Have you ever seen a man eat yogurt? My father eats it, but that doesn't really count because my sister and I always tease him that he's more like a gay anyway because of his love of the colour pink and chick flicks, among other things. I've been noticing more yogurt commercials lately, and realising that nearly all of them are directed towards women.
Men have been eating yogurt in the Balkans for over four thousand years. Is it considered unmanly to do so in North America? Is it just not a man thing, or would they have to make some that tasted like meat or beer or something to get them interested? Or are they conditioned by the media to think that yogurt, like Renée Zellweger films, are for women only?
There are all kinds of new bacteria in different brands now. Which would be helpful if I actually knew what that particular "new" and "better" bacteria (except they don't really ever call it bacteria, do they? Bacteria makes me think of e.coli. And Listeria. And Staph infections.) was supposed to do for my digestive system. I've seen yogurt bragging about B.L. Regularis and other stuff bragging about containing Howaru. When it comes right down to it, it's curdled milk, non? Does it really matter which strain of bacteria they use to make it? The very nature of yogurt is to be pro-biotic. Stop messing with it!
And now there are all these newfangled flavours of yogurt. Like lemon chiffon and black forest cake. Even some kind of raspberry/lychee/dragonfruit concoction that was advertised in my women's fashion magazine. According to the commercials and adverts, these are a delectable treat which women should keep to themselves. In fact, we should hide it and eat our yogurt in secret because it's so delectable (that word is so grossing me out. Delectable. Blech.) that it must in fact be sinful and we wouldn't want to be seen indulging ourselves. Goddess forbid you should ever let a man see you eating a treat! I don't know about most people, but back when I was into eating in secret and hiding food, it was because I was then dabbling with barfing it back up. Is this really the message we want to be sending out in the world?
Oh, but wait! That yogurt you've been indulging in? It's sinful, yes. But did you know it's actually diet food? It contains no fat and no sugar! So you should hide away and eat it, yes, because it's so delicious. But the trick is, you don't have to! Because it's actually good for you. It just wants you to think that it's so good that it must be bad for you. Which is good. Or bad?
Howaru: Yogurt you can actually eat. In public.
Why don't they just go right ahead and make all yogurt pink, and put a heap of sparkles in it? Chicks go crazy for glitter. If I could get a dragonfruit/lemon/lychee/sugarless/fat free mixture that was pink with glitter in it, why I'd hide it away and eat it in secret for sure! Only one more thing would make it more perfect. If they'd just put a unicorn on the packaging. I can't resist a unicorn.
I had the pleasure on Tuesday of attending a "lip sync" concert at my son's school. This consisted of groups of children aged seven to nine. They'd been practicing for weeks as part of both their drama and music classes, so it was much anticipated when the date finally arrived. There were a few performances that were brilliant, but for the most part many of the kids were scared stiff and barely moved.
Now, is it just me, or is lip syncing something that was primarily done in the eighties? There is nothing more eighties than the art of the lip sync! At least for me it conjures up memories of doing the moonwalk or twirling around on stage to "La Isla Bonita".
Well, some things have changed. For one, the only singer parents had to really worry about when we were kids was Madonna. Madonna was overtly sexual, but let's face it, nothing compared to what kids are listening to today. It was disconcerting to me to see children of that age singing along to Kid Rock with lyrics like, "Making love out by the lake to our favorite song; sipping whiskey out the bottle, not thinkin bout tomorrah..." or gyrating around to Lady Gaga, "Honey when it's love if it's not rough it isn't fun" or "I wanna take a ride on your disco stick".
I am definitely not one of "those" moms, the ones who would freak out if my kids even heard a song like that, but couldn't the teacher or parents have swayed the children into choosing a different song? Do kids even know what a "Dirty Little Secret" is? Or an "All American Reject"? And why is AC/DC still cool? Hells Bells!!!
What's worse, is that the whole experience made me hate Hannah Montana/Miley Cyrus less. Gah! The humanity! Between all of the inappropriate music, I was actually starting to look forward to hearing this monstrosity of a song one more time, because at least it was age appropriate.
And thank GAWD that Taylor Swift is not a ho! She gave my ears a break, lest they bleed from the over-use of the Disney-sugar. The same. song. five. times.
Forgive me readers, for I have erred. Don't press play. You won't be able to stop singing it.
Liam decided to do "We Will Rock You" by Queen. He'd been practicing so much at home that as soon as the first few beats of the song came on, Harrison sung out in his baby language, "We will we will wock you!" which made everyone around him giggle. Cuteness overload!
Liam is a reserved child. He's stoic. He has been known to go entire days without really having any type of conversation with anyone in the house. That's normal for him. I don't usually have to worry about him because I know him. He is more 'me' than I am sometimes, and there's something between us that doesn't require words for communication. But he shocked the eff out of me when he was onstage.
I said to him a few days before the concert, "Do you ever get stage fright?" You know, coming from a mother who's had severe social anxiety her whole life... He said, "No. When I get onstage I just get this weird feeling and it pumps me up". He was elated even when talking about it. (I laughed silently to his use of the words "pumps me up" Bwahahaha!!!!) I thought, "Okay, I'll find out".
His confidence shocked me. Boy had swagga! He had moves I'd never seen! He took to the microphone with his fake guitar and came alive. His air guitar skills were impressive. He knew all the words, and his facial expressions were priceless. At the end of the song he slid on his knees towards the edge of the stage, roared with his tongue out like Gene Simmons, slung his guitar behind his back, and raised both hands over his head in a death-metal-type gesture, then leaped from the stage like a professional. I think if the crowd had been closer he would have tried to surf them.
Who is this child?!!!
I'm proud, yes of course. I'm glad he's found something he loves apart from academics. But worried. I am a worrier. I'll enroll him in guitar lessons like he's wanted, to start. But there's no way I'm pimping him out to Mickey Mouse so he can become some icky little Jonas Brother or *gasp* Zach Efron. Gah!
He'll have to remember though, that if he wants to be a rock star he's going to have to buy mama a house, a car, and some bling.
I'm a day late, (Ugh! To pick the winners, people. Totally. NOT. Pregnant.) which for me means that I'm actually early. I do have an excuse, though. No, not an excuse. The very word 'excuse' sounds feeble! I have a valid reason as to why I'm a day late, and not because I procrastinate more than Hamlet and that is my true nature.
I've been sick. Really, really sick. The second stomach flu in 6 weeks went through our house like a whirlwind. Just as I thought we were really getting over it and that my washing machine might finally forgive me for riding her hard and putting her away wet, the oldest child started puking again last night. Gah! I seriously can't get a break.
On the bright side, I lost six pounds with the first flu and three with this last one, so we'll see how that evens out in the future. I know I'd joked on my Facebook status and said that I was one stomach flu away from my goal weight, but I didn't really mean that I wanted to contract it again two weeks later. Seriously, be careful what you wish for. That'll teach me.
*I promise that none of the items the winners will be receiving have come into contact with any puke though most everything else in this house has, including the dog's head.*
So what I did was just to assign all of y'all a number based on which number your comment was, minus the ones from me. Then I went to this website which spits out random numbers for you within the range you select. It doesn't just do numbers, either. Check it out! I'm pretty sure that this website could be the key to world peace and no divorce! Or something like that. List randomiser!!!! Squeee!
So you all are anxious to know who the winners are, right?
Have I kept you waiting long enough?
Wait for it.
Alright. The winners are:
Rick! One of my favourite guys* and kind of a like an "Uncle Rick" to me and most everyone who knows him. And his girlfriend has the coolest name ever.
Lou! His name is not Lou, but let's just call him that for now because I wish it was. Also one of my favourite guys who is kind of like an older cousin that you never really got to spend much time with because whenever you went to visit him he would be up in his bedroom rocking out to heavy metal with his rad rooster-mullet. He was the one who introduced me to Guitar Hero, so obviously I owe this man a lot.
Tracy! My favourite Scrabble partner! My days are empty when there is no Scrabble/Scrabulous involved. Especially when we try to out-perv each other in the words we make. Who cares about points! We want to see if we can get words like "poon" and "meatus" to actually post, and if not we try to suggest them to the administration. Too much information?
Since these people are also on my Facebook list I will contact them over there so that no one has to post their email addresses in public. I get enough mail from "Big, Beautiful Singles" and those kings in Nigeria who need me, and only me, to distribute their millions. How would I ever find the time to help them all? There is only so much of me to go around.
Winners (not to imply that the others are losers), if you see this before I get to you, message me and tell me which prize you would like. We'll also work out the details at that time.
There you have it. Go forth and blogify**!
*You know how most of you are my favourite guys, right? I just don't get the chance to tell you often enough.
**Soccer Milf also would like you to know that even though she normally detests puns, she is nerdy enough to appreciate ones she makes herself, and only those.
Hello, all! I recently won a "Pay it Forward" prize from Whistling Up The Road. Totally weird, because I never win! I was so unbelievably excited to have been chosen, but mostly because I was really looking forward to passing this great idea on.
This is how it works: You comment on this blog. If you aren't signed up for Blogger you can post as "anonymous", just write your name at the bottom so that I know it's you. One week from today, or some day thereafter that I get around to it, I will draw names and pick three winners.
The winners will then choose a prize from the list below, but then there is a catch. A catch!!! The winner must then post this same 'contest' in their blog, and choose three winners there. That way the spirit of giving will continue three-fold. Don't let Haley Joel Osmet die for naught!!! Kevin Spacey would not be pleased.
And! If you don't pay it forward, it means you're a jerk and no one wants to be friends with a jerk, quite frankly.
I suppose that if you didn't have a blog and you didn't want to be a jerk, you could always post this in your notes on Facebook or whatever other social networking sites you use. Do they have blogs on eHarmony or Plenty of Fish? Hehheh. Twitter? Myspace? I know you've all got something, so you get my drift.
So, since I don't work, I'm not giving anything away that's flashy. No bling. Most will be handmade items, or something that's more heartfelt than say, a pair of Louboutins. (Because let's face it, I'd be keeping those bitches to myself). Here we are:
--A dishcloth, handmade by me, in my "Om" pattern. Made of natural, unbleached cotton, I use them to do the dishes or mop up kid-spills, really anyplace that you could potentially use a Sham-wow. I don't have one available right now, so while knitting it I will be thinking about the winner and knitting my lurv into it as well. As opposed to how I knit these normally, which is while cursing and screaming about effing it up. "Om" is complicated!
--Two plain dishcloths!!! One is teal, one is white, and that's just because I made a bunch of them at Christmas time and have two left over which are tied in lavender ribbon.
--Artwork, made by my children, and mailed to a child or an elderly person of your choice.
--A monetary donation made by me to a charity of your choice. Please try to make sure they take Paypal, because it's much easier for me.
--A few of my favourite recipes, handwritten onto fancy cards and mailed to wherever it is you'd like me to mail them to. They'll be a surprise as to which ones I'll send.
--A mixed cd, bootlegged and burned by me, sent to you. I will put songs on it that I think embody your spirit even if I don't know you.
--A Nike Compression Fit tank, size L but it's very, very small. I bought it about five years ago and I think it still has tags on it but I'm not sure. I haven't worn it and it just sits there mocking me, willing me to wear it but it makes me feel... compressed. I know that's the point, but I don't like feeling compressed. Oh, and it's a nice royal blue colour and has a white swoosh on the front.
--I will buy you a mystery item on Etsy and have it shipped to your home.
That's it. As they say up here in Hicksville, "Have at 'er". Or even worse, "Giv'er".
But I wouldn't say anything like that. Nope. Not me. I would say something more like, "Go forth and multiply, bitches". That's more like me. So go forth and multiply, bitches.
I went away last weekend for overnight. This was my first time ever being away from the children. Ever. The oldest one is almost eight. I would never have gone except that we were going to go to Toronto for a few nights during March Break before I realised that it was going to be Fashion Week and that we would have been better off to avoid the city entirely with the children. Instead we went to Quebec, and oh the glorious gays we saw will have to be saved for another time.
So The Dilf suggested that I go on my own so that I would be able to do some shopping and actually be able to try things on without the kids hiding in the clothes racks or trying to molest the mannequins. To have a break and be able to spend some time with my sister on my own. There may also have been some mention of going wild on Sephora. *cough*
Oh, I had big plans. I was going to drive to Toronto and my sister and I were going to shop like mad, maybe call up Di and see if she wanted to go for a drink... perhaps go to a gay bar in full drag-queen make-up. You know, the usual.
On Friday morning I did all the usual mom and wife stuff, chores and lunch making and whatever. I drove the oldest two kids to school and was getting kind of misty-eyed when they just bolted from the car like they usually do. I needed lovin's!!! Some acknowledgement that their world was not going to be the same without me there! Then I drove south to the barbershop in Belleville with the baby, met up with Dilf who was getting a haircut and handed the baby off to him, trying not to cry and thereby upset the child. The people at the stop lights must have thought that Dilf and I were quite a spectacle, with me clinging to him and Harry like it was the last time I was going to see them.
So I get on the expressway, and I'm right on schedule. The traffic was slow, and I was settling in for the rest of my 2 hour drive, blasting some music, singing as if I were on American Idol (ahem, the early episodes of the season...) when all of a sudden my car starts jerking and shaking and it's all I can do to keep the damned thing on the road.
I had just passed an off-ramp but when I looked, there were two hitchhikers standing just past it. One had a mullet and one was dressed like a thug, so I thought that of course they're either murderers or giant losers and there was no way I was getting out of the car anywhere near them! Then I couldn't pull over because there were two bridges in a row and it wasn't wide enough... so I finally get over to the side, shaken and stirred and completely freaking out. Locked all the doors immediately and hoped that the hitchhikers weren't coming over to my car to slaughter me or worse. Worse!
When I calmed down a little, I climbed over onto the passenger side and got out. My freaking back tire on that side was in shreds. Not just any kind of ordinary blown tire, it was in pieces. Panic! I rushed back into the car and locked the doors against the murderer/hitchhikers, and called my daddy. Why did I call my daddy in such a moment? Most people would call their mommy I suppose, if they were about to fall off the edge of reason, but I don't have that option and my daddy would be six million times better at calming me down than my mother would have been. But my dad was at my mother's house!!! After 8 years of divorce, she finally moved out of the house we grew up in and he was helping her move to a city that is far, far away.
So then I called Dilfy, which I felt bad about because poor baby Harry would have been in the car for hours if they were to come get me. Vibrating with panic, I called him and he said he's come get me. Sweet relief! Apparently he keeps a full sized tire in my trunk and not some dinky spare for just such an occasion! Then he called back and said, "Where are you right now?".
I said, "In the car".
"You need to get out and walk to the nearest exit just in case someone smashes into your car". Arghhh!!!
Why do people bungee jump and go skydiving? All they have to do is take a walk on the freeway. Seriously! The terror! The unholy terror! As if it wasn't bad enough, I had to cross two high bridges over water, which have virtually no shoulder, then I had to walk past the murderous hitchhikers!!! So I get out of the car. Remember that I can't lock it because my dad used my car the weekend previous and LOST my KEYS. I left the passenger side door open but locked the others, hoping that the murderous hitchhikers would not change my tire then hotwire my car.
A thought struck me as I was preparing to leave the vehicle. I started putting on my coat and things started looking up.
*Damn, girl, this is a great trench! At least you look fabulous, walking down the highway like this. It would have looked better with the shoes you'd meant to bring, though. Those Betsey booties. Wait, be thankful that you forgot your hot shoes and left to go to the city in you Uggs by accident!*
I fucking nearly flew down the highway to get to the exit, but then when I spotted the murderers I forced myself to slow my pace so that I could have that short burst of stamina left over for when I had to elude them when they came after me. Except that they didn't. They just said, "Hello" and I said it back. They seemed to sense that hot young females don't like to spark up conversations on the freeway. Then I picked up my speed again, stopping only to pick up a two dollar coin that I found half-submerged in the dirt on the shoulder. Lucky!
I ended up making it to the Harvey's, which was a hell of a lot longer to walk to than it looked like when I was driving. I was shaking so much that I'm sure the people in there must have thought that I had deliriumtremens or some shiz. I didn't know what to do, so I thought I'd better eat something. I ordered up an Angus burger, onion rings and Pepsi, and sat down to eat it. Part way through, I realised that it was 11 am. I'm not used to that junk even on a good day, at a better time. I was making myself sick, but I kept stuffing it down. Emotionally eating. Immediately I felt the urge to throw it all up. When I became aware of this feeling, it was not so hard just to stop and say, "Watch it girl, you don't want to go down that road again." I threw the stuff out, reminding myself that the starving children in the world would not have had a chance to finish that particular meal anyway. Made mental note to donate some money to kiva.org to make up for the waste.
*What to do now? Still shaking. Walk. You need to walk. Just keep walking. Walk until he gets here. Do some walking meditation. "I can't do walking meditation in a parking lot. I'll look like an idiot. I won't be able to concentrate." You will. You can. Do it.*
So I did. I had trouble concentrating, but it was easier to calm myself down and just brrrreeeaaathhhhe. After about half an hour of this, while keeping an eye on a policeman that was keeping an eye on me, and I'm sure it was not just because I'm *rojocaliente*, but because I looked like some sort of shady character, (though not as shady as a murderous hitchhiker), Dilf finally arrived.
I have never felt so thankful in all my life. Salvation! *Is this what people feel like when they find Jesus?* I took the baby into Harvey's and fed him a hot dog while Dilf went to check out my car. Amazingly, the food didn't have the same effect on me as it did before. I just felt guilt for having to feed the baby undesirable parts from unknown animals, surrounded by bread that has less nutritional value than sawdust. But that's just me.
When Dilf came back, he drove me to my car and then we both proceeded to the next exit and pumped up my tires at a gas station. Apparently they were all pathetically low. Apparently everyone has low tires in the spring and people are always popping tires at that time because no one knows that they need to pump them up. (So pump those bitches up, people.)
He then sent me on my way to Toronto again, but not before a wonderful conversation.
I said, "I was thinking the entire time about what this was teaching me, and I realised that..."
"That you have the best man in the world?"
"Yes! Because who else would drive for an hour and a half to change their woman's tire?!! Who else would encourage me to continue on? And that..."
"That you need to learn how to do these things for yourself?"
"Yes! Because I also felt really ashamed that I didn't know, and that I had to rely on a man to fix my problem. And that..."
"That you're lucky that so many people care about you?" (My Dad and sister were phoning to check on me) "And that if a flat tire is your only problem..."
"Then I have a lot to be thankful for."
"Yes, we do".
"And I found a twonie on the road!"
"Well now, that's lucky".
And I am.
*Disclaimer: Of course, I know that all hitchhikers and/or mulleted and/or thuggish looking people are not murderers, but you try getting a neurotic person in that kind of a state and then present them with a mullet-thug. You'll see what happens!*
We've been letting the four year old use the internet lately. He has his own bookmarks folder, which consists of two kids' websites, www.pbskids.org and www.tvokids.com. Then there's this:
We farking love this song at our house. We play it several times daily and dance around the house like maniacs; we even sing it in the car. We watch the videos that people from all over the world have made in its tribute, even. The children even love doing the moves. And boy, they've got moves.
Another video we love is this:
It's so lamely awesome that I just had to share it. Imagine Soccer Dilf's surprise when Oran took to wearing wife beaters every day and rapping in his miniature four year old voice. It's cuteness overload, really. Especially when the baby says, "I hot a I know it!"
So one day we were playing our favourite lame videos and we danced and sang and had a great old time, just the two smallest boys and me.
Until I finally had had enough and went to do some more laundry. I was letting Oran finish the song and I told him that it was time to turn off Firefox when the song was over, and I left the room.
Fail! Epic parenting fail!
I didn't hear much over the racket that the washing machine was making, but when I came back into the room I caught the tail end of this:
So of course I reminded him that we were only allowed to watch the videos that are in the bookmarks and that we were not allowed to click on different ones... All of the parenting mumbo-jumbo... He agreed, we moved on.
Until the next day...
I could hear him playing in his room with the door ajar... something sounded familiar.
There he was in a wife-beater, (which for obvious reasons we refer to as a "singlet" around the house), furiously smashing two cars together. Every time the cars collided he would say, "Shut up, skank!"
Most people who know me know that I hate weddings. Not so much the weddings of other people, more so weddings of my own. I have wedding phobia in regards to myself. The whole idea of having a wedding makes me have a panic attack. I could delve into the psychology behind this right now, but that's not what I want to talk about right now.
My cousin is getting married in September, and she's asked me to be one of her five bridesmaids. After I got over the initial shock and happiness, and also the feeling of knowing that somebody else loves you as much as you love them, *panic* set in. Not the same panic that I have over myself getting married, such as standing in front of a huge crowd and talking about mushy-lovey-dovey junk, or fear of falling flat on my face with my dress over my ears... No, not that.
I was in a panic because I realised that I am going to be the "fat bridesmaid". I have never been the "fat friend". And yes, while I *know* that I'm not "fat", the feeling of standing up in front of two hundred and fifty people, wearing the exact same dress as four other girls who are all less than size four is freaking me the eff out. I didn't think this would bother me so much. I wasn't anticipating that something as simple as body image would create such a "me issue".
My breasts are not where they used to be. I have hips. I have an ass. That huge tattoo that I got on my navel when I was younger is looking a little wonky now after the repeated pregnancies and their ensuing stretch marks. Yet I've always still held firm to the belief that I'm HOT, dammit!
I've had three kids. I eat everything I want and I walk around all day following my id. I don't deprive myself of sweets, I don't take care of myself like I should, and I'm pushing thirty. Yet I like to think that I still look good. Forgive me if I'm related to you and click away NOW, but my man still wants to hit this every chance he gets. And by that I mean that we totally get it on. *snicker*
I wear red lipstick and heels to pick up my kids from school. I strut at the grocery store. I toss my hair over my shoulder with exaggerated flair. I generally have a sense of confidence about myself. In fact, usually it's the ego I have to keep in check. (It runs in the family... we're a good looking bunch, and we know it.) I should mention, though of course we know this, that body is not everything. I'm a good person. I'm smart, and I can cook and bake most people under the table. (That bitch Martha ain't got shit on me, yo.)
So why am I so worried about the being the largest bridesmaid?
Simple. For the same reason that even with as much as Oprah Winfrey (and it must be said that I am not an Oprah-ite) has accomplished in her life, she is still, after thirty years, stressing about her weight. Women do this to themselves. Whether it's the media or society or for whatever reason, we do these things to ourselves and also each other.
But really, do I want to look back at myself in twenty years and say that I was not even trying? That I gained anywhere from ten to fifteen pounds every winter because I rarely left the house? That I was not doing my best to take care of myself and my body? It's a temple, dammit! I should treat it like one more often.
So I'm not going to concentrate on size when I'm stressing out. I'm going to concentrate on flabbiness. This is my natural weight and size. The way I am with absolutely no maintenance. What I'm going to work on is being strong. Not thin. And more fit, not emaciated. I'm not going to starve, I'm just going to do a little bit of shaping up.
I'm going to be standing up there with those other bridesmaids at the wedding and I'm going to walk with a swagger. I'm going to have a spring in my step. I'm the oldest, I'm the biggest, and I'm the sexiest.
If that doesn't work I'll knock them all out with hot shoes.
I was tired of people telling me how "pretty" my "little girl" was. How "she" had the "prettiest" curls and the longest eyelashes... the coolest... Tonka shirt? Bob the Builder boots?
Does this look like a girl to you????
Maybe he does when he's naked and eating cupcakes, who knows... But perhaps you would kind of get the hint when I said something like, "Harry! Come here!" Some people don't.
Who says boys have to have short hair? What about Cindy Crawford's son? So what if he is prettier than me?
Have you seen little Kingston Rossdale? The child of Gwen Stefani can do no wrong, in my opinion. And his daddy's not too shabby, either:
Then there is Ryder Robinson. I love Chris Robinson and Kate Hudson! They've got such style!
Maddox Jolie-Pitt is always in style, even when rocking the Asian Gangta' look:
Our kids have been known to rock the "Madhox" from time to time:
I just threw that one in gratuitously because he's my favourite J-P kid. Too cute!
Then there's this enigma:
Gah! Oh, sorry. Scared myself to death, there. The child who made his mother believe she'd been touched by an angel with love...all in the eyes of a boy... Celine's little Rene-Charles also sports long, flowing locks.
Clearly the vast selection of photos of celebrity babies should have made the public more used to seeing boys with longer hair? Yet my Harrison suffered from perceived gender ambiguity?
I cut the poor boy's hair. Myself. I didn't want him to end up with a complex, and he already was under the impression that he should be allowed to wear ponytails and headbands whenever it struck his fancy. That, and he hates washing his hair, even though he was constantly getting food in it since it was in his way so much.
I did ask him first, though. I said, "Harry, can Mama cut your 'fro?" He calls it his 'fro. For real. He just ran to the drawer where we keep the scissors, but I told him we have to use special scissors, so I fetched them and also a plastic baggie so that I could collect the spoils. He just hopped up on a chair and waited.
I made the first cut at the back, because there was one curl there that could possibly have resembled what we called a "rat's tail" in the eighties. When his hair was wet, it would extend to way down past the bottom of his shoulder blades. I lopped off the curl and showed him. He started laughing. I was trying not to cry.
I popped it in the bag, and he bade me to cut some more off.
What! I know he doesn't articulate like that when he's not yet two, but he motioned for me to do it. He wanted it, dammit!
I cut off some more and he kept laughing and shrieking with delight each time he saw me cut a curl off and put it in the baggie. He loved getting his hair cut, but I was trying not to let my hysteria rise. I was in mourning. Even when I pronounced him done he still wanted me to keep cutting and screamed at me to keep going. He would only be appeased by me letting him hold the sealed bag and telling him to go show daddy.
Of course we all bolstered his already high ego by exclaiming over how cute he was with his new haircut. There's only just this one problem. He may even look prettier than he did before, because now you can see more of his face and his long eyelashes. And! It's even harder to tame now that it's short. (Fail!) Now the curls just stand straight up all over his head instead of falling down around his face.
Here is a picture of him with a messy face, telling me to be quiet. He's wearing his flannel doggie pajamas that Grandma Judy made him for Christmas, which means, obviously, that he is extra soft and squishy at this moment.