Haircuts of Terror...

Into every boy's life, a first haircut must fall. I'm a wuss who couldn't bring myself to remove my baby boy's curls. In order to better preserve the curls, I vowed I would not cut them until after Critter started walking. Critter became fully mobile at some point between 4pm July 2nd and 12pm on July 4th while Mom and Dad were both away on a camping trip. It could have been in order to keep up with his older cousins, but I'm holding fast to the Spite-Your-Mom-For-Leaving-Me-For-Two-Whole-Days-For-The-First-Time-Ever-Theory.

The dawn of Tuesday brought first haircut day. Critter chronicled it for us. Here's a look.

No, Mom, please don't cut my hair. I will brush it, I promise.

I know you are up to something...


This is what most of the pictures my Mom takes look like- can't you just hear her in the background saying, "Look up, No! Hold Still, Look up!" over and over again in a continuous loop?


These are my infamous curls, freshly brushed and wackadoo.


Pure. Torture.


I will get even for this, Mummo.


Yes my first sucker is good, but leave me alone I am plotting revenge. You just WAIT for the next diaper change, Chickee!!


Afterward at Grandma & Grandpa's. Grandma fed me so it's all good now.

Well, almost.

Playing Catch Up

I've been gone. I didn't plan to be gone so long, but packing for a camping trip and busy holiday weekend turned into no time to blog for an approximate eternity. Even now, I am blogging on borrowed time- I should most definitely be doing dishes or laundry or picking up after hurricane Critter or something. I'll expand a bit later on the things I have done and places I have seen, but for today I offer up a treat of epic proportions. There have been some major changes at Chez Neurotique.

Critter is Mobile.

Not just mobile, but mobile and full of bean dip and mischief as well. Here, lets see if this works. I'm attempting to put the very first video on my blog. As you can see, the little guy listens to me about as much as the rest of the world does...


Please keep in mind, the screams you are about to hear below are screams of delight, as opposed to the screams of terror, the screams of anger, or the screams of cantankerousness which are easy to mix up in Critter language. Please tune in tomorrow for a prime example of the scream of anger.

The Question Of Death

Smoochie, being the bright and curious 7 year old he is, has a fondness for questions that may very well be the death of me. I love my son, don't get me wrong, he is the definitive answer to the question what is right with my world. But every morning it begins, without fail, just seconds after I hear the resounding thud of two quickly growing feet hit the hardwood floor next to his bed. The sound of those bare feet hitting that hardwood floor is essentially the same as the morning tornado siren. His bedroom door pops open and it begins.

"Mom, what's for breakfast, where's Critter, is he still sleeping? Mom. Mom. Mom. What's this? Can I turn on the TV? Can I make my own toast?"

Meanwhile, as I try to fumble with my coffee filter and wish desperately for it to be made RIGHT NOW DOGGONE IT, I realize that he actually wants answers for each individual question that spewed forth from within him in the form of one long run-on question. Way to go, David. Attack the giant while she's still half asleep and morning coffee deprived. Even wide awake my mind can not register, process, and answer questions at that astonishing speed. I think I might name that boy's lips The Little Speed Racers.

*INTERMEZZO* I apologize for the interruption in the typing of this story, but as I was trying to pump a post out for my blog so the three of us could race off to our local pool , Smooch was gracious enough to burn the tar out of his toast, setting off the smoke alarm. He alerted me to his dilemma by clearing his throat and announcing louder than the alarm, "DINNER'S DONE!!!!" To be honest, the little cherishable moments like these are the gems of my day. Just please don't inquire as to why the boy MIGHT think dinner is done when the smoke alarm goes off...

At any rate, this morning, having brought forth the official one millionth question of the week, I forced my eyelids to actually open enough to include more than the coffee pot and jumped feet first into the land of total frustration.

"Please. Smooch. I do not want to answer a ton of questions right now. I haven't even had a cup of coffee yet. Back. Off."

Now, as I stated previously, Smoochie is really a very bright boy. He can take a hint. He can also see when Mom's about to snap. Off to Critter's room he went to play with the baby in all his stinky diapered glory so the grouchy morning mom monster could dip her fangs in her morning coffee.

My break lasted all of 2.75 minutes before the mind of Smooch forgot his quest not to ask his mother questions. Before I knew it he was standing directly behind me as I waited for the morning elixir of attitude adjustment, effectively turning our kitchen into the tornado alley of questions. It was ugly. There were words and letters and questions and question marks flying everywhere and my mind was quickly and efficiently being pummeled to mush.

I'd reached my last straw. Mommy monster bared her fangs, squinted her eyes with purpose, squared her shoulders, and turned to face Little Speed Racer Lips head on.

"Mommy. Has gone on strike," I growled. "I do not want to hear, seetasteorsmell, and refuse to answer, another question THIS. MORNING.

I had pulled out every ounce of sternness I could muster. I looked the boy square in his bright blue inquisitive eyes and saw a familiar glint (both boys have inherited a glint of mischief from Bonehead- the one sure way to notice when they are up to no good at all) staring right back at me.

"Mom? Would that be for the ENTIRE morning, or just a little while?"

And that, in a nutshell, has been my morning. All 1 hour and 45 minutes of it so far, streaming to you almost live from my home. If you'll excuse me, I should go provide Critter his breakfast, if only to encourage him not to sit around growling at his toys.

10 Things I Love About The Father You Are

10. The pride in your voice when you tell the story of how you were the first person ever to feed your firstborn son, Smoochie.

9. Working hard at a job that often tries your patience and your verbal filtering capabilities in order to clothe, feed, and to provide electricity and soccer team fees for your children.

8. The way you do your nutrition research and make sure our boys eat and drink the things now that will not hurt them in the long run.

7. Your splinter removal expertise. Complete with an entire splinter removal kit and a gentle touch that apparently Mom is not capable of. (Smoochie's school playground was ginormous and made entirely of wood)

6. The way you work with me instead of against me in the discipline department in order to provide a united front to the boys.

5. The way you kiss the boys when buckling them into the car.

4. How you remember what it was like to be a young boy and clue me in on things I would otherwise never understand- like how the word 'butt' is super funny at age 3, even if the word that was actually used was the word 'but'.

3. The way you try to share yourself and your interests with our children, from taking Smoochie to hang out at the local bike shop and rides to the local comic book store to spinning your bike wheels for Critter's enjoyment as you walk your bike by him and point out the names of the different bike parts.

2. The many months of panic attacks you had before the arrival of each of our sons.

1. The way you sneak into your boys' rooms to kiss them, breathe them in, and whisper words of love and encouragement to them in their sleep.

Happy Father's Day, John. I know I razz you about things like being a giant pillow thief (because you ARE) and putting the fear of spider in me before 6am, but it's all in good fun.

You're a great Dad and your deep love for your children shows through your commitment to blend all of the best things into their childhoods: family identity, discipline when needed, health and exercise, love, creativity, spontaneity, and a generous dose of humor. I love you.

Pillow Talk Revisited- The Start of War

I kissed Smoochie and Bonehead and shipped them out the door last night, sending them in the direction of St. Louis to go on a river float with one of Bonehead's best friends. The first annual float was last summer, and Smooch has been eagerly counting down the days until this trip. By now, they may very well be on the raft, floating and doing the "manly thing", and by "manly", judging from the way Smoochie's gas was clouding up the living room and making my tear ducts water yesterday, I mean gassing some fish and dropping some birds from the surrounding air currents.

I have a chronic problem any time Bonehead is not around. It started early on in our marriage when he'd be gone for months at a time out at sea, but it carries through to this day. Insomnia. I love my sleep, let me tell you. I can go to bed at 9pm, and not move until 7am the next morning- no problem. If I'm suffering a bout of depression, which has occasionally happened, 14 hours of sleep is not unheard of. However, I have not been afforded the luxury of depression sleep for quite some time now.

But when Bonehead departs the residence, all bets are off. All of the sudden I'm wide awake at 2a.m. and well aware of the early alarm of Critter's mom call. "Aah! AAH!!!!!" Even with that knowledge, I find myself unmotivated to go to bed earlier. And thus, I tried last night, and forced myself to go upstairs to bed at the early hour of 1a.m.

I walked up, and noticed right away something did not look right. I looked around, bewilderment showing on my face, because what I was seeing, I should not have been. Bonehead's side of the bed looked perfectly normal. 700 pillows piled up in his typical haphazard style, but my side?

Yep, yep, I see it. There's my body pillow, and my bottom pillow, but where the hell is my top pillow? Is it on John's half? No, no, it's not over there. Don't panic, Chas, it's on the floor. No, I don't see it there, either. OH. MY. GOSH. THE MAN TOOK MY PILLOW! I USE TWO PILLOWS AND HE HAD THE NERVE TO TAKE ONE WHEN HE'S GOT 700 OF HIS OWN MANGLED ONES SITTING RIGHT THERE!! BONEHEAD! YOU (insert not so pretty words that sound like they were learned from the sailor I married)!!! AT LEAST FOUR OF YOUR ELEVEN THOUSAND PILLOWS WILL BE BURNED IN THE FIRE PIT ON THE MORROW, I MAKE THIS SOLEMN VOW!!

I spent the rest of the night tossing and turning and sending pretty sailor adjectives in my husband's general direction. I have the biggest kink in my neck I have had in years.

I woke up this morning in a slightly better frame of mind, and thought I would razz my beloved Bonehead and send him a quick email, which I knew he'd receive on his cell phone. For the purposes of bloggertainment, I would like to share our exchange.

Me: Let me get this straight: You have 20 million gazillion pillows and you feel the need to take mine? Without asking even?

Bonehead: It was on my side. Steve's socks sure are cozy.

Upon the arrival of that email, I had a few thoughts along the lines of "oops, I forgot to pack his socks when I packed him up yesterday."

Me: You knew it was mine. You don't need socks with Tevas and water shoes. Unless you're eleventy years old.

Bonehead: And for Saturday and Sunday in my gym shoes?

Me: Nope, no, huh-uh. I'm not feeling guilty for forgetting. You're stopping at Walmart, grab some. I've got a horrible kink in my neck from using one of your hosed up lumps you've mangled into oblivion, and a panic attack knowing you're currently doing the same damn thing to mine. It will never be the same again. My virgin pillow has been absconded. You are deflowering my pillow. I have no forgotten sock guilt.

No response. I sent an email inquiring about the weather and Smoochie's current status. Still nothing. I can safely say that either Bonehead is ignoring me, or he has floated into the pages of Deliverance. Since my son is along for the float, I sincerely hope the man is simply ignoring his grouchy wife with an abnormally protective pillow attachment.

In closing, I leave you with my husbands facebook status, updated this morning: John is glad this is one of those "socks" optional vacations. They would hang me for this back in the old country.

Hey, what's the quickest kindest way to dye a gross of socks pink? Wink wink.