Now That Doesn’t Look Awful, Does It?

I might have been feeling just a little cocky.

A few weeks ago I gave my youngest a very basic trim. The results far exceeded my expectations. Armed with only scissors and a comb I went at the boy’s head with reckless abandon.

I made him looked like a rock star. He didn’t even bleed once. It was magical.

So, of course I leapt to the conclusion that I was some kind of hair styling prodigy who could attack anyone’s scalp with a pair of shears and the outcome would be artistic genius fit for the cover of Cosmo or some other magazine that features small boys with bowl haircuts on its cover.

After last week’s school supply shopping spend-a-thon, I thought I would alleviate some of the end of month financial turmoil by saving on haircuts and styling all of the children myself. Except for the teen of course, who would rather give herself a crew cut with a set of dog clippers before letting me have a go at her locks. She is contrary that way.

I set my sights instead on my darling preteen and the two boys, both of which resembled George and Ringo respectively.

“You’re all getting haircuts today,” I declared, thinking if I botched the whole endeavor I could at least run them over to the Hair Cuttery for some clean-up work before they had to endure the public humiliation of attending the first day of school in a lopsided mullet.

Believing I’m capable is always my first mistake.

Yesterday, I wrongly assumed I could navigate a Super Target by myself with all four kids in tow. Stand over here. Stay with me. One hand on the cart. Stop touching each other. Stop shouting. Hand on the cart. Get back here. I can’t see you. Stop crying. Hand on the cart hand on the motherloving cart for the love of Jeezus just stop touching each other for one flapping minute.

I somehow managed not to fling myself in to oncoming traffic, so I will consider that a success.

Today I began with my daughter, whose thick brown hair reached almost all the way down to her waist.

“Not too short, Mom. Please, I don’t want it at my shoulders, okay? I like it long. OKAY?”

Possibly she was a little panicked. She also hates having her hair combed, so for ten grueling minutes I tugged while she howled in blood curdling agony.

Did I mention we were working out on the back patio, which was registering 98 degrees in the shade? The sweat glued my shirt to my back while trickles of sweat ran down my chest.

Then the fun began. I separated her hair in sections and managed to cut most of it in a straight line, then taking some advice from a neighbor I attempted to layer the front, which licensed hair stylists manage to make look rather effortless.

It’s not. Especially if your subject keeps slouching and reaching up to touch her own hair to make sure it’s still there. Or you’ve been measuring for so long that the hair starts to dry and one side is always longer than the other then the hair from the back which seemed okay at first keeps falling naturally forward so that everything is cut at drastically different lengths and looks like maybe it was hacked on by a blind person.

I mentioned how sweaty I was, right?

“I think I’m going to have to shorten the back more.”

Cringe. Gasp. Groan.

“But whyyyyyyyyy?”

“I messed up, I need this to be even with that.”

“Aaaaaaaaaaarrrrrggghh.”

It ended up being three inches past her shoulders but two inches shorter than where she initially wanted. It looked okay…meaning rather than seem like a blind person styled her, it only seems like a near-sighted person did.

Then I drank five gallons of ice water and went to work on the boys, who are younger and much more fidgety. They also flinch like I’m going to snip off their ear lobes, or maybe pop one of their eyeballs out with the tip of the shears.

For another hour I snipped, sweat, and readjusted heads while they whined and squirmed. The hot breeze continually blew their cut hair on to me where it stuck to the perspiration on every square inch of exposed skin. To the roofers installing barrel tile on the back neighbor’s house, I must have looked like some kind of hair obsessed heroin junkie, as I circled the boys with scissors aloft, my head cocked at varying angles, a dirty comb in my mouth as I scratched obsessively at my neck and arms, barking orders at my whimpering kids and emitting my own guttural sounds of frustration.

They actually don’t look that bad.

My seven year old looks a bit like Justin Bieber.

My three year old…well, he’s a little lopsided but it’s not a mullet plus he’s not going to school on Monday so it’s alright.

Nobody ended up bald, so I’ll consider that a success.

Ever attempted a job you were woefully unprepared for?

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And per Mama Badger’s request, some photographic evidence.

Yes, he does have giant hands, also he’s being a superhero right now and can’t be bothered to pose.

His hair style strategy: head bang for 30 seconds. Done.

She definitely does not have a mullet. Score!

Photographic Evidence

So they don’t actually hate each other.

Who knew?

Oddly enough, I didn’t make them pose.

Just caught them in the act.

What is the world coming to, when siblings  have their arms around each others shoulders, and not their hands around each others necks?

Granted, I tend not to photograph the latter.

Aren’t They Precious?

As part of my son’s two part birthday celebration, on Monday we brought a pull-apart cake to his first grade class so he could celebrate with his friends. He’d requested a Star Wars theme because he is currently on that kick, but after visiting three different store bakeries, I was disappointed to find NONE had Star Wars decorations on hand, except for Target, who offered to scan one of our napkins and slap an edible image on the confection.

The boy was happy with it.

When I showed to pick it up, I noticed they’d put four Darth Vader rings on it. The bakery employee also handed me a baggie with four Storm Trooper rings in it. I thanked her, took the cake and the rings then headed off to purchase juice and napkins.

“How many kids are in the class?” my husband asked, giving me a look.

“23.”

“That’s not enough rings.”

“It’s fine,” I said making a bee line for the juice aisle.

It was a mom fail. Anyone with more than two kids knows, you get the same for everyone, eliminating one source of bickering at least, since there are always at least 375 more around the bend.

But I also did not expect the bakery lady to give up her entire supply of Star Wars paraphernalia, since apparently it was hard to come by. Some kids would just have to suck it up.

Now spending any amount of time in a first grade classroom is always a reminder for me of why my sad little Associates degree never grew up to be a Bachelors. Along the way, I abandoned my teaching aspirations and came to a grim conclusion, I am not crazy about other people’s kids. I so respect teachers and the job they do and I think I love the idea of childhood, of course I adore my own children…but a classroom of about 20 different competing personalities is more than I can handle in a day.

As soon as we walked in through the door, it was mayhem. The teacher took it in stride since, well, it was to be expected. Her lesson at that point was dead in the water.

Everyone was talking at once.

“Oh cake cake are we gonna eat cake I want to eat cake is it a cake we’re not supposed to bring cake only cupcakes I want some ooooh me me I want some hey am I gonna get some cake cake ooooh”

Once we opened the box it was:

“Oh look at the rings cool I want one I want one too me me I want to have one gimme one me too”

In the end we gave one to the birthday boy and raffled the rest to the remaining kids. Some were sulking, but most took it pretty well considering. They also devoured the cupcakes, even the extra six.

Afterward we walked to the playground with the class who needed desperately to work off the sugar rush. Some of the little girls had taken my three-year-old hostage. He was happy to oblige, until he’d had enough, then he went his own merry way with a firm two handed shove.

The kids at the park…

How can I describe it, they were like crazy little monkeys in polo shirts. There was one cluster of girls specifically that demanded my attention.

“Hey, look what we can do.”

Yes, they actually called me “Hey”. They climbed to the top of the jungle gym, hung upside down, flipped backwards off the top. They would’ve made a great addition to any traveling circus.

“Cool,” I called out.

“Hey, look at this, look what else we can do.”

It was another variation of the same routine. For the next twenty minutes I was caught in a loop of monkey antics these girls were in desperate need of an audience for.

Some general observations I made, while I was trying to ignore the attention starved gymnasts:

• Little kids like to root in the earth with their bare hands.
• Little kids like to kill things they find while digging in the earth with their hands.
• Little kids will scream and pantomime theatrically before stomping the crap out of anything they’ve found while digging.
• Little kids who tire of killing things will pounce on other children and pour handfuls of park sand in their hair before rubbing it in to their scalp.
• Large groups of children both indoors and out have only one volume – insanity.

On the plus side, I’m not a teacher. So there’s at least that.

Because We Don’t Throw Anything Away

A couple of nights ago, when we were rooting through our boxes of random computer garbage, searching for a Quicken installation disc we last saw Spring of 2009, we came across a slew of other unlabeled discs stuffed in sleeves and envelopes. This first photo was taken Summer of 2007, when my then six-month-old looked like a delicious baked ham wearing a toupee.

Couldn’t you just eat him up?

Hard to believe this little miscreant is the same kid. While just as adorable, somewhat less edible. All that lean three year old muscle can be tough to chew.

One Less

One less baby tooth in that little mouth.

After all the wiggling and all the waiting and all the *gasp* blood, it finally gave and fell out during dinner last night. There was much nervous laughter, that weird tittering that is just on the verge of crying, just on the precipice of freaking the hell out.

He held it together. Barely.

Now he wants the world to know.

And go figure. The tooth fairy actually remembered to show up last night…after borrowing some cash money from another frequent tooth harvester who has since given up believing in fairy magic. She is wizened beyond her fifteen years.

This kid up here though, he believes.

There is money in teeth.

Slapping Something Together – Spin Cycle

I’m not a crafty person by nature.

I can appreciate the visual arts. I’ve even been known to create a clever doodle or two. But crafts? Not my thing. A hand knitted quilt is a beautiful, time consuming endeavor I want no part of other than to see the end result and curl under it. In bed. With some ice-cream. While I watch television.

Being a mom though, I’ve had craftiness thrust upon me.

School projects in the early years are impossible for children to complete without adult intervention. A kid who is just mastering scissor use and still gets glue in his hair on a regular basis, can’t realistically be expected to dress a cardboard doll in the traditional garb of Spain using fabric and other textured materials. Can you tell where our next project is headed?

So, in a pinch. I can make stuff. If I have to.

I just don’t necessarily like what it does to me.

“Mommy, I want to help you.”

“Don’t touch it. I’m trying to get myself an A…I mean you. I’m trying to get you an A.”

Here are some recent efforts.

Last year’s skeleton was made using a paper stencil and some fabric paint on black sweats that were harder to find than you’d expect. Maybe because it’s 103 degrees outside and nobody in their right mind would force their kid in to black sweats.

This was made the year before that for a preschool “Harvest” festival since the idea of Halloween didn’t sit well with a large portion of other parents. This was a scarecrow costume with patches sewn on from some of my old pajamas, along with some hay borrowed from a neighbors outdoor Fall decor. The belt is an actual length of rope. Authentic, no?

And to celebrate Thanksgiving, there was the paper bag Native American vest, decorated on the front with two eagles representing the spirit as well as diamonds representing geometry and zigzags representing the ability to…not run in a straight line?

On the back are what may be bear claws but I’m not entirely sure, since I don’t believe I did the research. Note my ingenious head band design keeps it from sliding down over his eyes. How’s that for innovation? How’s that for shameless egotism?

My craft abilities don’t end there, those are just the attempts I’ve got documented in photographs. Sadly, based on this post, it seems like the only kid I get crafty for is my six year old son, but the girls have seen their fair share of parental assistance over the years as well.

Don’t even get me started on science fair projects. That’s an whole other rant post, trust me.

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For a real Arts and Crafts fix, visit Sprite’s Keeper. You just may learn something.

What Terror Awaits and Random Tuesday Thoughts

Only two weeks. Two short weeks.

But no, it’s actually less than that.

Eleven days.

Just eleven more days.

Eleven short days.

Summer vacation is almost upon us.

Oh the humanity.

• Seriously, I have no idea what I’m going to do to keep these kids busy for two months straight. Already my teen is lamenting her near lethal boredom levels and my tween seems to think every day that we don’t leave the house is a marked tragedy. Apparently helping mom tidy the house doesn’t hold the fascination I’d hoped for…

Phrases my toddler says frequently when the mood strikes him:

1. I love kids meal, Mommy.
2. I love kids meal toy, Mommy.
3. Mommy, I love ducks.
4. I love Yo Gabba Gabba, Mommy. Jack Black funny, Mommy. I love Jack Black.

Phrases my toddler will not say to me under any circumstances, EVER, no matter how much I beg:

1. I love you, Mommy.

I really think he is mocking me at this point…

• On Sunday I had my nieces over along with my sisters and my mom. Seven kids including mine all together. It sounded like there were 49 children in my living room at any given moment. Sometimes they were laughing and shrieking happily, but mostly they were shouting at each other about frog reproduction, or whose turn it was to play on the Wii, or the injustice of not being allowed ice-cream right before dinner…each time it felt like someone was driving a shard of glass in to the base of my skull. It’s hard to be a good hostess under those circumstances. Luckily my family is pretty forgiving, particularly when I’m providing the nourishment for our little battalion. Free food cures a multitude of ills.

• My two year old has an overactive gag reflex, an unpleasant trait he’s posessed from birth. You’d think, armed with this knowledge, I’d know enough not to force the issue when the kid proclaims that he’s “all done” eating his lunch. Instead of trying to get that last slice of roast deli turkey in his belly, you’d think I would have enough experience in the matter to cease and desist, to cut my losses and perhaps offer him another snack later. You’d be wrong.

• It was only after I pushed my darling son over his puke threshold that I realized the significant amount of food he’d already ingested, more than enough to satisfy the hovering worrier in me. Way to go, veteran mom.

• Saturday I took the kids to see Night at the Museum: Battle of the Smithsonian during the first matinee showing.  It cost us $35 in admission. I skipped out on the $800 popcorn since I didn’t want to have to sell one of my kidneys in the lobby. But those bandits actually made me pay for the toddler, who at two-and-a-half is well beyond the one year old minimum required for a ticketed seat. Really, how much is a one year old (or even my two year old for that matter) going to really retain from an in-theater movie watching experience?  The kid laughed through the previews then lost interest within the first fifteen minutes of the movie, after which I was able to distract him for another fifteen by feeding him the Fruit Roll-Ups and granola bars I’d smuggled illegally inside my daughter’s back pack. The last hour of the movie he spent fumbling around in the dark, climbing up and down seats and trying to identify the substance coating the cinema floor. Definitely worth the $7.50 I paid for his ticket don’t you think?

I spent most of my weekend finishing off a zombie novel my teen checked out but couldn’t finish, so I’m a little behind on my bloggy reading and commenting. But now that I’ve shaken off the postapocalyptic horrors of that fictional world, I hope to catch up with all of you soon…before the terror of summer finally rolls in and I’m up to my eyeballs in unhappy children. Until then keep the random alive by visiting Keely, The Un-Mom and her unpredictable hordes. Who ever guessed Tuesday would have such a following?

Artistically Inclined

Sponsored by Three Bay B Chicks, I’m Living Proof that God has a Sense of Humor, and Domestically Challenged, We Heart Art is a blog event designed to showcase creativity and art, not just for us imaginative adults but for the inspired children in our lives as well.

Beneath my bed lies a gigantic Tupperware container filled to the brim with my children’s “art”. Pieces big, small, and sentimental that I’ve stashed away as a reminder of those innocent early years when their tiny hands glued macaroni to construction paper or happily drew some manner of farm animal that is still to this day unidentifiable.

I thought about scanning some of them to share on this bloggy show-and-tell day, but decided against it. And not just because the box is wedged pretty tight under the mattress frame, possibly compromising the structural integrity of my pillow top… While these little gifts are each special, I thought instead I’d post a few photos my children themselves have taken when they’ve snuck my camera away without permission. They provide an interesting look at their individual perspectives and remind me how truly different they all are.

This series is called “zombie indisposed”, taken when my ten year old daughter locked herself in the bathroom with a digital camera and far too much free time on her hands…

My teenage daughter, on the other hand, has her own preferred subject matter…

And my six year old…well, he’s open to possibilities…

I will always be impressed by what they see.

Wordless Wednesday – A Rare Peace

Evidence my children don’t always loathe each other.

For more Wordless Wednesday – Here and Here