Oh yes folks. The kiddie-computer actually says "puke". Caleb, Jason, Cheyenne and I listened to it 500 times each. It’s definitely "puke".
And how ’bout that Barack Obama?
The baby: He’s living the good life. Pooping in the comfort of his own bed. Having his butt meticulously cleaned with cotton balls dipped in warm water every hour. Dressing up in one dapper little outfit after another. Drinking ’til he passes out. Sleeping until someone wakes him up by changing his poopy diaper and cleaning his butt with cotton balls…you get the picture. It’s a vicious cycle.
Mia: I think it’s finally starting to get to her. I don’t know if she’s made the full connection between the baby and the lack of one-on-one time with Mommy and Daddy, but her melt-downs are becoming more and more frequent, particularly after a long day of phrases like "not right now", "in a minute", and "after I feed the baby". She lost it last night when Caleb and I got a little too eager for her to go to sleep–we tried to rush storytime, and that didn’t sit very well with her. I never realized how difficult it would be to spend some quality time alone with each child.
Cheyenne: So far she’s keeping busy by hanging out with friends, making plans for summer camp, and thinking of ways to spend her birthday fortune. She’s become obsessed with her hair lately. Yesterday she busted out the "1995 slicked-back-ponytail with 2 long, thin, strands of hair slicked down to the side of her face" ‘do. You know the look: it went so well with your silk shirt, white jeans, Black Nike’s, and way-too-dark-lip-liner. You perfected this look while you were listening to Ini Kamoze’s "Here Comes the Hotstepper." I cringed everytime I looked at her. Luckily, she experiments with a different style everyday. She’d lock herself in the bathroom for an hour if we’d let her. But 5 minutes gives her more than enough time to do the damage.
Me: Speaking of hair, I got mine hacked clean off yesterday. I ran into Cost Cutters (first mistake) for a little trim, and that lady cut the hell out of my hair. I think she was going for choppy layers–what she didn’t know is that my hair boings up into funky curls when it is even slightly short; I also have this ridiculous cowlick which prevents me from wearing bangs.
She gave me bangs.
I should’ve left before I allowed her to so much as pick up the scissors. Note to self: If your hairdresser looks like she just wandered in from off the street, or more specifically, like she drunkenly wandered in from panhandling on the side of a busy interstate, proceed with caution. Better yet, don’t proceed at all.
But I was desperate. My hair looked shitty, I needed to save some money, I had all the kids with me, and there was only a small window of time before Merrick got hungry again. And I don’t enjoy breasfeeding a fussy baby in a hot car in a crowded parking lot. I thought logically to myself, "It’s just hair. It’ll grow back. And it can’t look any worse than it does now."
Another note to self: Don’t get your hair cut PERIOD in those emotional post-partum weeks.
I had to hold back tears when Cheyenne said, "Wow. You look like such a mom now!" Damnit! I paid some drunk bum $12 to butcher away what little bit of youth and femininity I had left.
Sigh. I’ll put up a picture once I stop wallowing.