Yes, the wee Husband Hausfraus have been struck by a poopstorm. A Poopocalypse (Now). Poopmageddon. Poopnado.
Das Big Boy and Little Liebchen are in the midst of a GI event. Thus far, it’s only caused frequent, explosive diarrhea (as opposed to the diarrhea and vomiting model so many of our friends’ kids have been rocking). KNOCK ON WOOD. Seriously. All of the wood.
In general, I’m able to keep a sense of humor when my life turns into one long succession of particularly grim diaper changes. It’s like when LL was a newborn and they would both cry at once and I would laugh at myself because it seemed like something out of a sitcom. Like that, only with poop. Did I mention that there was a lot of poop?
But this morning was a little sad because poor DBB had a fever and just felt crappy (figuratively in addition to literally). He lay down and watched two consecutive episodes of Sesame Street. For those of you who know him, this is a clear sign of how sick he was. In general, it’s almost impossible for him to sit still (unless he’s being read to–books are magic for him). I think it’s a preemie sensory thing, actually. After all, he was supposed to be in a delightful amniotic sea the last three months of his gestation. Instead, he spent six weeks cramped up in a popped balloon and then three months being poked, prodded, shuffled and splayed. So now he’s a superwiggler. But not this morning. He was downright lazy. He had a low fever, which I ordinarily wouldn’t treat, but he was so clearly unhappy that I wanted to try drugging him to see if it helped. Problem? I had no drugs. (Well, none of those drugs. But he seemed like Xanax was the last thing he needed).
So I put out an AMB (All Moms Bulletin) to my local mama pals (the group mentioned in yesterday’s post), and several wonderful ladies offered to help me out. Ladybird, who has two kiddos of her own, dropped off the (dye-free, of course) Motrin (not Tylenol, because I swear DBB’s body can tell the difference) and wouldn’t even take my money or complain about my annoyingly precise demands. Awesomeness.
I feel really lucky to have friends I can turn to in a shitstorm. It’s what everyone wants, and it’s nice as a stay-at-home-mom who’s been in the ‘burbs for a couple of years to know that I’ve built a community of folks to whom I can turn. In a way, it’s closer to college than anything I’ve had since. My friends are nearby, and I can ask for help when I need it.
This brings me to my final mushy point before I tell more poop stories: Ask your friends for help. I didn’t know how to do this when DBB was in the NICU. So HH and I hid out in our fox hole, and were lucky that our friends knew how to help without our asking: sending six red velvet cupcakes to us at the hospital, sending a peapod giftcard so we’d remember to eat, faking reasons to come to NYC or the way Upper West so they could visit us and DBB (then Das Fetal-Baby) without making us feel pressured, writing us emails or leaving us voicemails without expecting to hear back. Lots of other well meaning people asked what they could do and we said, “nothing,” as if we had it all under control. We didn’t. We were just in such a shitstorm that we didn’t even know what we needed. I learned from that the importance of knowing how to ask for help. And I learned that friends really want to help, so that when people ask or offer, it’s ok, even a good thing, to accept. It makes both of you feel good. So Ladybird, thank you. And I look forward to returning the favor. But hopefully not during a shitstorm, because I certainly don’t wish that on you.
The highlight of today went thusly:
I was upstairs with LL trying to get her down for a nap. She finally fell asleep and I gently deposited her in her crib. When I got downstairs, I found DBB in the living room standing very still.
“I need clean socks,” he told me.
I looked at him. “You’re wearing footie pajamas. Why do you need socks?”
“I need to go poop in the potty.” I got closer, “Oh, you made poop,” I said. “Do you want to go make more in the potty?” Note: Das Big Boy often likes to ask to use the potty after he’s already done so. In his diaper. He will also tell you before he’s going to poop or pee, but if you offer the potty he simply says. “No. I want to poop in the fireplace.” And then does (in a diaper).
As we walked to the bathroom, I began to suspect what awaited me. As if she did, too, LL started to wail upstairs. When DBB and I got to the safe zone, I took off his pajamas to find that poop had indeed run down to his feet. He was less than pleased, so I comforted him as I cleaned him up and then deposited him, now quite cheerful, on the potty.
I scampered upstairs and had started nursing LL again when I heard water, or at least something wet. Oh no, I thought, is he pooping on the floor? But it went on too long for that. I started downstairs, thinking Maybe he’s washing his hands. Yeah. Maybe.
I arrived to an overflowing toilet. I tried to keep LL out of the bathroom while I grabbed towels to block the flow of water. She responded with a poop of her own. I lifted the back off of the toilet tank to stop the water from running. DBB thought it looked fun, lifted the tank lid and dropped it back on the tank such that the lid broke. As I tried to contain the poop, water, and hysteria, I tried calling HH to share the fun news from home. But he couldn’t hear me over the chaos. In an exasperated tone, as if he were the only one having a busy day, he told me to call from the home phone. So I sent him this picture with the text “And flooded bathroom.”
“That is not good,” he replied.
“I’ve noticed.” I wrote.
I put DBB in the bathtub, mopped up the bathroom, and changed LL’s diaper. She has diaper rash, of course, which I am treating with the hippie mom approach of breastmilk and coconut oil, so that when she doesn’t smell like cat poop she smells like an umbrella drink.
I think the total shitstorm count was LL: 7 DBB: 5. Could be worse, I realize.
Let’s hope it doesn’t get worse. Let’s also hope it gets better before I’m supposed to be drinking actual umbrella drinks in St. Thomas. Six days from now. Don’t hate. I’m pretty sure I got poop in my hair today.
First of all, the title of this post is intended to recall this song:
For some reason, I think this 2Pac/Snoop hit occupies a much larger place in my mental musical canon than almost anyone else in America’s. I’m constantly referencing it at mildly inappropriate times. Like when Little Liebchen gets together with a crew of one year olds and I say to the other moms, “Ain’t nothin’ but a baby party…” And they respond by politely ignoring me. Or wondering if I’ve got some chronic I might be willing to share.
Anyway, it also applies to tonight’s topic: the nudie party, which is what Das Big Boy calls the sometimes brief, sometimes extended chunk of time after his bath during which he is allowed to frolic about in the altogether. Once, during a speech assessment (which he nailed, obvs. DBB may not like to talk to other children, but he is off the charts verbal when given the chance to show off for an adult), he was asked what you do after a bath. “Have a nudie party,” he answered. The speech pathologist looked to me for clarification, or maybe to gauge how she could get me out of her office to call social services. I offered up my best kids-will-be-kids smile and my weakest explanation, then asked DBB what he did before a nudie party. Thankfully, he answered correctly and didn’t talk about his penis.
Anyway, I should probably come clean about something. I am a naked person. I believe the world is divided up into two types of people: naked people and nonnaked people (or the clotheds.) There is a third category of naked when drunk people, but I think they’re mostly repressed nakeds or freespirited clotheds. Naked people are comfortable being naked. Clotheds people are not. There is nothing remotely sexual about being a naked person. In fact, once, back before we were married, Herr Husband suggested I might wear clothes to dinner more often. “What!?” I replied, “I’m sure lots of guys would find it sexy if their girlfriends ate dinner naked!”
“But you’re not trying to be sexy,” he replied. “You haven’t brushed your hair in three days and you’re all slouched over and you’re kind of sweaty “
“It’s hot in this apartment,” I defended myself, “Hence, the nudity.”
My naked cooking (beware spattering oil–ouch!), naked laundry (yeah, right), and naked lounging earned similar levels of enthusiasm.
My college roommate and I were both naked people, although not, I recall, at the same time. When we lived in a first floor dorm room with a large bay window, this led to people occasionally knocking on our door and saying polite things like, “Um, I just wanted you to know your curtains are open and I can see you,” or “You should shave your legs.” I always thanked them as if I cared and did nothing further. I think nudity is like a booger: you tell a friend, but you don’t go out of your way to tell a stranger. And yes, I went to college in New Hampshire but they heated the holy hell out of those dorm rooms.
I also once attended a party which ended with a group of friends naked in a very small hot tub. We debated the finer points of politics and bickered about who would survive in a zombie apocalypse. It was one of the least sexual experiences of my life.
All of this is to say that I have a long history of nonsexual nudity as laziness and temperature control rather than as a way of showing off my body or some silly thing like that (I think clothes are much better for showing off one’s body, especially after one has breastfed a baby, never mind a baby with a strong right sided boob preference which has led to the sudden development of a mismatched pair, or eternal conflict, if you will. You are SO going to look for this development next time I see you, dear reader, I know you are.)
But this brings about a conversation I somewhat recently had with a group of my mom friends: at what age does it become inappropriate to bathe with one’s kid? In my case, boy kid. Herr Husband and I always had family bath with DBB until I became pregnant enough with LL that it was uncomfortable to fit us all in the tub. We treasured these family baths as a way to spend time together. And now I bathe with DBB and LL. When I shared this with my friends, a lot of them said they had never bathed with their kids. On the hippie mom spectrum, I think I’m one of the more out there ones among this particular crew. I’m pretty sure they thought my bathing with kids was as surprising as I found their never having done so. Of course, my parenting philosophy, if I were to have one, would be called Lazy Parenting (there will be a post on this). Do whatever is easiest for you (with lots of love, of course). It’s easier to bathe with a kid than to reach into the bathtub. So bathe with kids. Added bonus of contained, distraction-free time together.
After tonight’s bath, DBB had his nudie party, and LL enjoyed a brief one as well (she’s too young to be a reliable non-peer). Meanwhile, I cooked dinner in the buff (I now know to stand back). But when it came time to sit at the table, I felt a bit funny doing so with no clothes on. So I donned a Curious George toga. The kids ate dinner in diapers and HH wore his undies and a T-shirt. (It should be noted that we keep the house at 73 degrees in order for the kids’ rooms to be warm enough. Our furnace is very efficient, I promise, lest I erode some hippie cred.)
So I guess my answer to my own question is I’ll know when it’s time to stop the group baths, just like I knew it was time to put that toga on. And like I know I shouldn’t go to a naked hot tub party again unless everyone else is really, really drunk and it’s so dark that you can’t see my boobs.
Feel free to share you pro/anti-nudie thoughts in the comments!
We had a wee bit of snow last night into this morning (maybe four to five inches of light, powdery stuff), but the public school district that governs Das Big Boy’s preschool made an early call, so we had a snow day.
Das Big Boy slept in, and Little Liebchen woke me up for the second morning in a row with the sweetest, clearest little, “Mama,” and big grin.
“Hold on!” You say, “I thought you were done co-sleeping.” We are. But when she wakes up at five or six am, I bring her to bed with me, nurse her, and then she sleeps for several more hours (until 7:45 today). Yes, you can all hate on me for my late sleeping children. Das Big Boy slept until 8:30. But he gave up his nap shortly after turning two, and his sister sucks at napping as well, so don’t begrudge me my nights.
Today we frolicked in the snow, played with the awesome ball tower, and watched some Sesame Street. If that sounds too idyllic, some of us also had temper tantrums because we “hate all the food!” and suffered two time outs for sister-pushing when she was trying to horn in on our toys. And we had to shovel out because HH is on a business trip luxuriating in hotel sleep. While I shoveled, the kids played/sat (depending on age) in the snow until LL’s nose got red and then I popped them in the car until I finished. I just made it sound like I am a damsel because HH always shovels (which he almost always does), but really it’s just a challenge to figure out where to stash one’s children while shoveling. Someone should invent a heated tent or something.
This evening we went to dinner with Dr G. and her adorable wee ones. A good time was had by all (although DBB continued to hate all the food such that I had to practically feed him his pizza, which he currently wants to eat in a genteel, Bill de Blasio knife and fork fashion.) Dr G.’s daughter found the entire notion of going out late (it was 5:30) to restaurants (it was pizza in suburbia, though she’s right that it was yuppie pizza) to be akin to being a movie star.
I kept up the glam by doing the following in the span of forty minutes: changing two diapers, getting two kids in jammies, reading to the baby (Todd Parr’s The I Love You Book), nursing/singing to the baby, putting the baby to sleep, brushing the toddler’s teeth, reading two books to the toddler (Todd Parr’s The I Love You Book and Jonathan Allen’s I’m Not Scared), Facetime singing three songs to the toddler with HH, kissing the toddler goodnight, listening to the toddler briefly holler for me, cleaning three cat boxes (yes, we still have two cats which is a sad story I’ll discuss at another time), and taking our trash and recycling out. At this point I felt more rock star than movie star. (Although it’s been pointed out to me that calling someone a rock star when they accomplish something challenging is silly. We should call them something more heroic. So I felt like a nurse or a teacher or a single parent). Then I pumped while eating ice cream and watching Modern Family, which really did feel like something movie stars would do.
Ten things you need to know about our new pets:
1) They were praying mantises, not grasshoppers.
2) They are all dead.
3) I am a bonehead, because I’m pretty sure identifying bugs in your home is one of the reasons the gods invented the Internet. But you, dear readers, are either not entomologists or are very polite or are lazy blog commenters. Or maybe my photos were blurry.
4) Praying mantises do not eat lettuce.
5) Praying mantises eat other bugs. The nymphs love fruit flies. In summer, our house is a fruit fly aviary. But this time of year, nary a drosophilid can be found.
6) Praying mantises will cannibalize their siblings, which means putting them in a box together was a mistake. I did think they seemed young to be humping each other… But eating their siblings is even worse. This is not a moral statement on incest vs. cannibalism in humans. Only in bugs. Also, apparently ours were squeamish about the whole cannibalism thing, too, because it didn’t seem to work (see item 2).
7) When Das Big Boy was shaking the box, which we had labeled grasshoppers at his we request, we told him to be kind to the praying mantises. “Don’t punch them,” he nodded. Glad our lessons on kindness are getting through. So instead we starved them. Pretty sure we went off message.
8. When they started dying off, I thought the cardboard box in which they’d initially been housed was desiccating their fragile forms. It seemed logical because the boxed insects were dying while the free range ones we found around the house were still alive. Let this be a lesson to you on the values of free range livestock. Herr Husband and Ms. Inkling thought I was wrong (and nuts). They were right. But anyway, I tried a Glasslock because it seems logical that the pinnacle of food storage safety would also make for a good insect habitat. (Das Big Boy knows the word habitat from this Sesame Street segment. Worth watching, I swear…)
9. Herr Husband conducted some basic research and discovered that they were praying mantises. We thought for a while about how we could save the survivors. We planned to go to Petco to see about getting fruit flies (sold there as lizard food, apparently; also, this is a sign of how invested we were in these bugs). It was too late. All of the mantises were dead. Long live the mantises. Except there are no mantises.
10. I’m bummed. Had they lived, we could have released them into the yard where they would have demonstrated their loyalty to us by eating all of the mosquitoes. Now I’m going to have to continue with my organic spraying program, Simply Safer Premium Lawn Care (which is actually a good deal–$270 for the five-month season–and very effective. But still. Homegrown praying mantises would have been so much cooler).
We have apprised Das Big Boy neither of the fact that we totally biffed the insect identification or that said insects are dead. He does know that they “didn’t like the first box” and he seems to believe that “the grasshoppers are back in the grass” and “the grass is under the snow.” This seems like a lovely metaphor and like it will suffice for now.
Sidenote: we have promised Das Big Boy a fish tank for when he stops using diapers. Let’s hope Herr Husband and I up our game for that one.
I’m not going to reemerge with excuses, or pledges, or, god forbid, resolutions. Or double god forbid, pregnancy announcements. Instead, I’m just going to tell you about the Husband Hausfrau Christmas tree. “Wait!” You’re thinking, “I was pretty sure that the Hausfraus were Jews.” Allow me to refer you back to this post. “Wait!” you’re thinking, “Where the *hell* have you been?” The suburbs, mostly. The Cape and Vermont for vacations. Wisconsin and Florida and Connecticut for weddings. Target and book stores and toy stores (every time we leave the house, Das Big Boy informs us that he wants to go to a toy store) and Whole Foods and Trader Joes (in a seemingly interminable grocery store loop where I can never quite remember to buy everything we need so I wind up returning to the other grocery store to buy eggs the next day, but don’t buy spinach, so I have to go again the subsequent day to buy that and so on until I die.) “Wait!” say the six of you who aren’t my Facebook friends, “what do your kids look like now?”
Anyway, remember how last Christmas I was on bedrest and couldn’t do things like help pick out the Christmas tree? So this year, I was a bit of a holiday freak. No, I didn’t get my cards out on time, but that was the fault of Tiny Prints, who failed to send me sufficient specially sized envelopes. But I did insist we go and cut down our own tree. And not just any cut-your-own tree. An organic cut-your-own Christmas tree from Hopestill farm, which has been in the same family since the nineteenth century. We’re talking hardcore, aggressive crunchy-yuppie (cruppie?) tree. (But only $55! A veritable steal!).
It should be noted that in the past year, I’ve only become more of a disciple of A Green Slate. Such that La Gigi and Herr Husband make fun of me. And when I do something that’s not particularly toxin aware (removing old toenail polish in the car en route to a wedding, for example), they ask if Dr. G would approve. (Dr. G, I know you’re reading this. I promise: my kids were not in the car.) So anyway, I was feeling pretty awesome about the organic tree.
The thing is, if you’re going to get a super natural tree (not a supernatural tree, which would be even better and might enable you to chat with dead relatives or wrap your presents for you), it should look natural. After gleefully frolicking around the farm, we opted for an enormo fat bush. (Can’t wait to see what pervs that phrase turns up).
Said tree delighted us and all who came to visit throughout the holiday season. Das Big Boy actually helped decorate this year, and we enjoyed unearthing the ornaments he and Nanny Sunshine made last year. I did find the tree a bit stronger on the attack than a traditional tree. Full disclosure: I’m not sure how much fun DBB had decorating, because if you approached this tree wrong it went all stabby on your hand.
Then, on night two of the tree’s time in our home, Herr Husband and I were gazing upon it from our dining room. “It’s crooked again,” he noted. So we decided to fix it. We have a swivel straight (the second we’ve purchased since moving to the ‘burbs, but the old one would neither swivel nor straighten, so we bought a new one), but it’s not so easy to manage with huge fat tree, so we
were having some difficulties. At first I was under the tree manning the pedal, and HH was repositioning (the tree! geez!). But we were having no luck, so we switched jobs. And then the fully decorated tree fell over and nearly killed my husband. The children, oddly, seemed unfazed. But I suppose a tree with untouchable toys all over it in one’s living room is enough of a surprise that its falling over doesn’t really up the shock factor. Incredibly, only one (rather ugly, previously broken) ornament broke, and we stood the tree back up, finally getting it straight.
After that incident, the tree saw us happily through Christmas, affording photo ops like this:
A few days ago, Das Big Boy and I were in the living room getting ready to go out. He pointed to my leg. “And there’s a spider!” he said. I thought he was pretending (he has a very vivid imagination). Then I looked at my leg and screamed. Possibly offended, the bug sprang off my leg. “Actually, it’s a…grasshopper.” I carried it to the front porch, where it gets cold enough that our bouncy friend surely met his doom, and added, “Grasshoppers are lovely. Sorry, I shouldn’t have freaked like that.” I thought nothing more of it.
Later, Herr Husband squinted at the ceiling. “What is that?” he asked.
“Did that grasshopper get back inside somehow?” I looked closer. “Um, there are like a thousand baby grasshoppers in here*,” I pointed out. We dimly remembered removing a pod-like structure from Christmas tree while at the farm. Now we assume the eggs clung to the branches, started maturing when they hit our heat, and hatched after gestating appropriately. When we put the little critters outside they shrivel, so we’re letting them stay for now. That’s what happens when you go organic. Nature. But at least grasshoppers are better than bedbugs…
Also, the tree clearly protested being cut down in its prime. As we undecorated it, it shed just about every needle on our living room floor.
*More like eleven.
Happy New Year from the Husband Hausfraus and our new pets!
I feel like a bit of a time bomb, in part because since last night’s post lots of friends have been reaching out to ask if I’m in labor. The answer, so far, is no. In fact, I had a record lazy day. I’d planned to join Herr Husband and Das Big Boy for their trip to Target (and was SUPER excited to do so). But after yesterday’s appointment, I decided to lay low (literally), especially since Herr Husband and I have our big date night tomorrow night, courtesy of my wonderful cousin (who needs a fun name).
So while I was very sad to miss out on Target and an outing with my dudes, I compensated with a two hour nap. Yay, rest!
While at Lowes, they saw this enormous bulldozer, which Das Big Boy obviouly LOVED. When I asked him about it, he told me the window was wide open and he climbed in. This is what Curious George does in Das Big Boy’s favorite CG story. Has anyone else ever noticed what a crap caretaker the Man in the Yellow Hat is? He knows George functions like a wild toddler, yet consistently leaves him alone in places like train stations, and then acts surprised when trouble ensues. Really, dude?
Last night ‘Burban Bestie and her husband (‘Burban Buddy?–he’s a pal from high school and needs a name, too) came over for yuppie pizza. There was lots of laughing, and perhaps more discussion of my cervix than most dudes would want, but Herr Husband and ‘Burban Buddy are champs.
Tonight, we had an epic, as always, video chat with the Huxtables, who are expecting a baby in April. Again, laughter and cervical discussion dominated, although there was also time for us to bump compare and for me to boss Dr. Huxtable around about his future medical specialty. Good times had by all!
Well, based on the hour, I think we can safely say I’ll at least make it to 36.3! Huzzah!
Sweet dreams, sweet ballerinas. And thanks for all the love yesterday!
Be warned: tonight, I’m going to blog about cookware.
Yes, Herr Husband and I bought new cookware, and we’re both really excited about it. The quest for new cookware began a while ago, when Herr Husband pointed out that our pots (fancy Calphalon wedding stuff, mind you), was chipping. “It’s fine!” I countered. But then last week, a friend mentioned the evils of Teflon, and I started thinking about our pans again. Were they coated in Teflon?
A few days later, Herr Husband confessed that this renewed his worry about our cookery. This time, I was in 100% agreement.
So I reached out to A Green Slate and asked what kinds of pans I should be using. A Green Slate is a fabulous consulting outfit that assesses your home for toxins and helps you find ways to limit them. They help make substantive changes that fit into your lifestyle without costing you a fortune. And they’re reasonable and nice about it; they’re not going to make you feel like monstermom if you choose to stick with some plastic sippies.
Which is important. Because on the one hand, I really want to reduce my family’s, and especially Das Big Boy’s, exposure to evil things. After all, he’s had to fight through enough. But at the same time, before he was born, I thought I was going to cloth diaper and make my own organic baby food and never bottle feed. My life didn’t work out that way. I had to pump (through probably toxic plastic) and bottle feed my son that way. He wouldn’t eat much, but anything I made disgusted him doubly. Sweet potatoes from a jar? Delicious. Sweet potatoes I spent hours preparing? Vomit. So while I believe strongly in trying to protect ourselves from toxins, I also totally realize that not every healthy thing is going to be the right choice for every family. We shouldn’t let this sort of stuff make us feel guilty or become judging material for the mommy Olympics that some people would have you think are going on every moment of every day.
So I like that A Green Slate helps you figure out changes that work for you. I said I didn’t want to spend a ton, and they suggested I buy Cuisinart GreenGourmet, which was frankly a lot cheaper than my Calphalon stuff that starting falling apart after five years. (Apologies if you gave me the Calphalon for my wedding. It was very generous of you and was exactly what I wanted. And the chipping was probably my fault for putting it in the dishwasher. Lazy me.)
We wound up buying a twelve-piece GreenGourmet set for $190, which I thought was dang good. Herr Husband and I had forgone Christmas presents for each other to save money, so we decided to treat ourselves. The set showed up two days later, and we got free shipping thanks to Amazon Prime. Herr Husband and I were giddy to unpack the box. And dinner was made–thanks, Herr Husband–on the new cookware, which performed well. It was faster to heat, actually, than our old stuff.
Ok, this post is so nauseatingly Hausfrauy that I can’t stand it! What kind of Hipster experiences can I have/blog about while on bedrest so as to counteract this trend? Where are my nonlinear Latin American novels? Where are my tarot cards? My eyeliner and big jewelry and small dresses and big boots and disheveled hair? (Last one, check.) Does anyone have a typewriter I could borrow? Maybe I could type tiny notes and have them sprinkled throughout town as a mobile art installation. Hmmm….
I could give helpful household greening tips…but then we’d be back to my original problem.
What if I just keep up my overly lax attitude towards showering?
Apologies for my brevity (though a bit of it might have served to make our pal Polonius a tad more witty), but it’s been a fun weekend–with visitors and couch-bound parties that shall be described in detail after I have slept.
But briefly, Das Big Boy got a haircut this weekend against his mother’s wishes. What can I say? I love the 70s toddler aesthetic and hate gender roles. I also have an incredibly obnoxious desire to have my kiddo not look like a “typical suburban little boy,” whatever that means. (Apologies sorry for being such an a-hole). Presented below is the haircut. I don’t hate it. The back and sides maintain some shag. But my biggest fear– nerd bangs–was realized. I gave Herr Husband specific instructions about nerd bangs: “Tell her I want them long, textured, and choppy,” I insisted. I sent him with a photo and told him to tell her that I was crazy and on bedrest and he was sorry for being so pushy but he’d promised me he’d say it. Herr Husband was a champ and actually honored my requests.
Somehow, like all little boys, Das Big Boy still wound up with nerd bangs. Please don’t tell him I said he has them, because I don’t want to be a mean mom. And I still think he’s the most adorable thing ever.
Also, if this is the best you’ve looked in six weeks, you probably shouldn’t critique about anyone else’s look: