May 11, 2006
My whole life, I wanted a baby with hair. Hair I could play with. My Little Pony habits die hard, apparently.
The dream of braids and ribbons and wee plastic combs took a bit of a hit when I found out I was having a boy, but was revived with the thought of having a little hippie baby with long flowing hair -- hair that would drive his grandparents nuts because I should cut it off, he looks like a girl, and instead I would dress him in organic cotton tie-dye and teach him to pluck a single daisy from behind his ear and hand it to his grandpa while making a little peace sign with the other hand. Then maybe he could say something inflammatory about Bill O'Reilly.
Or! Or! Maybe he'd be a Mohawk Baby and I'd dress him in little punk rock onesies with bad words on them and he'd have a pair of tiny high-top Vans and his first word would be "anti-establishment."
Instead, I got a baby with a hairline so groomed and perfect it looked like he'd gotten a buzzcut in utero. It naturally parts on the side. It won't grow past his ears. He doesn't even have a damn cowlick. And for whatever reason, we seem to own a LOT of baby polo shirts and cargo pants.
However, the lesson here is that you should never let go of your dreams, because pureed apricots provide really exceptional volume and hold.