Thursday, March 26, 2009

I hate haircuts. (Well, not mine.)

Again, I found this unposted! ?? You get two tonight! : )

Ok, I may gripe about laundry a lot, but haircuts have to be my least favorite part of parenting. I mean throw-up is gross, but I handle it. Getting my kids' boogers out is nasty, but I do it. Changing diapers, being spit up on, looking for the swallowed penny....I've decided not to go on-but there are many disgusting jobs I do on a daily basis, but choose not to embarrass anyone. But going to get Ethan a haircut is the thing I hate most. We even tried out the new place in Farmington that had an airplane for him to sit in while he got his hair cut! Nothing works. He screams, sweats, tears and snots up (which just makes the hair more sticky!) It's just plain awful. I'm draped, he's in my lap with a cape and some toys, and it begins. He's crawling up my body, trying to pretty much climb over me (where's he going?), clawing at my hair and face. He's screaming and crying (scaring off other customers) and it doesn't stop the entire time (unless Daryl stops cutting hair!). We would stop now and then to take a breather, calm down, and regroup. We did go outside, thinking he'd like the fresh air (since we were sweating!!) and could watch the cars. It was just as bad. He is just sooo strong. And the "Mama", "Mama" was really getting to me. He kept pleading with me to make it stop. I hate it. It has to be done. He was so shaggy and mullet-looking-and spring pictures are around the corner. : ) All I'm sayin' is next time it's Ches. Maybe Ethan's just playing me like all other times! Oh, how frazzled my nerves are.

This afternoon I took the older kids for haircuts (and they were wonderful), and then we went back to the library for art. They had fun painting pots and using wire and foam, clay and stickers, etc. to make flowers for the pots. Guess what? They gave me their pots, plus all the books/videos/doll Mary Claire left there Monday/etc. and I was overwhelmed. I placed the pots on the shelf while I figured out how we were going to get all the books checked out and to the car (with only 2 bags). Well...long story getting too long: I guess I left the pots there, right in the nonfiction by dinosaurs! I called, and they couldn't find the pots. They sent out an email to all the workers and will look for them. Is there a point at which all lost things find you? Or do they find someone else? I can only hope they bring joy to someone.

I think one day I will be a complete person again, with a fully-functioning brain, a full night of sleep (with which to function), I will know everyone's names (even close family members), I will be capable of getting my library materials to the car (and one day will choose a fiction book just for fun), one day... For now I will be scattered me enjoying my job as mom: the last person they hug at night, the first person they see in the morning, the one they want to take them to the bathroom (or change their pants...), the one they tell when they are sad about their day, and the one that reads hilarious books to them, the one that makes sure they have food around the clock, then one that saves no time for her nails... For now, I'm happy. Later is another kind of happy. Life is lots of stages. I think we have to pass thru one to appreciate the next. More examples, but that's another night. : )

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