Hair Raising

So the mud puddle has some interesting hang-ups. It bothers me slightly that he has ANY hang-ups given that he is barely three, but I have surmised that many are mysteriously genetic (who knew that an aversion to ‘button shirts’ could be written into your DNA?).

Let's talk about the most obvious (if only because of the physical results):
He HATES having his hair cut. This from the child who had visible hair in utero. I have the pictures to prove it people!
To make matters worse he inherited his hair style from his namesake, Sherman. Grampy had some SERIOUS hair issues going on, one of my favorite topics of discussion with him was how his hair was doing and WHAT it was doing. Anytime your hair requires "goose grease" to keep it down to a shout, you have problems.

So at about eight months of age, the ‘do was getting shaggy, needed a trim.
First hair cut was great. No crying, the mud puddle sat on my lap looked around the beauty shop it was all good.
Second hair cut. Not so much. You would have thought he was having his ears removed as opposed to dead follicles. Third, fourth, and fifth were similar.
All my days I shall be able to recall the visit to SuperCuts, the screaming, the yelling, the squirming, the incredibly large tip I had to leave to make up for all of it.

So we decided to circle the wagons and take care of this ourselves. Sure. Have you seen the way I cut hair? And on a squirming head at that?
I had been reduced to three snips, in the bathtub so the hair falls into the water and he is distracted by ducks and bubbles.
Picture if you will, me with one foot in the tub wielding a pair of scissors and cajoling Mr. Poops with promises of treats and toys and money if I can take one more snip. CLEARLY I was losing this battle. And he walked around looking like a Beatle circa Ed Sullivan with a hair stylist who smoked crack. (see above photographic evidence)

Last night we turned a corner. We went to visit my dear friend Nicole who is a hair dresser and a mother. She understands hair AND kids. THANK GOD!!
The result? A clean-cut looking fellow with straight bangs.

There was no crying, no screaming. He even LAUGHED at times. One balloon and promised trip to the zoo later and I can breathe a sigh of relief for at least six weeks.

The Journey of a thousand miles

So now that I have kicked this thing off, I find that there are infinite stories and anticedotes I want to relay.
I seriously doubt anyone will see the humor or importance that I do in these tales, but I can't wait to start posting them none the less. I promised we would start out slow (I will save the toilet training stories a little while, I need to build up to that kind of detail and degregation).

Joshua is not a morning person. He comes by this naturally as I am not a morning person (my standard quip is that I am a night owl trapped in a morning person's life).
This leads to some of our larger rows (fights for those who don't speak "British English") occuring in the morning. Usually in the driveway, usually involving yelling. On those days I get into the car scanning the neighborhood for shocked faces peering through curtains.
And I am usually muttering to myself "Dear God, please don't let this be the morning someone calls DHS."
For the most part he and I get along but in the morning, it is better that we keep our distance. This morning was the exception to that rule.

Scott is always up first, and I heard him greet Joshua at five past the butt crack of dawn (6 a.m.) with "What are you doing up??? It is EARLY".
The Mud Puddle hit the ground running, none of the usual crankies. So CLEARLY that meant that I had to be awake too.

He comes in the room (he walks like a herd of elephants so the trip down the hall had me awake) politely informs me he is turning on the light,
turns on the light
walks to the bed, rips the covers off me
tries to remove my pillow
picks up my glasses, puts them on his own face
then sets them on the bed and starts pushing them closer to me,
all the while chanting the mantra "Mommy get up, Mommy get up".

How do you explain to a three year old that:
a. I was in the middle of a pretty intense plane crash nightmare and need to shake off the REM
b. This pajama wearing, pee smelling, crazy haired alarm clock doesn't have a snooze
BUT I NEED FIVE MORE MINUTES
*SIGH* I got up, did the get ready thing and even had time to iron clothes and put on lipstick. Perhaps the toddler alarm clock isn't all bad.
Once in a while.

Let's get this thing started

As a newbie to the blogsphere, we will take this nice and slow so no one gets hurt.
I am Kristi (Kris to friends and family); the 'lovey mud puddle' is my son Joshua. Since everything interesting revolves around him, most of my musings will detail what he is up to, into, and all about.

I have kept a diary (anemic though it is these days) since I found out I was pregnant with him. I am hoping that I will do a better job in this forum and someday he can read about the hijinks and shenanigans he was up to ('three year old' is synonymous with hijinks) and will be thoroughly embarrassed at a later date that his personal moments are in the Internet Ether.

I will try and post on a regular basis and keep it somewhat entertaining.

So welcome, and thanks for stopping by.