We're calling it.

We have a walker. Ben took his first step just a little over a week ago. This was him last night. All night. All over the house. Forget about crawling. That was so yesterday...literally.

The Haircut.

Today was the day. I finally worked up the courage to cut Benjamin's hair. I almost hated to do it because the poor guy doesn't have much and it is so very fine. He's been working on growing the little bit of hair that he does have for well over a year now. It felt a little wrong to cut off any of it, but it had to be done. Every time he was out in the wind his comb-over became quite evident and it seems to me that comb-overs, even atop the cutest of babies, are just wrong.

Here is a before picture. As you can see Benjamin had sort of let himself go.

Here are the essential haircut items I used. 

And the final result....a happy customer.

The haircut turned out fine (I think - we shall see what Ben's hair styling auntie has to say about that), and the $10 shears I purchased have already paid for themselves. Now it's time to play!

What died in here?

Off and on for the past week or so Jeff and I have been grossed out by the smell of our family car. Some days we'd get in and wouldn't notice anything. Other days we'd accuse each other of, well you know, fluffing in the car. But the odor came and went, came and went several times over. We thought perhaps it was from the banana that was accidentally smooshed into the floor mat or that we had left a dirty diaper in the back from our camping trip (we used the back of the Rav for a few diaper changes....classy, I know). Then today, after some thought and investigation I came to the realization that I was at fault for the foul smells that we smelled. You see, I take Benjamin and Osa for a walk most mornings and most mornings Osa does a little jobby (I know, I've been writing a lot about puppy and baby potty happenings lately...welcome to my world). Well after Osa is done with her job, I pick up after her, as all good citizens should do. I use thick plastic odor resistant bags, tie them up and look for the nearest garbage can which happens to be the one located by our garage most days. Apparently I had forgotten to toss Osa's bag of stuff when we got home and left it in the basket located in the undercarriage of the stroller. Don't judge me because I put poo-poo in my child's stroller....it's in a sealed bag for goodness sake and it's not like I make Benjamin ride down there. I'm not sure just how long that particular bag sat in the stroller, but the stroller was loaded and unloaded from the back of the car several times which is why the aroma came and went, came and went. So there you have it. It was my fault, but now that the bag has been tossed I can go back to blaming Ben and Jeff for any other suspicious scents that may arise.

Kids these days...

Hope somebody teaches this kid some manners before he goes to Kindergarten...

How an undiapered baby can find a new use for an air vent...

Well Benjamin has had a bit of a diaper rash this week, and by the looks of most of his diapers I can't say I'm surprised. Not sure if he's having trouble because he's switching to cow's milk or because he is teething, but things have been busy at his changing table. The other night we decided to let Ben roam the house, how shall I say this, uninhibited to give his skin a chance dry out. He was out there and loving every minute of it. Up and down the hallway with his walker he went. I'm not exactly sure how long he went about the house in his birthday suit, but it was for quite some time because I remember thinking that he should probably get his diaper back on before he used the floor as his own personal toilet. It was not too long after that thought crossed my mind that I heard Jeff say something about going potty. Sure enough, Benjamin had crawled over to our picture window, stood up to give the neighbors a show, and proceeded to tinkle into the air vent. Fantastic. Pretty good aim for a one-year-old, I will give him that. I just hope that we aren't reminded of his little exhibition every time we turn on the heat and the warm air blasts through the aforementioned potty vent.

Doggy Duties

Osa, Osa, Osa. I love my puppy, quirks and all. She's darling and she brings a lot of joy to our house. I find some of her behaviors very amusing....

...the way she rings her bell to go outside only to turn right around and come back inside the house for a treat

...how she shakes with excitement when she sees a squirrel in the grass out back and then charges him at just the right moment

...when she goes crazy running circles in the backyard or on the carpet in the basement

...her digger-dog ritual where she goes into her kennel and digs her little heart out when she's frustrated

But one of her little quirks, although quite amusing, has entered the realm of totally ridiculous. Osa is very particular about where she does her job during our walks...you know, the big job. I don't know what exactly she is looking or sniffing for, but it has to be a matter of great importance the way she approaches it. Walk, sniff, walk, circle, sniff, walk, walk, walk, sniff, sniff, circle, walk, sniff. I'm sorry to even be bringing this  subject up (not really), but just the other day she was so insistent on finding the most perfect place for her duties that she frantically walked and circled and sniffed for a good 3 blocks before she finally, you know, made her deposit. No kidding. THREE blocks! Now I know that dogs like to find just the right place for these kinds of things, and I can't really blame them. I suppose it's akin to using an outhouse versus your own personal bathroom. But really, Osa, don't you think you're being a little bit of a princess? Three blocks of grass before you were able to find a spot that was good enough for your stuff? I hate to break it to you, pup, but your poo is just not that special. Any spot will do for your doo-doo.

Oh, I see how it is.

I will probably regret it, but I'm going to give Benjamin his first haircut...at home...without the help of a trained professional. Yes, I am one of those mothers who is going to try to save a buck at the expense of my child's hair. I figure Benjamin was nearly bald for a good portion of his life, so even a bad haircut would leave him with more hair than he'll know what to do with. I'll try to trim just a little at a time so that if it looks really terrible I can still bring him in to the salon and have them fix it. I'm sure it will be fine. I do have some experience in this arena. I cut my bangs and the dog's hair too and I've only messed those jobs up a few times. Osa never seemed to have much psychological damage from the experience, so I'm sure Ben would handle a bad haircut just as well.

I'm on the hunt for some scissors now. Even though I'm not a pro, I've decided not to use the scissors from the junk drawer for Ben's haircut. I can be pretty cheap, but it seems wrong to use the same scissors that cut out boxtops for his hair so I stopped by a beauty supply store this morning. I unloaded Benjamin from his car seat and lugged him into the shop. When I walked up to the front counter there were 3 girls standing behind it, all dressed in cute clothes, all made up. I did not receive a smile or a hello or a "how can I help you?" from any of them. I decided to start the whole customer service exchange by saying, "I'd like to buy some shears. Could you help me find some?" to which one girl replied, "We're wholesale and we only sell to licensed cosmetologists and stylists." How did she know that I wasn't?!?!? I used the word shears for crying out loud. That doesn't sound like the kind of word a licensed professional would use? So how could she assume that I was not? Oh, I see how it is. Yeah, okay, so I hadn't showered, my hair was in a pony and there was no make-up on my face...my baby's nose was running and I'm pretty sure he had just rubbed it on my shirt when I got him out of the car, but there's no way she could have definitively known that I wasn't a licensed professional. I simply held my head high and asked, "Do you know of a place in town where I could purchase shears (yep, I used it again)?" She looked down her nose at me as she muttered the name "Sally's". She said it with such disdain it's as if  the name left a bad taste in her mouth. "Thanks for your time," I replied as I walked out the door. And thanks for the tip. I will go to Sally's. I will go to Sally's, the place that welcomes unkempt stay-at-home moms who are trying to save a buck. I will go to Sally's and spend my money there, and when my son is rockin' his super sweet new hairdo and everybody asks me where I bought my scissors I will say "Sally's" and they will all go there too. Deal with it.