Sweet nothings

So, I have this cycle with my hair; (not that I am at all unique in this - I'm just saying . . .) I spend a year or two growing it out so it's nice and long. I buy a gazillion clips, headbands, and elastics. I obsess about color and just how long I want to get it. About the time it hits an inch or two below my shoulders I start to get really bugged by it and I rarely wear it down for more than an hour or two before I lash it back off my face. Somewhere in the cycle I (traditionally) get pregnant, so my hair gets thicker and grows even faster. Then I have a baby and the hair is not only more annoying because it's in my way, but what isn't falling out (such a lovely hormonal side-effect) is being yanked out as the baby climbs his way to my face 'Rapunzel-Rapunzel-let-down-your-hair-style. I start sneaking out the scissors and making ill-advised chops at my hair when Tyler isn't looking. Let's face it, if I hated my hair before I started the self-mutilation, there may not be a strong enough word to describe how I feel about it afterwards. So, I finally go in to have it cut. Last time around Grey was about three. He was so distraught about my short hair that he kept asking when I was going to get it 'cut long' again. When I say "kept asking", I mean he asked that for over a year! Keeping that reaction in mind I was fully prepared for my boys to express their distaste for a short cut again (even though it's not as short as the last time I chopped it). Sweet Nick looked at me, cocked his head, furrowed his brow, and then didn't say a word until hours later. After much thought (apparently) he came and told me in a very matter-of-fact tone that he likes my hair more than Macaroni and Cheese, the good kind - not from the box. And you should see that boy eat Macaroni and Cheese. He really likes my hair. (And so do I, by the way. Good riddance to the long stuff.)

No painting parties here.

Well, it's official. I am the mother of boys, boys, boys. No end in sight - unless the mini ultrasound machine they used (since the big one decided to BREAK right as I got to the doctor's office) made the cord look like something else. I will not be re-painting a bedroom, or buying masses of pink baby things, or selling all the baby-boy things I've collected over the last three babies. Nope. Not me. At least I won't have to figure out how to do all those cute twisty hairstyles on a squirming little girl before church. AND, if I thought keeping my boys in matching socks was hard, I can't imagine throwing little flower barrettes and tights into the mix. Now it's time to go to work on names. . .