Big giant head


In Other News

Baby's first haircut happened on Saturday. We've talked about it in the past but I've been too chicken. She'll be three in March and until Saturday morning had hair that we both agreed made her look like a feral child. Unless it was pulled back it was in her face. Wild and curly-boingy ringlets as I like to call them. But it's the most beautiful hair. A curl that would be impossible to replicate. A color I pay dearly to try and replicate. But I decided it was time to tame those wild locks.

On a complete whim I called the hairdresser Saturday morning. She had time: if I could get Zoe in within the next couple of hours the deed would be done. I made the appointment. Since there's a $25 cancellation charge on Saturdays, I was committed.

The entire event was immortalized with both still and video cameras. (I relived the entire experience again with Chuck -- still asleep on the couch -- when I got home from our appointment.)

My toddler is a beauty junky. She loves makeup and has been to the hairdresser with me many times. She's a girly girl and in that tradition took immediately to the pampering.

I didn't think it was possible but she's even cuter now than before the haircut. Took about 1 inches off the back-just enough to even it out. But the big change was the bangs. Now she has some. They accentuate her eyes and her hair is finally, for the first time in two years, out of her face.


Hack, hack, cough, cough, wheeze. I'm dying here, kids, the flu's got me. I wanted to do an entry for you, honest I did, but I just can't. Fortunately, my lovely and supportive wife Beth (and check out her last graph to see just how supportive she can be) stepped up to the plate for me. The 'stake's all hers today.

Monday - January 4, 1999
Reversal of Fortune

You're all hearing from me again, much sooner than anyone could have anticipated. What precipitated this? A reversal of fortune . . .in the immune system game of roulette.

As previously reported, our little portable petri dish is doing her part to keep Kimberly-Clark in business as we've been through more tissues in the last six months than in the last six years. In the past Chuck was the one to get every dread disease while I was sympathetic but healthy. Then the worm turned and I was getting every cootie our little cutie brought home while Chuck was blessed with a healthy constitution. Well, the worm has come full circle and Chuck's down for the count. In a big, bad, aren't guys the worst when they get sick, kinda way.

The petri dish has an ear infection (only a mild one) and the green snots and is coughing again. But as sick as she is, as long as her fever isn't raging she's bouncing around the house and in excellent spirits. You wouldn't know she's sick. Chuck, on the other hand, has been asleep either in bed or on the couch in the family room since about noon on Saturday. His skin hurts. His head is stuffy. He feels like shit. Puleeze. Try 96 hours of labor (no exaggeration) and childbirth.

He's sick. He's dying. But it hasn't cut down on his intake of Marlboro's (though the price has skyrocketed to $3.50 a pack).

All this to say that I've been on Mommy Detail virtually non-stop since early Saturday (since it was my day to get up early). I used to think it would almost be easier being a single mom. No one to have to negotiate with and compromise with (I'm not good at sharing or compromising). One person. All my way. Not too shabby. But. . . when your two year old refuses to listen to you and you're tired and just want to scream it's nice to have another parent. This fact was driven home to me when that other person (who the baby actually LISTENS TO) was down for the count and there was no one to hand off to.

He's going to read this and hold it over my head now, thinking that I should be more grateful for him. I guess I should be but I probably won't be.

Chuck informed me late this afternoon that he's done being sick. This is a good thing since last night I informed him that he's out of sick time. Clearly I was done with him being sick before he was.

Questions? Comments? Commiseration? Write to me!


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Copyright © 1999
Chuck Atkins