No Clippers

I could write a book on all the things I make Mason do against his will. He's a bit bullheaded and especially chickenhearted -- a strange combination. He's that kid who I just know will grow up and refuse to do things like dress in front of other kids in the locker room and then give excuses like, "I don't want to see others and they shouldn't see me. It's a matter of principle." How do I know this? He's a little bit like me. Just a little.

Currently, he does not like to get in the pool, go to bed in his own room, walk down the stairs without holding onto the rail (even if it's holding up traffic), enter a dark room, watch Monster House in its entirety, eat anything other than scrambled eggs, nor get his hair cut.

Big drama at the salon. In the warmer months I don't really mind being the one to shear them. But in the cooler months, well, let's say it, I just don't like the mess in the house. And yes, that means that when I do cut hair, it's out on the porch in all my white trash glory.

We've tried Sports Clips, a few actual stylists at a few actual fancy salons, and Fantastic Sam's. Fantastic Sam's is the current favorite because they have actually convinced Mason to sit down, only cry a little bit, and sit still. He gets so terrified that he crunches up his fists and does this weird pinching thing with his fingers. And most of the other patrons in the salon sit and laugh at him -- he's that funny about his fear.

The entire 15 minutes he is dictating how things should be done. No clippers! Just scissors! Don't cut my ear! Give me a sucker! Don't look at me!

But when it's done, he does look pretty good. It's getting relaxing enough, I might not go back to cutting it ever again.

Go Stuff Yourself

Have a pleasant meal filled with guilty pleasures and grateful thoughts.

Changing of the Garb

In a few days time we'll be wrestling with the Christmas tree and hanging lights on our front porch. All this craziness is an attempt to show our holiday spirit on the outside of our homes, the inside, and anywhere else we can find a niche, crevice or shelf with room for a garland. We're saying, it's winter. We're ready to lay down Lady Fall and open the door to Old Man Winter.


Which is wild, really, considering my boys are still marching around in Halloween costumes. When I see a fellow mother of the festooned costume-wearer in public I always look over with empathetic eyes and say, "I love you." Which is to say:

I appreciate that you are fostering creativity in your home.
You are so right to let your child express his individuality through his clothes.
It's not as embarrassing after the first 23 times, is it?
How many days in a row?
Have you found a good detergent for those flimsy polyester numbers?
Did you know you can get those at Target the week after Halloween for a quarter of the cost!?!?!?
Has he/she worn a costume to school, yet?
Mine has, should I be worried?
How many "personalities" does your child don?
You are such a good mom.

In other words, sometimes when it is said, "Oh! How I love thee, let me count the ways." It should actually be said, "I understand you, I don't know how to say it other than I love you."


PHOTO NOTE: Notice yesterday's costume on the floor.

Dear Mr. Incredible

Dear Mr. Incredible,
I just wanted to write and let you know I've enjoyed borrowing your super suit. The thing is, it doesn't fit anymore. I was wondering if you're at liberty to share the number of your famed tailor -- Edna Mode. I know she's retired, but surely when she sees how this is fitting me, she'll make a comeback.

Honestly, it's only a little tight around the waist, but the shirt shows a bit more than my bellybutton these days. And I've grown a few inches taller, so, it's not tucking into my super boots like it should. Any suggestions? My mother claims she hasn't washed it in warm water, but that woman is not much of a laundress. And I swear I saw her taking it out of a very hot dryer just the other day. Isn't it supposed to be line-dried, exclusively?!??!

Other than that, my hero work has been on hold. I've been working on my numbers and letters and haven't had much time for cats up trees. You?

Sincerely,
Mr. Mason

Pour Some Sugar on Me

It’s a rare occasion when I get to grocery shop alone. I of course prefer to shop alone. I can actually look for the items on my list without the constant barrage of begging for Fruit Loops and Oreo Cookies.

Following the much-anticipated parent-teacher conference I rounded out the evening with a solo-shopping trip. I was already in a funk thanks to the conference (more on that later) and doubly funkified to be shopping to the sounds of what I can only describe as the Top 10 Van Halen Songs of the 80s. When I pulled a gallon of rocky road ice cream out of the freezer the lyrics of Jump almost forced me to pick up two more gallons.

Anyway, I get to the checkout and am greeted by a sweet, if perhaps over-energetic checker. She appears to be about 20, but could be as young as 18.

And then I hear it, the familiar opening bars to "Pour Some Sugar on Me", a song by Def Leppard. As the song starts blaring from the overhead speakers the girl pauses, cocks her head as if to listen just a bit more intently and squeals, “Oh my God! This is my mom’s favorite song.”

This is where I cringe. Not because I hate the song, but because I once loved it. As does her MOTHER, not her sister, not her aunt, her MOTHER. Am I that old? If I had kept up with some of my high school peers I could have a child who is a checker at the local Kroger. Instead I’m actually buying another box of pull-ups for my baby.

To be clear, Pour Some Sugar on Me is from Def Leppard’s Hysteria album, released in 1987. I was only in seventh grade back then, so no I could not have a child who is 20. BUT, my husband graduated in 1986, so HE could have a child who is a checker at the local Kroger. And that freaked me out. Is this how it begins? Next I’ll be wearing Pull On Polyester Pants from Sears.

PS -- This girl had to ask me what each of the vegetables I bought was. She couldn't tell a zucchini from a butternut squash and had no idea what ginger root was.

Everything I Wanted

I get headaches. Bad ones. I can still describe to you the occasion of the first one I remember, which felt like it split my head wide open in about the 3rd grade.

I was just searching the medicine cabinet for something strong to battle one, when Cooper came looking for me. Of course he had like 30 questions. I was none too eager to speak aloud let alone answer his bazillion questions. So when we got to the part where he wanted to know why I had a headache I told him I thought it was because I grind my teeth.

He then proceeded to repeat to me -- word for word -- a commercial for a night mouth guard that he had seen on T.V. He even said, "clenching can cause damage to your teeth, mom." Of course I said, "Cooper you are quite possibly the smartest boy I have ever met, ever." This people is when it got interesting.

"Is that why you bought me?"

"I didn't buy you, I grew you."

"Oh, is that what you wanted to grow, a smart boy?"

"Well, not exactly. But I like what I got."

Blank stare. Some unabashed blinking of the minkiest eyelashes I've ever seen.

"I only wished you would be well and wonderful, and you are. Plus you're smart."

"Did you eat me?"

Aside from being hysterical, I can't put the conversation out of my mind. How do you explain to your child that you didn't wish for him exactly, but you love exactly what you got? They earnestly want to know this. I know I did, or rather I still do. Every child wants to know if you love him. And to know if you wished for him. For his individual awesomeness. Of course we do not wish for it. And yet, once you have them they are everything you wish for, and more. This might not actually be true for all parents, but it is to me.

So while I contemplate this mystery of the ages, I am also panicking because it's only a matter of time before he presses me on the, "Did you eat me?" in order to grow me question. And we all know how I handle pressure situations.

PHOTO NOTE: I don't have very many pictures of my kids right now. I've been listening to them, instead of sticking a lens up their nose. They just show off anyway.

For Every Action

It turns out that I don't really think through things sometimes. Like when on Sunday I decided to go ahead and buy that cabinet I wanted for the bathroom. It takes 21 days to ship. So, you know what that means?

In the next 21 days I must....

1. Strip all the wallpaper off my bathroom walls and ceiling. Yes, the ceiling. Who puts wallpaper on a ceiling anyway? I have a feeling I'll be returning to my physical therapist before long.

2. Pull out two vanity cabinets and sinks and counter tops. Do you think I can sell these on Craig's List? How much should I charge?

3. Remove all the towel rods, in-wall medicine cabinets, and strange toilet paper holder that is sunken into the wall. None of these will return... so you know what that means...

4. Cap off the plumbing to one of the existing vanity sinks. Patch all the holes in the walls and mud the walls.

5. Tear our carpet. Yes, carpet. Shouldn't carpet in a bathroom be against code? Seriously it as dangerous as an electrical outlet above the shower head. Black mold and pee. That's all I'm saying.

6. Pull out the toilet and baseboards.

7. Lay tile and seat new toilet.

After all that is done... the new cabinet should arrive. Then I must...

8. Order a counter top and sink and have them installed. I'm not even sure if the installer includes the faucet in that project, but we'll see.

9. Last but not least, paint and replace the baseboards.