Should I be concerned . . .

. . . that today while playing with her dollhouse, Peanut put the "Loaf" doll in the oven?

Eeeek.

I vow to love you, honor you and shave your head

For two summers, Mark has been talking about getting a an extremely short haircut (less than a quarter inch). There has been much hemming and hawing and hand-wringing about said cut and with a big family wedding looming t-minus 6 weeks from now, I finally convinced him that if he was going to do it, now is the time. This way, if it looks bad, he’ll be able to grow it out by the time ten million pictures are snapped for all posterity. (Which pretty much summed up how I thought things were going to turn out.)

Being one of tight wallet, Mark decided I should be the one to give him this cut. Which? Eeek. I am a woman of many skills, but prior to last week, operating a head shaver was not one of them.

Fearing I would either (worst case) give him the world’s first uneven buzz cut or (next worst case) remove several layers of skin from his scalp, I made him first promise to disavow me of any personal liability or damages. (I am reading my friend Martha's book, so I’m feeling all sorts of lawyerly lately).

It went something like this:

”I, Mark Gav, being of sound mind and body, acknowledge that I have requested Kimberly Gav to shave my head by and of my own free will, despite the fact that Mrs. Gav has no prior experience with head shaving and makes no claims to having even minimal skills in hair cutting or shaving. I also promise to release Mrs. Gav from any personal injury, humiliation, damages or taunting resulting from her administration of said buzz cut. Further, I shall not personally hold grudges, pout, stomp about the house, glare or make any snarky comments toward Mrs. Gav should any of the aforementioned situations come to bear as a result of her completely fucking this up.”

Now, I realize that this is not a binding legal document. Anyone spending more than 10 minutes with Mark would realize he is not of sound mind and would toss it right out. (ZING! Score one for the wife).

Before I describe how it went, let me first say that I love my husband’s hair. God and good genes hath bestowed upon him a beautiful head of thick, shiny hair that (knock on wood) shows no signs of thinning or balding. He is blessed with incredible genes in this area. His maternal grandfather, who is approaching 103, still has hair sprouting from every single follicle on his head. Amazing man he is, in more ways than just his hair. But I digress . . .

The Before



So, time to clip. I don’t remember all the specifics, but we went over it four different times, each time going shorter and shorter until the final length was 1/16th of an inch. Which incase you are wondering? Is really freakin’ short.

But I have to say, I think it actually turned out O.K. Four days have passed, and I’m still not 100% used to it, but I like it. I do have to say that many men our age who are fighting to keep their hair right now would probably think someone with a great head of hair must be crazy to do this, but any day now it's going to be 90-degrees and humid and he's going to be a lot cooler with this type of cut.

The After



As for our upcoming wedding, it will be just fine with me if the next 20 generations look back on the resulting family photos with him looking like this. How the bride will feel? Is still TBD. Stay tuned . . .

Important skills

Today we attended the birthday party of a good friend turning 40. It was a full-on bash with delicious food, a bartender, live music and lots of people.

These friends have a great backyard for entertaining people of all ages. Tucked into the back corner of their yard is a wooden playset with a slide, sandbox and swings.

Upon arriving, we stopped first at the bar, where we ordered two margaritas for ourselves (hey, every now and then you just have to cut loose a little), and two non-alcoholic piña coladas for the girls.

Next, we wandered back to the playset, which was surrounded by mulch and bordered by railroad ties buried halfway in the ground.

Loaf was happily sipping her piña colada and standing near the edge of one of the railroad ties. Suddenly, she stepped back so her feet were half off the edge. Teetering for a second, she lost her fight to stay balanced, fell back, landed hard on her bottom and then rolled onto her back. I raced toward her expecting to find a crying, wet, piña colada covered mess, but nope, Loaf was not crying and even better, she did not spill so much as one drop from her cup.

Excellent.

Other than not being able to read, write or add, she is totally ready for college.

P.S. — Do you think those skills are genetic?

Squeeee!

That is the sound of my rejoicing over the fact that our digital camera is FINALLY repaired. At last, I again have the ability to take and share high quality photos. Squeeee!

We've been without a camera since February, a period that will henceforth be referred to as "The Dark Period in My Children's Baby Books."

Just a teaser: Loaf squirting Peanut with the hose in our backyard.













You should have heard the giggles. If only I could figure out an easy way to share those with you. (Trust me, they sounded a lot cuter than my high-pitched Squeee!)

Milestone moment

Today in our yard:

Loaf gets in the wading pool in her regular diaper, causing it to bloat to about 78 times its size. I peel the 19-pound, soaked garment off her and then go in the house to fetch her a swim diaper.

Peanut: Why is Loaf naked?
Me: Her diaper filled with water and was really heavy, so I’m going to get her a swim diaper.
Peanut: What happens if she has to poop while you go inside to get it?
Me: I doubt that will happen, honey, I’m only going to be a minute.
Peanut: But she might! And then what? Where will she go?
Me: Well, I guess she would go out here.
Peanut: NOOOOO, Mommy, we can’t have Loaf pooping outside like dog! She’s a person!

I’m not sure of which I am more proud. The fact that:
A. Peanut recognizes one should not poop in the backyard, or,
B. she has finally recognized Loaf is a person with equal rights and privileges.

::sniff::

I am so proud.

Feelin' fine

Today I stepped on the elliptical at the gym and went through my ususal programming routine:
Program: Interval workout
Time: 30 minutes
Weight: 1mumblemumblemumble pounds
Age: Hmmm . . .

And here I had to pause for a moment, because instead of the usual 37, I had to enter 38.

Put into those terms, it's such an inconsequential thing. The machine defaults to age 35, so it only comes down to pushing the "up" arrow three times vs. two, but for some odd reason it struck me as momentous and for the first time today my birthday and advancing age seemed very official and real to me.

Sure, I've been thinking about my age a lot this week and yes, my family greeted me this morning (at 8:15, because I got to sleep in today - thank you Markus) with "Happy Birthday," but for some reason it was that moment, on the elliptical, when it really hit home.

And you know? Oddly, I decided I really don't care. Last year's birthday really troubled and depressed me, but this year - nothing. Really. I'm completely OK with it.

I think a lot of it has to do with the fact that I feel great lately. I'm working out and eating well. I've lost 10 pounds since mid-April (go me!) and I know that's part of it, but there's more.

I feel immensely grateful for and positive about my life. I like where it is and where it’s going. I feel we have a bright and happy future ahead. My kids bring me more joy than I ever imagined possible and I’m still madly in love with my husband. I have a good job and great friends (who I don’t see nearly enough, but I know that when I do we'll fall right back into sync).

So in summary, life is good right now and the age thing truly doesn't bother me at all.

For the moment.

Now, ask me again next year when I'm 365 days from The Big Four-Oh, and you might get a completely different answer.

Look at this face

This is the face that I see peaking over the crib rails at me every morning.



And it's a damn good thing too, because this waking up every night at 3 a.m. and crying and wanting to play and hang out for a couple of hours really sucks the big one.

If she weren't this cute? I'd definitely have sold her to the gypsies by now.

Guess what Elmo's thinking about today?

For those of you not familiar with the utter horror joy that is "Elmo's World," in every episode Elmo is thinking about something and the episode goes to on detail various aspects of that something. Elmo will ask his mime friend Mr. Noodle a question about the thing he is thinking about, he will count something related to it, he will talk to it and then he will sing a song about it. Every episode (and I think I've seem them all) it’s the same.

Tonight, I passed through the living room as the furry red guy announces, “Elmo is thinking about games,” only to my ears it sounded like “gangs.”

I had to stop and do a double-take. I mean, I know Sesame Street has been trying to get all progressive and issue-y lately, but gangs seemed like a bit too much for a show with talking puppets and an audience largely under the age of 7 to address.

Though it got me thinking, if Elmo were thinking about gangs, would he bust a cap in Cookie’s ass for being blue? Would he wear a big gold “E” and get some jailhouse tats under his red fur? Would he ask Mr. Noodle in his chipper little voice, “How do you do a drive-by?” (And then would Mr. Noodle incorrectly try do one on a tricycle, or with a kazoo, until he finally got it right?) Would he ask everyone watching at home to count the stray bullets? Would Elmo ask a gang member to find out more? I can practically hear it:

Elmo: Is it fun being a gang member?
Gang member: It’s a blast.
Cue Elmo’s high-pitched laugh

Ergh. My brain likes to go to sick, deep, dark places when it’s sleep-deprived. My apologies. I’m off to bed . . .

Makeover!

I thought it was time to give the blog a new look. It's never good to get stuck in a fashion rut, even if you're just a Web site.

Now if I could only renovate my house this easily . . . .

Life is Good . . .

. . . at Grandma and Pop's house.

















Swimming and sitting on Pops' Harley, plus ice cream, lemonade, two trips to the mall, staying up late, and lots of time snuggled up against Grandma reading. How can you top that?

So yes, we survived our "Girl's Weekend" to Massachusetts intact, though I listened to Elmo's Song in the car more times than ANY adult should ever have to, had to invent lots of wacky car games (Car Dancing and Who Has Lambie? for two), and took my children solo into two grimy public restrooms on the New York State Thruway (where anyone sitting in the next stall would have heard something to the effect of: Don't touch that! No! Hands off! Stop it. OK just one sheet, here you go. Very good. Hey! I said no touching. Not that either. That's really gross! Let's go wash our hands NOW. And don't touch anything else on the way to the sink. ). But we made it and it was so worth it. We got lots of good quality Grandma time in, which is always a good thing.

Though next time? I am totally taking Mrs. Chicky's advice and downloading her list of child-friendly songs that are much less likely to make parents' brains go completely numb, which I must say is a very bad thing to have happen whilst driving.