Message From Brian

Today Mommy took me to get a haircut.

That's right. You read that correctly. Mommy took me to get a haircut. Usually, I go to the barber shop with my Dad. Getting my hair cut with my Dad is really quite enjoyable. I'm surrounded by girls all day, so it's kind of nice to kick back and listen to some "guy talk" every once in a while. I don't have enough words to join in the barber-shop conversations yet, but I can understand some stuff, and I can laugh with the best of them. Plus, it's just cool to hang out with my Dad after a long day of Barbie dolls and dress-up clothes.

But this morning, Mom told me that she was taking me for a haircut. I wasn't too happy. I stamped my little foot, shook my head, and said, "No! Daddy!" but either she didn't understand or she just didn't want to listen. She said something about schedule conflicts making it impossible for Daddy to take me this week. And apparently my sideburns were almost as long as Uncle Brendan's. To tell you the truth, I hadn't even noticed that my hair was getting long. I don't pay attention to those kinds of things.

We went to a place called "Snip-its". It's nothing like the barber shop. For one thing, I had my hair cut by a lady. I also felt pretty foolish sitting in a hot-pink chair, wearing a purple drape over my shoulders. I didn't cry or anything. I just watched a movie that seemed suspiciously like a commercial for Snip-its while the lady cut my hair. I was surrounded by hair-ribbons and scented shampoos, too. Anyway, when it was all done I got to put a card into a slot, and I got a rubber ducky for a prize. I thought it was a somewhat inadequate reward for having to sit through a haircut in what seemed-to-me to be a girls' hair salon, but I accepted it with reluctance.

My haircut is cute enough, although Mommy thought the price was outrageous. I also don't have that cool, "manly" aftershave smell that I usually have when I leave the barber's shop. Hopefully by the time I need another haircut, I'll have a few more words in my vocabulary, and I'll be able to make my needs known a bit more clearly. Short of that, I'll just need to throw a big tantrum. Next time, I'm going to the barber shop with Dad.

Dancing Shoes

Amy is the ballerina in our family. From a very young age, she made it very clear to us that she had no interest in gymnastics, "my" sport, and the sport that I foresaw all my daughters participating in. She only wanted to dance, so she spent the last year twirling and tapping in a weekly class at the Y. She had a wonderful year, made good friends, and adored her teacher, but the options were limited at the Y, so we researched local dance schools and finally decided upon a nearby facility. She begged us to sign her up for a week of summer dance camp at this school, so back in April we did just that. She spent the past few months eagerly anticipating her new experiences, and telling everyone that would listen about her new dancing academy.

But last week, as she counted down the days until camp on July 20th, she discovered something new.

"Mom, where will you be waiting while I'm dancing? Will you be out in the car or in the waiting room?", she asked.

This stopped me short. She's attended summer camps at her preschool before, so I assumed that she had been aware of the fact that camp was a "drop-off" event. I explained to her that we would be at home while she was at camp...or at Beth's swimming lessons...or doing errands. She would stay at camp for a few hours, and then we would return to pick her up.

The tears began flowing. She begged us not to leave her there. She told us that she just couldn't be left alone. She worried that we would forget to pick her up. Dan and I worked hard to reassure her, and on Monday morning Dan took the morning off from work to take her out to breakfast and then drop her off at camp. There were a few tears, but she settled in nicely.

She's having a wonderful week. She's learning dance routines, preparing for tomorrow afternoon's show, she's been making crafts, tie-dying shirts, and playing games. There have been a few more brief teary-eyed moments, but overall it's been a wonderful experience for her.

It's amazing to me to see how hard she's working. She's not following her big sister's dreams, or my dreams, of flipping around in the gym. She's my little ballerina, and she's following her own dreams.

A Lesson Learned

Even after 7.5 years and four kids, we're still learning new parenting skills each day. Yesterday, Dan and I discovered that when two of your kids wake up and say, "I think I'm going to throw up", it's best to take their complaints seriously. It's definitely not a good idea to chalk it all up to "post-4th-of-July-festivities-exhaustion", and pack the kids up to take them to church. Because if you do something foolish like this, you might find yourself frantically rushing three little girls out of the side door of the church, while sending up a desperate prayer to God to just let the kids make it outside before the vomiting begins. And then, you might just find yourself stranded in the parking lot for 30 minutes with two sick little girls and one not-yet-sick-girl, because your husband is pacing around somewhere else in the church with the baby, and he has the car keys. It makes for a very long, exhausting morning.

Thankfully, we learned our lesson. Next time, we'll set them up on the couch with some ginger-ale, and avoid a scene like the one described above. Next time, I think we'll take them a bit more seriously...