I won't be winning any Mom of the Year Awards for saying it, but lately? I have not liked Alexis. I have loved her, cherished her, adored her, blah, blah, blah, but I have. not. liked. her. I'm sure I'll take some slack for writing it, but the fact of the matter is the whole purpose of this blog is to document things for her, and there is value in being able to tell her that I went through the same thing with her when she one day calls me to complain about one of her kids. She will have the same phase. I have no doubt.
The calendar says Alexis' third birthday is still a few weeks away, but her mouth, attitude, and general demeanor has been saying HELLO! I'M THREE! SCREW YOU! for a couple of weeks now. The yelling. The screaming. The fighting. The defiance. The attitude. I know she's just testing boundaries, but oh. my. hell. I want my sweet kid back. Y'know, the one that looks at me teary-eyed if I so much as raise my voice. The one that has such a crazy guilt complex that she will tattle on herself just for THINKING about doing something she shouldn't. The one who wants to gain everyone's approval so badly that she will do absolutely anything to make sure she gets it.
I liked her. I worried about her, but I liked her.
In the past week, Alexis has thrown more fits than in all the rest of her life piled up. I have a feeling she is trying to squeeze in a year's worth of misery into a short amount of time (she did that with Two--it was really only "Terrible" for a few weeks), so it's just a matter of standing firm and waiting it out.
It is a phase.
It is a phase.
If all else fails, four will be better.
If I still have hair left on top of my head by then.
Thank goodness she's cute.
Cody may only be five months old, but he's ahead of the Toddler on one thing--little dude can grow some hair. Like, a LOT of hair. So, last Saturday we took him for his very first hair cut.
We tend to like long-haired dogs best when they are left long-haired, so the idea was less about cutting back the major 80's poof he was rocking and more about doing a little trimmy trimmy here and there so that he would get the experience of having his hair cut. He is in for a life time of grooming appointments, so it's better that he starts getting used to the idea of a stranger with clippers hanging out around his nether regions sooner rather than later. Mr. Husband informed the groomer that she should just pluck the forest he was growing inside his ears, trim up his paws, clean up around his eyes, and maybe shave his booty region for cleanliness reasons.
I know that is what Mr. Husband said because I heard him. Definitely.
That didn't stop the chick from going all Edward Scissorhands on his ass. And head. And back. And everywhere in between. Poor little guy is half the man he was just a few days ago, mostly because she cut off at least two inches of fluff.
Not only was I all sorts of sad face over it, Mr. Husband was, too. In fact, he might be more sad face over it. He keeps fussing at Cody to hurry up and grow back his hair. He really does look awful. As Mr. Husband said, he looks like that scruffy dog an old lady would have if she also had 32 cats. Sort of mutt-like, but too scraggly to even be a mutt, and at first glance, you're not even sure it's a dog.
Cody has apparently taken this criticism very hard. He seemed all happy go lucky at first, but this morning? He totally fell into a deep depression. So deep, in fact, that he thought the only way out of his bad hair month (or two or three) was to just end it all. So, he decided not to chew his treat and managed to lodge the whole damn thing in his throat.
What Cody forgot to consider was that Mr. Husband has already once saved the suicidal pup's life. And, he did it again this morning. In what can only be called an act of heroics, Mr. Husband shoved his finger down the pup's throat until he puked. It was like an episode of America's Top Model all over our bedroom floor. So fun!
So if you see Cody wandering around town, do us a favor and LIE TO HIM. Tell him he looks great and that you love the new hair cut. I can't take another day of him being all dramatic and whiny because his throat hurts.
(He's fine, btw. I might have to talk to the Academy about honoring him with an Oscar for the acting performance he put on when I checked on him at lunch when he tried to convince me he was dying. Dying pups don't make me insane chasing the other dog around the living room for 45 minutes.)
(Pre-Edward Scissorhands photo, of course. Poor little guy refuses to let me capture his embarrassment digitally.)