various times) believed me to be the mother, aunt, casual friend, and/or distant relative of my own children, depending on which of my numerous titles the little stinkers darlings choose to use that day.
I've tried ignoring them until they use my correct title, but we all know how that sort of thing usually goes.
Never underestimate the tenacity and mental fortitude of a stubborn preschooler.
Or, as Confucius says: "He who stand off with child in Walmart, come home with no grocery."
Oh well. Guess I'll just write this one off as Hopeless Battle #342 and stick with my usual mantra:
"Maybe it's just a phase."
_______
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Sometimes I wish my voice were shriller
The most popular (and heart-warming) quotes heard in my house:
Evie, it disturbs Mommy when you pull the heads off of your Barbie dolls.
Why can't anyone keep their clothes on around here?
What did I just say?
Nice try, kid.
Luke, there is no peeing in the time-out corner.
Evie, there is no peeing in the toy oven.
Kids, get off of the dog's kennel!
....get off of the table!
....get off of the counter!
....get off of your dresser!
....get off of each other!
Please stop scaling the pantry shelves.
Stop sitting on the dog's head.
Stop sitting on your brother's head.
We don't put our hands in the toilet.
Did you just shut her arm in the door??!!!
Did you just bite him?!!
Evie, Luke doesn't want to wrestle.
Ow! What was...why would you throw your sippy cup at my face???!!!
If you stop screaming, she'll give it back.
Where's the boo-boo?
Why did you take your diaper off?
FOR THE LOVE OF PETE, STOP RUBBING FOOD IN YOUR HAIR!
You should have told me you had to go poop!!!
Is it nap time yet?
Why are you dumping shampoo all over the carpet?!!
Why are you dumping lotion all over the carpet?!!
Why do we even OWN a permanent marker?!
You will obey me, child.
Please don't drink the bath water.
Where's your sippy cup?
Can you find it?
Did you even look?
Why are you ignoring me?
If you lay there quietly and let Mommy sleep for another five minutes, I'll give you anything you want.
_____
Kids, get off of the dog's kennel!
....get off of the table!
....get off of the counter!
....get off of your dresser!
....get off of each other!
Please stop scaling the pantry shelves.
Stop sitting on the dog's head.
Stop sitting on your brother's head.
We don't put our hands in the toilet.
Did you just shut her arm in the door??!!!
Did you just bite him?!!
Evie, Luke doesn't want to wrestle.
Ow! What was...why would you throw your sippy cup at my face???!!!
If you stop screaming, she'll give it back.
Where's the boo-boo?
Why did you take your diaper off?
FOR THE LOVE OF PETE, STOP RUBBING FOOD IN YOUR HAIR!
You should have told me you had to go poop!!!
Is it nap time yet?
Why are you dumping shampoo all over the carpet?!!
Why are you dumping lotion all over the carpet?!!
Why do we even OWN a permanent marker?!
You will obey me, child.
Please don't drink the bath water.
Where's your sippy cup?
Can you find it?
Did you even look?
Why are you ignoring me?
If you lay there quietly and let Mommy sleep for another five minutes, I'll give you anything you want.
_____
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
One Trick Wonder
Okay, so I'm weird.
...I'll give you a moment to let the shock settle in...
I love to comb wet hair.
Someone else's wet hair.
I think it's the only reason I agree to give free, amateur haircuts for family members. (You'd be surprised at how different the same exact haircut looks on three separate men.)
There's just something so hypnotic about running a fine tooth comb through wet, dark locks of hair....leaving perfectly smooth lines behind. Order out of chaos.
It even makes cutting my mom's hair enjoyable. (She actually gets the same cut as everyone else, only longer. But that's just between you and me.)
And I know Mom loves the experience as well.Not for the combing so much as the cathartic release she gets from having me completely at the mercy of her finicky demands for half an hour.
She pretends that it's just her charming, perfectionist personality...but I know better. I see the gleam in her eye as she mentally relives all the small moments over the past twenty-eight years when I snubbed her advice.
Payback is....well, you know.
But even under those conditions, I still get a simple thrill from combing out her gleaming, raven-colored hair. I could zone out and do it for hours, I think. Or at least until it's dry....or breaking off at the scalp from all the stress.
Which makes me incredibly fortunate to have such a patient little girl.
Evie is a study in contradictions.
For a child that won't sit still long enough to eat, sleep, or use the toilet, she is amazingly still when I'm trying to do her hair. Which is such an extraordinary occurance, I find myself actually pausing every few minutes to check her pulse.
I'm not going so far as to say she actually enjoys it. More like she never got the memo saying she was supposed to hate it. It's an ignorant acceptance.
Or maybe it's because I screech like a banshee when she moves.
Nah.
Just a couple of nights ago, I was sitting on the floor of Evie's bedroom as she sat in front of me, still dripping from the bath. My eyes were slightly glazed as the comb glided through her freshly washed hair again and again until it was slick against her scalp (à la Max Headroom).
Luke, who appreciates his buzz-cut more than ever in moments like these, was sitting casually in the rocking chair and observing.
Finally (after what could possibly have been twenty minutes of this, but probably wasn't because that would be obsessive) he spoke up.
"Mommy, Evie's hair looks awful."
My hand jerked sharply, creating a jagged part across the back of her head. I recovered quickly, smoothing out the part before dramatically jiggling a finger in my ear to dislodge some imaginary blockage.
"What was that, Luke? I'm sure I misunderstood you..."
Apparently, the threat was too subtle for a three-year-old.
"Evie's hair looks awful."
Okay, he's never used that word before. Maybe he's just confused about what it means.
"Did you mean to say that Evie's hair looks nice, Luke?"
"No, Evie's hair looks..." He started to repeat himself, but our eyes connected suddenly over Evie's head, and in that endless moment...that brief eternity in which my twitching eyelid and bulging veins finally registered with the part of his brain dedicated to self-preservation....we had an understanding.
"Or....Evie's hair looks nice, Mommy."
I would have preferred "glorious" but I try not to be finicky.
_______
