Taking inventory (or, It's a bad week for hair)

  • The tufts on his ears are definitely gone. This is very sad, as we now have to admit that he is not a lynx.
  • His hair is all kinds of crazy. I wanted to believe that it was just the bald spot at the back, I really did, but I have to be honest and assess the situation more critically. That is, his hair is a freak show.

    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?"

  • One cannot know how much we are controlled by our need to sleep until someone else is holding the reins. But at 10:00 am, everyone in the house is asleep but me, and I, like a fool, am writing about hair rather than sleeping in the tub for some gravely needed catch-up.
  • We think our bun may have the extremely recessive enormo-gene since we weighed him and suspect that he's around 17 (18) pounds. We'll know for sure when we take him in this week for more shots. You can bet that we'll be drinking an extra glass of wine after that adventure.
  • I am tired of being a memory hole. It was funny at first, but now I wish that I wasn't senile. The hijinx and hilarity just aren't that amusing when you can't even remember that you've written about a lack of sleep not once, not twice, but several times.

    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.