here he is

survived hour in chair
won battle of straight razor
it’s Super Wee One


the flat top shop

We walked through the door and this is what we saw: two pictures of Jesus hanging on the walls, a Coke machine, a corkboard full of business cards, a cash register, a checkerboard with only a third of the checkers, three barber chairs, one barber, one guy with a Marine haircut, sitting in a chair in the waiting area, and one guy sitting in the barber chair.

The guy in the barber chair had the kind of comb-over that starts at the top of one ear and goes all the way over the head, rainbow-style, until it reaches the top of the other ear. If there was a stiff breeze, this dude’s hair could stand up straight for about a foot and a half. He was having the non comb-over part of his hair trimmed. And his goatee maintained.

So the wee one, the wee-er one, and I all sat down and I began to rethink my brain wave to go see a real barber. Initially I was like, hey, this will be cool. A real barber will be impressive, the wee one might get a spray of manly hair spray or something (thus smelling like "man stuff" – aka what he calls deodorant or aftershave) and it will be fun for all. Plus, I could save a few bucks. The place we usually go is one of those kiddie haircut extravaganza places with motorcycles you ride, and movies to watch. Cool, but not cheap.

Anyway, as Barber, Combover and Marine began somehow simultaneously discussing the war and broadband internet, I started to feel a little uncomfortable. For one thing, they could probably smell my commie pinko liberal blood from a mile away. For another thing, no one had acknowledged us when we came in, and ten minutes later there was still no nod of "I see you over there, be with you in a second."

We sat. The wee one fidgeted, begged for a Sprite, tried to play checkers, ran around and eventually it was his turn.

The barber put a big cushy block thing in the chair and the wee one sat on it. The barber ran his fingers through the wee one’s crazy rat’s nest mop and said, "How short do we go? A 2? A 3?" I was like, "Uh, 2 inches?" And then he showed me the clippers and I still didn’t really understand the whole 2 3 thing, but I agreed to a 2 on the sides and a 4 on top. The barber said it would be a Howie Long flat top. "Do you know who Howie Long is?" He asked. "Indeed," I answered, smartassedly, because even though I’m a girl I know about football. "Just don’t make it a Howie Long mullet." He gave me a sideways look, but didn’t say anything.

The barber got to work, shavin’ shavin’ shavin’. The wee one stayed very still, even when he was giggling. Then the flat top part began. "It’s like a carving," the barber said, as he buzzed and snipped and measured and combed. He had to put some kind of gel in the wee one’s hair, then blow dry it, and then comb it and then shave over the comb to even it out. He must have done this six times. The wee one was in the chair FOR OVER AN HOUR getting this damn flat top.

As the barber worked, he kept shaking his head. "There are a lot of cowlicks here. And tufts." He would shake his head some more and keep working. After a while, a kid appeared from a back room, carrying a math book and talking about dinosaurs.

"If the dinosaur could breathe fire, he wouldn’t have to use the microwave to make bacon!" the kid said gleefully. Then he bought a Coke and went back into the back room.

I wanted to say, "Are we in a David Lynch TV show?" But I said nothing. I was afraid if I spoke, the magical charm that was holding the wee one still would break and he would accidentally get his head chopped off, as it was at about this time the barber whipped out a STRAIGHT RAZOR.

"Uh," I said. "Be still, wee one." And I closed my eyes.

I heard giggling, and a sharp admonishment to be still, and I slowly opened my eyes. The wee one had survived. Hooray!

Finally the flat top was finished. "You may want to rethink this haircut in the future," the barber told me. "This kid’s head has all kinds of tufts and cowlicks and bumps and his hair is very thin. You’ll be very busy every morning making this haircut work." He looked at me accusingly, as if my child’s abnormal head was all my fault (which it is, I guess). I smiled, paid the bill and tipped him 25% because he worked very, very hard on his "carving."

The wee one got some pink lemonade Double Bubble for his trouble. He was quite happy.

His hair has not been flat since it was designed by the barber. I mean, are you kidding me? Use a blow dryer on a four year old every morning? Who knew flat tops were such trouble.

It’s damn cute, though.


no time for blogging
many excellent stories
are ruminating

OK. I can’t blog right now. I’m cleaning the house. Well, my in-laws are cleaning my house and I’m making a pitiful, but industrious effort to help.

Anyway. I have a great story for you. The wee one got a flat top at a for real barber shop. There was war talk and dinosaurs frying bacon talk and bubble gum, and admonitions to me for creating a child with such problem hair. It’s a most excellent story, and I can’t wait to write it. So stay tuned….

beam me up

jumping out of skin
no big deal for snakes, crickets
big deal for people

The wee one is worrying me. Not because he’s toying with fast cars and faster women (though that would be worrisome)… but because of his new affinity for teleportation.

Yes. Teleportation.

It would be nice if he’d use his gift for good instead of evil. He could pop into the wee-er one’s bedroom and grab an appropriately-sized diaper and then pop back to Target where I’m struggling to change her with the newborn diaper that I found at the bottom of the diaper bag.

Instead, he has embraced the Dark Side. I’ll be standing in my room, trying to remember why I walked in there and BAM, there he is, standing right at my elbow. He shows up immediately and silently. I remember why I’m in there (socks!), turn, trip over the large-headed, skinny-armed creature hovering at my side, scream, clutch my heart, and watch the room spin. Then, a few hours later, I go into the bathroom (thankfully, I remember why). I sit down, close my eyes for a millisecond and BAM, the large-headed, skinny-armed creature is back, standing right at my elbow. I scream, clutch my heart, and watch the room spin.

Of course, he thinks this is all quite hilarious. I, on the other hand, am not so amused. His teleportation has shaved YEARS off my life – and added a gray streak to my hair. I can’t handle this kind of surprise attack four times a day. I’m beginning to show signs of post traumatic stress disorder, I think. Everything makes me jump – loud noises, giggles of small boys, baby farts… everything.

I wonder if someone has invented a device or outfit or tin foil hat or something that I can use to prevent his teleporting – or at least slow it down. I’m going to try the "DO IT AGAIN AND YOU GET NO DESSERT TONIGHT" tactic. I hope it works. Otherwise, I’m going to have to keep doing my Fred Sanford impersonation, and why punish innocent bystanders?

I want to blog but I only have boring things to talk about

I am a writer
stringing nouns, verbs, adjectives
that’s my compulsion

Well, I have nothing new or interesting to say today but because I can’t stand not writing, I’m just going to bore you with my repetitive blah blah blah-ing.

The house is not de-cluttered yet. This should come as no surprise. However, it seems to be gradually getting cleaner, so even though I’m afraid of jinxing everything I’ll say: We’re Making Progress. Huzzah!

On the Not Making Progress front, the wee-er one still isn’t sleeping. So I’m taking her to the doctor today. It will cost me $30 and we’ll all probably catch the flu, but I need some kind of professional healer to tell me that it isn’t normal for a seven-month-old to nearly completely stop sleeping. I need this same professional to offer me solutions. I’m pretty sure the doctor is going to say that she’s (the wee-er one, not the doctor) teething and going through a developmental burst and that’s that. But because I’m desperate and tired, maybe hearing this from a doctor will make me feel better and thus I’ll be able to make the wee-er one feel better. Or something. She’s just so happy and cheerful in the day time (for the most part.) I don’t know what gives. She’s a superhero, I guess. Super Baby SleepSucks. That works on so many levels.

On the Also Not Making Progress front: my new book. A book I’ve been writing for over a year now… I CANNOT FINISH IT. I know how I want to end it. I know what should happen. I know the characters, I have the voices and tone down. I love how everything sounds so far, and I think that what I have can easily be edited and whittled down and second and third-drafted into an awesome book. I just have to actually finish it. Having some time and some sleep would help, but even when I do have time and sleep I’m pretty much stuck.  I’m very irritated by this, because when I write, I’m happy. When I write, all is well with the world. When I write, I feel great. And when I don’t write I feel tired and dumpy and boring.

Speaking of booooooooring, I’m going to stop writing this now, lest you fall asleep at your computer, spill your coffee on the keyboard, and electrocute yourself. That would be bad and I would want to deny responsibility even though it would be all my fault.

we both need a margarita

we eschew sleep
energy, smiling – for wimps
baggy eyes are in

Here is a sample of the wee-er one’s current sleep schedule:

7:30pm – fall asleep in swing
8:30pm – wake up hollering
9:00pm – fall asleep on daddy’s chest
10:00pm – wake up hollering
10:30pm – fall asleep nursing
12:30am – wake up thrashing and kicking
12:45am – fall asleep nursing
1:15am – wake up thrashing and kicking
1:45am – fall asleep nursing
2:30am – wake up thrashing and kicking
3:00am – fall asleep nursing
3:30am – wake up thrashing and kicking
3:45am – fall asleep nursing
4:30am – wake up thrashing and kicking
4:45am – fall asleep nursing
5:30am – wake up thrashing and kicking
6:00am – fall asleep nursing
8:00am – wake up because big brother comes bounding into room, energized from his full night of sleep
10:00am – fall asleep in swing
10:30am – wake up
1:00pm – fall asleep in swing
1:30pm – wake up
6:00pm – fall asleep in swing
6:30pm – wake up

I’ve left out the various times of shouting and wailing and laughing and playing that happen amongst the sleeping and waking and nursing.

The hell is going on here? She’s been doing this for, like, THREE WEEKS now. I’m going to lose my mind. Tylenol sort of helps in that she’ll sleep for maybe one and half or two hours at a time. But I can’t drug her every night.

Man. I’m blaming teething and learning to crawl, and wanting to pull up. But dammit. Mama is turning into a very grouchy zombie. And grouchy zombies aren’t as fun to have around as it may sound.