barbershop poleThose who’ve read Rule 7 of You Cannot Be Serious won’t be surprised by the story I’m about to tell.

It’s been, like, 9 months since I last got my haircut, and it’s time. It’s past time, in fact.

Unfortunately, The Guru had nothing available but a noon slot today which, as all mothers know, is the most inopportune hour during which to be forced to take 5 children anywhere, let alone somewhere they are expected to sit patiently (and quietly) for more than 2.4 minutes.

Grace and Jack opted to stay with my friend Erin, but when George and Henry learned that such an opportunity did not come with a bounce house in the backyard or hot fudge sundaes the size of Alaska, they declined.

Intent on being entertained, George had the bright idea to take Battleship with us. I didn’t that was the best choice, which was confirmed when the game dropped, scattering 220 kadrillion (yes, that’s a number) pieces across the sidewalk before we even managed to make it inside. Neither Henry nor George appreciated my “told you so” eye roll.

Having barely checked in, Nina sat on my lap like the angel that she is, while Henry took the immediate opportunity to loudly inquire, whilst pointing, “MOM! DO YOU SEE THAT WOMAN OVER THERE WITH THE WHITE HAIR?”

“Henry, can we not shout? Or point?”

“Well, she was our librarian!”

Super.

“I wonder if she got fired or something,” he wondered aloud.

A few minutes later, I enthusiastically approached the shampoo bowl, an experience I usually enjoy because, while those in the hair salon industry have somehow still not invented a comfortable shampoo bowl, the fact of the matter is that you can’t really hear anything while your head’s in it. It’s as close as I’m getting to a vacation, and I take advantage of every second.

Apparently, a vacation compliments of the shampoo bowl is not to be when Henry’s along for the ride. I tried to pretend I didn’t recognize the voice bellowing from the other side of the shop.

“George, THAT is I-10,” Henry screamed in frustration. “And THIS is C-4. It’s a LITTLE bit different!”

Lesson Learned: Next time, Battleship may not go along for the ride.

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photo of breakfast in bed for mother's day

If you know me at all, you know how much I look forward to Mother’s Day. It is, after all, one of only two days in a whole year that is entirely devoted to moi. (The other is my birthday, which I frankly milk just as strongly as Mother’s Day but don’t enjoy nearly as much because, well, you know.)

My most interesting Mother’s Day to date occurred two years ago. Ah, that fateful morning which began with everyone hollering at me about breakfast fare, and ended with George (then 3) wishing David a Happy Mother’s Day.

Typically, I begin Mother’s Day with two words: “See ya!” Also, I should note that I believe fathers should spend all day on Father’s Day with their children. Double standard? Yes. And I’m okay with it.

This year I’m doing something that might surprise you. I’m choosing to celebrate my children and their undying devotion to me on Mother’s Day instead of expecting them to celebrate me. (Clearly, I’m already setting myself up.) Now, do I think for 2 seconds that they’ll appreciate this approach? No. I do not.

I’m going to write each of them a letter, to be presented on Mother’s Day morning with much the same fanfare with which I always hope breakfast in bed will be (but never is) served. In these letters, I intend to let them know why I’m so thankful to have each of them in my life.

Because even though they claim they want another family when I announce that I don’t buy Bubblicious, teeter on the outside ledge of the second-story loft banister, and throw water balloons at me—while I’m working in my (carpeted) office, without these antics, I would not be able to wake up on this glorious day that is supposed to be all about me and wonder in how many years it might actually be.

But, lest it appear I’ve completely lost my mind, let me clarify that after I deliver their letters to them and kiss them and hug them so tightly that they scream, “I want another mother!,” I’m outta here.

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syringe

“Mom,” asked Henry, “did it hurt when they removed your molar?”

It wasn’t a molar. It was a mole. However, I wish it had been a molar. Surely that would have hurt less.

I’ve been known to have a flair for dramatics when any level of pain is involved, and the whole procedure was rather painless — after the numbing medicine was given and before said numbing medicine wore off. Those 17 minutes were incredibly pleasant.

“Given its location, this could hurt a bit later today. Would you like a prescription for Percocet?” asked the doctor.

“No, no. I’ll be fine. However, would you say (wink wink) that I should abstain from picking up the 1-year-old today?”

“Oh yes,” she nodded. “I would definitely advise you to not pick up the 1-year-old today (wink wink).”

Two lessons learned: One, when a prescription for Percocet is offered, take it. Two, if you send the message into the universe that you will be too uncomfortable to pick up your 1-year-old, the universe will laugh and then deliver your wish in 46 minutes or less.

Last night, after I downed 2 more extra-strength Tylenol, we all crammed into bed for our Wednesday night family viewing of American Idol (I LOVE that Crystal Bowersox even if she does play it safe). George stared at me with puppy-dog eyes and asked, “Mommy, are you okay?”

“She’s fine, George,” answered Henry. “By the way, Mom, why did you even get that molar removed?”

“Because the doctor said it was a good idea.”

“Yeah,” interjected George. “Because she can’t reach her back with the sun lotion and the sun got real mad and made that molar.”

“Well,” retorted Henry, “I go into the sun without sun lotion all the time. And look at me. I’m fine.”

Little does he know, the jury’s still out on that.

***

So who’s your American Idol favorite?

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