I was all set to write an entry about my hairdo, but guess who else wrote about hairdos today? Mimi Smartypants. I have been in her shoes.
In fact, I was in her shoes at my last haircut, and I have narrowly escaped another bad hair decision. Because I never fully commit to short or long, I am in a constant state of in-between, which is also known as mom-hair. Ugh. I do like it short, though, because even when I am wearing my very boring mom-clothes, at least I have hip hair. But the truth is that I will never be able to keep up with or afford regular haircuts, so from here on out it is shoulders or below, as soon as I get there again. Over the weekend, I was blinded by some woman's hair on some trendy-expensive-skirt website, and I made a call to a (new) hairdo place, and luckily nobody called me back. I can't get a haircut. And if I were to get a haircut, I'm switching hairdo ladies, because the last couple of cuts I've had, my stylist seemed pretty grouchy, and if you're not into cutting my hair, I'm not going to push you. And I'm certainly not going to pay you fifty bucks.
Wanna know what I do in my own, private, upstairs bathroom? I knock the damn deodorant behind the little plastic shelf every time I reach for the saline solution. It sucks. And my little upstairs bathroom is so, so dirty. Like a frat house bathroom, almost. I am repulsed by it every time I go in, and I think "I've got to clean this freaking disgusting bathroom." And then, when I have a free minute, I think "I've got to clean this freaking disgusting bathroom." And then I think, "eh." Because cleaning it causes more actual discomfort than using it twice a day.
Speaking of cleaning, A. got all manic this weekend and mopped every floor in the downstairs of the house. It is so clean. And have I talked about Caldrea yet? I highly recommend the Lavender Pine. It's almost enough to make me want to clean the upstairs bathroom. Almost.
It's late-ish in my world, and quiet in the house, and I can hear Birdy scritch-scritching around in her crib through the monitor. She is a loud and mobile sleeper. I can hardly snuggle with her in our bed anymore, because as soon as she hits the almost-sleep point she crawls around and picks and kicks and climbs the pillows with her eyes closed.
And she is trying to stand on her own sometimes, mimicking me saying "ouch," when she clonks me in the head with the remote, and toot-tooting through an empty paper towel roll. She is so close to being a kid. And the closer she gets to being the funny kid she's trying to be, the longer I rock her at bedtime, because I know my baby-baby time is almost up.
I'm thinking I will open a toy store called "Reality," and I will only sell remote controls, cell phones, empty paper towel rolls, and lint. Because my child wants nothing to do with the brightly colored and kid-appropriate toys that are overflowing her pack-n-play. She wants electronics and trash. It will save parents a lot of time and money that they would have spent on stacking rings and Elmo puppets.
I ordered some prints from Shutterfly last week, and they arrived today. This one I'm especially happy with: