Allow me to say, in my own defense, that I'm NOT the one who's being 700 kinds of stubborn and foot-draggy about getting Ezra's hair cut. I'm not looking forward to it, that mind-melting moment when the baby-shag drops off and leaves a indisputable, total BOY CHILD in its wake, but I'm not opposed to it. I see it. I know it. We've entered full-on mullet territory now, though I guess technically that's my fault too, because if it were up to SOMEONE COUGH JASON COUGH, we wouldn't even be trimming Ezra's bangs. I trim them myself, all surreptitiously-like, when Jason's not around, because I cannot seem to explain to him the simple PHYSICS of our boys' hair, which grows hedge-like and straight-down over their eyes: And Barrettes Are Not An Option.
Anyway. That's not at all what I intended to write about today: I just wanted to let you know that I am aware of the situation, but it's not entirely just my call: Jason wakes up early every Saturday morning so I can sleep in. And then he makes pancakes. What does that have to do with Ezra's hair? Nothing. Everything. I don't know. I can't disrespect his deeply-felt hairstyling wishes, because then I might not get more pancakes. I DON'T ROCK THE BOAT, IS ALL.
Yesterday was, indeed, a better day, mostly because I cut myself some slack over my limited patience for re-enacting the same play scenarios over and over and over again (the punchline of "Elmo & Big Bird Make A Snack & OH NO A LEMON IS NOT A GOOD SNACK, BIG BIRD!" gets waaaaaaayyyyyy less funny the 300th go-round). By late afternoon we had a Thomas DVD on and I'm not apologizing for that.
Well, except to Ezra, because it scared him. EZRA. Who fears NOTHING. Who has zero regard for his own personal safety and is currently in the running for America's Next Top Jackass. Lost his shit over a train getting doused in maple syrup. (Or...something sticky and syrup-like. I don't really follow the plots of these things. Where are my pancakes?) He's gotten crazy sensitive about people or things getting hurt on the television and will burst into panicked tears if someone falls down or anything vaguely slapstick-y happens. You wouldn't think this would be much of a problem, since Noah is still blissfully unaware that there's anything on the TV besides the commercial-free preschooler channels (and the occasional Space Movie, but Ezra's in bed by the time we put those on). There's not a whole lot of VIOLENCE going on in Blue's Clues or Sesame Street. But I had to turn the Thomas DVD off because Ezra was absolutely inconsolable over the poor, sticky, sad-faced train.
Which made NOAH cry, which made EZRA attempt to console him: he toddled over to Noah's collapsed, woeful form and gently patted his back a few times before giving him a hug and kissing his head. Then he turned to me and pointed to his nose before signing "sad."
Nose = Noah. OMG.
And THAT'S the story I actually meant to write today, because you guys. That crazy maniac is turning into the sweetest little person.