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.



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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.


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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.

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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.



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Frogs

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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! ;-)

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Why I post more pictures of Evie...

This is my beautiful daughter posing for the camera:

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This is my handsome boy posing for the camera:

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This is how I'm going to get revenge on my handsome boy (preferably when he brings his first girlfriend home):

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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:

• 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...



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