I am at pains to describe exactly what is going on. As I mentioned in an earlier entry, his midnight thrashings are knocking the cradle cap out, which is a bonus. But what’s also happening, I’m queasy to say, is that he’s pulling out his downy baby hair. So what we have is a situation where he’s pulled out almost every last hair from the top right- and left-hand sides of his head, leaving a cross between a faux-hawk and TinTin’s hairdo with the goofy pointed shock in front. However, the bald patches don’t continue down the sides so he has fringe. And, though they say you can’t really know until he’s older, we’re assuming he’s right-handed since that side has less hair.

The back is reserved for the worst mullet ever: completely naked to two-inch long fringe along the back with the unpleasant addition of a rash where his head rubs on my arm when he’s eating. Above the bald spot is a fabulous poof: the thickest, darkest patch of hair on his head, making him look more punk-rock than the most devoted punk-rocker. His look says, “Yeah I cut my hair with a Swiss Army knife in the bathroom while pogoing. What’s it to you?”

But as a reward, even though anyone reading my adventures in fatigue must be bored beyond all reason after another stupid chapter, I am always surprised by exactly how tired I am and think, “Hey, I’ve got a clever idea. What about a fresh take on that whole motherhood-exhaustion thing? That’d be original! I’ve never done that before!” One might say that I’m “always living in the present,” or one might say that I’m a walking cliche. Both are probably correct.