I have been neglectful in my reporting, dear ones. On June 28, 2011 The Precious ceased to be an only child. Lump is a lovely little boy. He is already smiling and cooing and doing his best to catch up to his older brother. I know that it seems that we are favoring one child over the other when we call one Precious and one lump, but I assure you that is not the case. While I was helping out with the baby when he was first home Boppy asked me how he was doing. “Well, he’s kind of a lump. He eats, sleeps, and poops. He’s kind of a lump.” Well for Boppy the name stuck and he’s been lump ever since.

Lump is doing a few more tricks now. He’s quicky becoming a real boy. We know that when he gets hungry you have 24 retro seconds to feed him. Retro seconds are the number of seconds you should have gone back in time to make sure he stayed happy. Lump loves retro seconds. He stiffens up all over when you change his diaper. His mother says that he is like a horse that swells when you put the saddle on. I’ve decided she’s right. He has a killer smile, but sometimes he’s looking off in the distance when he smiles. Unseen objects are apparently incredibly humorous. It freaks me out a litte. But all in all, he’s a beautiful healthy baby that (just like The Precious) keeps us giggling those slightly unhinged grandparent giggles.

There’s a certain degree of insanity that comes with being grandparents. We have accepted ours with grace and aplomb. Anyway…we like to think so.

I have once again agreed with myself that I should begin blogging again. Since I am very rarely wrong, here I am. I was thinking about how long it has been since I actually wrote and what has happened since then. Oh, where to begin…

Picture it…a week before Christmas 2010. I awaken…14 steps and 15 feet were between me and my morning coffee. On any other day that wouldn’t even be an issue, but on 12/18/2010 it was huge. I remember the stairs, and then I remember being at the bottom of the stairs with my left foot behind me on stair 11…and it was NOT right! I’m home alone (the Bopster is in Kansas City) and I drive stick, so I decided to call my eldest. Walking to the phone was a bit of a trick….okay, crawling to the phone, but I managed. He couldn’t take me, but told me to try the non-vag daughter. Don’t ask me why (in retrospect it is insane) but I had her take me to the podiatrist. Yup…not the ER not the family doctor…the podiatrist. Long story short, broken tibia *distally”, ruptured tendon, pulled ligaments, and strained muscles, weeks in a fracture boot. I really don’t remember much about Christmas. Thanks super strong pain killers! In fact, other than the horrible pain, I truly recommend getting buzzed on pain killers as a way to enjoy the holidays. I spent Christmas day in the ER because my leg suddenly decided to swell to twice its normal size. We were concerned about blood clots, but apparently I just hadn’t put my foot up enough. For three months I wore that damned fracture boot. The last time I went to my rheumatologist he asked to look at my foot, and (he is a lovely Asian man with a thick Asian accent) said “not healed yet.” Like I didn’t know. I still have issues with it if I’ve been up too long or if I walk too much. Hopefully, it will heal…eventually.

There are a litany of other things that have happened since then. Some of them are definitely better than others. Trust me dear ones, I will get you caught up, but you must be patient. For now you must be content with my rotten luck and miserable winter. And if you figure out how to do that, be sure to let me know.

I’m lumping these two together because they just weren’t my favorites.  I apologize to anyone who ever reads this and happens to be to one of these locations…but I just don’t get it.  First we went to Nantucket.  Once you get past all of the limericks it just was kind of blah.  You get off the ferry (which was crowded beyond your wildest imagination)  It was a beautiful day.  Temps were in the low 80’s and the sun was shining.   The first thing you see (and I mean right there bam in your face) were the shops.  The restaurants were a little further inland…about 400 feet.  Each one had the same seafood menus.  Now I love seafood so I didn’t complain.  I had a lobster roll that could make you want to slap your mama and clam chowder.  We had to catch the next ferry for Martha’s Vineyard so we didn’t have loads of time to spend in Nantucket.  We just ambled around close to the dock.  Boppy didn’t want to rent bikes and there was no point in getting a cab when all you really wanted to do was ride around the and look at the country side.  It was here that I received my first little blister.

Then we went on to Martha’s Vineyard.  I was trying to be a trooper, but I was beginning to really hurt.  I had taken the “little bits of magic” that I carried in my brand spanking new prescription bottle and nothing much was diminishing the pain at this point so I was becoming a bit of whiner.  Boppy was on a mission to see the two light houses on the island.  I love light houses too so I decide I would put on my big girl panties and blah blah blah.  After we had gone around one circular part of the island and come back without seeing lighthouses I was beginning to wonder.  Then we took off in the other direction and about two miles down the road I was sensing there would be no lighthouses on this tour.  We went back into the busy area to find some dinner.  After we were seated (and there was a bit of a wait) we were told that they were a cash only restaurant.  Super…we don’t have cash.  So Boppy gets up and goes to an ATM (located conveniently just across the street) gets cash and comes back while I’m at the table waiting.  We get through eating and realize that we have about two hours to wait before we can get on our ferry…and we’ve pretty much done everything that we can do in the small circle of area that I can walk.  We finally end up sitting on an old bench and waiting for the ferry just like the 70 year old that I feel I am.  The ferry finally comes and we got off in a totally different area than the one we boarded at.  So now we have to hike halfway around the port to get back to our car.  Which, it turns out, we parked in a no parking area that was outside of the ferry authority.  So we had to walk all the way around the ferry terminal to get to our car that thankfully hadn’t been ticketed or booted.  It was a long drive back to the hotel.

I just caught Boppy looking over my shoulder while I was typing.  “You didn’t like Martha’s Vineyard and Nantucket?”  I’m a little surprised he had to ask.  Did he think I was just whining for my own benefit?  I answered him as truthfully as I could without hurting his feelings.  “They weren’t my favorites.”

 

 

Boppy was dying to see Provincetown.  He had been there many years before, and wanted to go back even though it wasn’t really along the way.  We arrived just about dusk.  The “hot spot” of the area was about two blocks of happening.  Crammed into that space were restaurants, bars, and shops.  I consider myself to be a very liberal person and I have never been in a place like this one.

It was a gay little town…a very gay little town.  Boppy and I were in the minority being one of only a handful of heterosexual couples.  The same sex couples were very tolerant of our hand holding and touching.  We were careful not to be blatant.  There were lots of transsexuals moving around, and  more than just a few drag shows.  I loved it all, and was mostly unfazed by it all…that was until I walked by a window that had a male mannequin dressed in a butterfly costume perched in a sex swing!  Now listen, my dear ones, this little ol’ Southern Baptist raised Arkie nearly fell off her carefully manicured toes!  I was laughing so hard I nearly fell over a drag queen coming out of the Cock and Bulls bar.  (I had to take a picture of that one!)  So many jokes to make, so little time…but thank God life provides!!  We had finally settled down a little and were walking to The Lobster Pot to have dinner when we were swept off the street by a police siren.  I couldn’t resist, “Oh Lord, someone’s been rear ended!”  Boppy didn’t miss a beat, “that’s gonna be one busy cop!”

When we got to The Lobster Pot we had an hour’s wait.  They gave us one of those little vibrator things that restaurants use (get your mind out of the gutter).  We were sitting out on the little patio playing with our vibrator, when we became acquainted with a little old lady sitting next to us.  She had come with her son and his family.  She said they make a yearly sojourn.  They own a home in Provincetown that they visit in the summer.  They had just been to The Lobster Pot the night before but the grand daughter wanted a dessert she hadn’t gotten, and so they came back just for the dessert.  They still had the same hour wait we did though.  She was telling us how over the years there had been more and more “regular” families showing up in the summer.  She said there would always be oddities though, “Why just last week a woman washed up on the shore.”  We expressed our concern, to which she responded…”not to worry.  She sobered up, at least until the next time she ties one on and washes up on shore!”

True to form, Boppy literally parked as far as humanly possible away from the action.  We walked probably 3 miles to get to the scene of the crimes…and I wasn’t very happy at the time (plus it was a lot cooler than I expected it to be) but it was totally worth it!  Yay, Provincetown!!!

I survived.  There were four days of hell involving so much pain that I’m not sure I really saw all of the interesting things Boston had to offer…but I’m alive.  And there were days I wasn’t sure I would be able to say that.

Let me begin by saying that Boston was experiencing record heat.  It was 95 degrees.  Now I’m not minimizing 95 degree heat…it was excruciating…but a record?  And there was little to no humidity.  It seemed cooler than Arkansas, but I wouldn’t be out in Arkansas unless I was in my pool.  However; travelling with Boppy is no vacation.  We needed to see and do everything Boston had to offer, and we needed to do it on foot. 

Going into this trip my pain level was somewhere around a 6.  I am on new meds and I was armed with a new pain medication which is supposed to ease the pain without causing drowsiness.  It worked, thank God, and I was taking it by the handfuls.  We were not wearing pedometers, but Rob estimates that we walked 10 miles on day one.  Because he kept getting lost, and he was leading the way.  Believe me I was way in the rear.  Then he would decide there was one particular thing he wanted to see, and that it was just a few feet away.  When it wasn’t he would tell me, “it’s just over here…just a little further…I’m sure it’s just around the corner, over the hill, past this intersection…”, whatever bullshit line kept me walking.  So I walked, and walked, and walked.  One freakin’ day he walked me all the way across Boston and into Cambridge to see the USS Constitution.  I barely made it there and was actually begging God to let me make it…I was bargaining like an m’er f’er…then we got up to the entrance and it was closed.  Seems they aren’t open on Monday.  This was our 15th anniversary trip, and I seriously considered killing my husband.  He was smart enough to ask the Marine at the entrance if there was a quicker way back.  Turns out there’s a ferry that takes you from one port to the other…for about a buck and a half.  You know that expression, ” if looks could kill.”  Well seriously!

A vacation with Boppy just isn’t complete without a few blisters.  I currently have three.  You see it’s not a sprint…it’s a marathon.  We need to see everything, eat everywhere, and walk everywhere.  He doesn’t like driving in cities he’s not familiar with…and I understand that, but shit…have you ever heard of cabs, ferrys, and things of that nature?  I was sitting in our hotel with my TENS unit on my hip, an ice pack on my ankle, and three bandages on my toes.  He looked at me and made a little kissing noise.  Just then the phone rang.  He looked at me and said, “You gonna get that?”  Everyone always comments on what a patient man he is.  I’m assuming that they mean I’m not easy to live with…well let me tell you…he’s not the only patient one in our marriage.

Well…Boston is behind us.  We are currently in Manchester, New Hampshire.  There doesn’t seem to be a lot of walking during this leg of the tour.  Thank God for basic training or I  never would have made it this far in the trip.  By the way…these blogs will not necessarily be written in chronological order.  They will be written in what I feel is the order of importance.  I am, after all, in charge of at least this part of my life.

Boppy and I are on vacation.  We are currently in Morgantown, West Virginia.  For the next 17 days we will be traveling all over New England.  Today we went to the Kentucky Horse Park.  This is a working horse farm.  It has a museum, lots of exhibits, and it is the burial site of Man O’War (I think that’s what I read).  While we were there we saw an exhibit on Arabians.  I created my own Arabian and followed her throughout the museum.  Her name was Dalia.  I will readily admit that this exhibit was for elementary students but I could give a rat’s.

Now normally I don’t notice the people around me, but there was a very Northern lady behind me, and apparently she had never heard of horses before.  All through the exhibit she announced in very loud, nasal tones…”Oh my God!  I didn’t know that!” By the end of the exhibit I truly believed that the sum total of all that she knew could be etched on the head of a straight pin.  Even walking away I could hear that voice.  It was like nails on a chalkboard.  I kept looking over my shoulder to make sure she wasn’t going to attend the same exhibit we were headed to.  My loving, but apparently oblivious, husband looks at me and says, “what?”  “I’m making sure that stupid Yankee isn’t following us.”  “What are you talking about?” “You didn’t notice the fingernails on the chalkboard voice that was echoing through the Halls of Horses exhibit?”  “No.” 

I’m pretty sure I’ve figured out how our relationship has lasted so long. 

They have chosen to put The Precious in a pre-school soccer.  Listen once again dear ones…a soccer league for 3 year olds.  Now The Precious knows that a soccer ball is for kicking.  He kicks it until it slams into something and then he raises his chubby little arms and shouts, “score!” like he’s Pele.  Does he have any business in a league?  I don’t think so.

Here’s the thing…The Precious is not a day-walker.  He does not appreciate the sun, nor does he want to be out in it.  He was really excited the other day because, “the nasty sun is gone!”  He wears his mother’s huge sunglasses in the morning to go to daycare and he wilts like a hot house flower if the sun has the gall to shine on his face in his car seat. His favorite room in our house is the one without windows.   Precious….definitely….soccer tot….???????????

He’s had soccer practice three times.  The first one was spent primarily on the sidelines drinking Gatorade.  When I told him he had practice a second time he said, “I already had soccer practice.”  Well, they took him back again.  I didn’t speak to his Dad after that practice, but I got a call today after practice.  Apparently Ferdinand just wanted to shield his face from the sun while sitting on his ball, and pull some flowers along the way.  At one point the coach accidentally tapped him with a soccer ball and The Precious told him that he had indeed been hit.  This coach of toddlers (3 and 4 year olds mind you) told him, “Well, if you had been in the right place it wouldn’t have been a problem.”  Apparently all coaches, even those of toddlers, are asses. (My apology to coach Tony Dungee, who is the exception to the previous rule.)  The coaching incident was told by his father, who apparently no longer lies to his mother. 

I have to say, first and foremost, I have not attended a soccer practice.  However, and here you must imagine a violin playing a low and somber tune, the image of The Precious sitting on his soccer ball with his head in his hands so that the vicious August sun doesn’t blind him with pain, is just too much for me to bear.  I asked his father to let me talk to my non-vag daughter.  The conversation went something like this…”You have to take him out of soccer. He’s just too little.”  “He’s fine.”  “He hates the sun, and he’s just too little.” “He’s the same age as all the other kids.” “They don’t want to play either.  Their parents are forcing them to play too.  They are all too small.” ”Yeah, whatever.”  “Well when some brutal brat smacks him in the face and breaks his nose and he’s never as cute as he is right now don’t come crying to me.” “Okay.” ”My future (I’m guessing) daughter in law would never put my potential grandchildren in toddler soccer.”  “She’s a pussy.”  “Well I’m not a meddling mother.  I’ve said my piece and I’ve counted to three.”  “Fine.”  “Get my son on the phone.”  (I can hear The Precious laughing in the background…I tear up a little thinking about the tiny little crutches he’s probably going to be walking on soon.”  My son: “Hello.”  “She says he’s fine.” “Yeah, she’s mean.”  “I told her I don’t like it.”  “So did I.  What do you want me to do?”  “Well, he’s your son too.  Nut up or shut up.”  “But I’m afraid of her.”  “You take him to practice…just don’t take him.”  “The coach has her number not mine.”  “Lie.  You’ve lied to me your whole life.  It’s never bothered you before.  Lie…this is what marriage is about.  Lie your ass off.”  “I’m too afraid.  She controls all the bank accounts and pulls down more a year than me.”  “Well…I’ve said my piece…I’ve counted to three.”

It’s lucky for them that I am not a meddling, buttinski, Mother-in-law who tells them how to raise their child.  They are fortunate that I only gently guide, and quietly give my opinion only when asked.  I would never over step my bounds, but someone should tell them that 3 year olds are too little to play soccer.  For God’s sake, the uniform is even too large.  It’s soccer!  It’s not even a real sport!  Hell, they should know he’s gonna play football…for the Colts.  It’s just a given.  Now, I’ve said my piece…and I’ve counted to three…

 

***This blog is very graphic.  If you are squeamish, put on your big girl panties and deal with it.

Menopause sucks.  Of course I finished it in like two minutes, but prior to that I had four solid years of fighting the symptoms.  Recently my doctor prescribed Miss Puss a tiny little pill to take every other night.  It made all the difference in the world.  Miss Puss is like a whole new person.  She has that old spring in her step that she used to have.  She isn’t throwing me into flashes of heat.  (See what I did there my little ones.)  She’s alive in the boudoir.  She’s back to her old self.  I’m so happy for her.  This is the one prescription that has me doing my happy dance all the way to the pharmacy.

Last Friday I tripped the light fantastic into my favorite pharmacy.  I had ordered my prescription for our upcoming trip and went to pick them up.  One of my prescriptions was for vagifem.  As my pharmacist was ringing me up, he pulled me aside and said that he had a problem with one of my prescriptions.  Wouldn’t you know it would be with Miss Puss’s.  “This prescription has been discontinued.  I have five left in my dispensary and I’m giving them to you, but that’s it.”  It was 6:00 o’clock.  My doctor was closed.  I am leaving on Monday…and I can feel Miss Puss’s claws finding their way back into my conscience.  Now on the one hand, I don’t want to be taking any medication that might have horrific side effects.  On the other hand, I really like feeling normal and keeping Miss Puss happy.

I ask Pharmacist if a prescription is on the market that works the same way and has the same effects.  “Nope.  I don’t know why they have discontinued it, but it’s the only thing of it’s kind on the market.  I will call your gynecologist on Monday and see what she says.”  Well, that’s just great since I’m leaving on Monday and even if I could get a new script it would be impossible to get a recurring prescription filled at another pharmacy.  Well, I took a deep breath and said “Well, this is going to be a great vacation for the next ten days.  Then I’m gonna be bitchy and Boppy is gonna be cranky.”  “I’ll see if I can call her after hours number.” (Sometimes letting Miss Puss do the talking works).  In a few minutes he comes back.  He looks sort of sheepish, but not completely defeated.  “I got ahold of her, and she said that this had only been discontinued in the dosage you have been receiving.  She prescribed a lower dose that you will take more often.”  “Great so now I’m going to be stuffing MIss Puss full of pills on a daily basis?  What’s wrong with this picture?  Can’t you call your other pharmacies and see if they have it in the dosage I receive?  You have 6 other pharmacies…get on the phone!” (Sometimes letting Miss Puss talk is just embarrassing.) Now Pharmacist (whom I count on for my well being) looks more than a tad embarrassed.  “I can’t do that.  I really shouldn’t even be gi ving you the five I have, but they’re not going to do me any good.”  “Get her on the phone for me.”  He rushed to get that phone…anything to get me off his butt.  The phone rings twice.  “Hello.”  “Dr. P this is Emmy.  I’m going on vacation for 19 nights and Miss Puss is out of medicine…and Pharmacist won’t give me more than five.  I don’t think this is the best time to be changing meds.”  Insert a very brief pause…and then…”Meet me at the office in twenty minutes.  We have samples.”  You see she has talked to Miss Puss before…she is Miss Puss’s doctor, not mine.

I now hold in my hand twenty-three vagifem pill inserts in my possession.  Our vacation will be fabulous.  What comes after that is anyone’s guess.  At least for the next 46 days Miss Puss and I will be as one.  If she goes Sybil after that I am not to blame.

 

 

Boppy and I play slug-bug.  If you have been living under a rock for the last century, slug-bug consists of smacking the person next to you when you see a Volkswagen Beetle.  There are a few rules…these are mostly made up by me, but nonetheless there are rules.  Recently the Volkswagen company released a series of commercials that would lead one to believe that it is okay to shout out the color and smack someone if you spot any of their vehicles.  This is just not true.  To play slug-bug you must see either a VW Beetle or an old hippie VW van.  These are the only two vehicles that are sluggable.  You can’t slug for the same vehicle twice in one trip.  You can’t call “bug” until a bug is sighted.  I don’t care that the multi-colored one that is parked in the lot of the pediatric dentistry office is there from 9-5 Monday through Friday.  If you are going to slug me for it you had damned well better make sure that it is parked there.  That also goes for the Cricket VW that is parked in Fiesta Square.  You’d better see it before you call it.  If there is a tie, it goes to me.  No questions asked…my game…my rules.  If you call “bug” in error, you get smacked.  If you call “green” and it’s yellow, you get smacked.  These are the rules.  No arguing.

Well, every time we go anywhere we play slug-bug.  Annually I am way ahead of Boppy.  He has his good days though.  Yesterday we went to Wal-Mart and he beat me 6-4.  (You know the old adage about the sunshine and a dog’s butt).  We don’t hit hard.  Well, Boppy doesn’t hit hard.  We just have good natured fun.  We play the game alot and we are not always the only ones in the car as we play.  I never thought about how other people would view our little game until my mother told me a story.  It seems she and my sister were out driving one day and mother spotted a VW Beetle.  She reached over and whacked my sister and shouted, “Blue one.”  My sister nearly jumped out of her skin!  “What”, she replied as my mother laughed out loud.  “It’s a Volkswagen.  I’m just playing what Emmy and Boppy play.”  This story cracks me up.  I can just see my 79 year old mother swatting my sister because she saw a Beetle.  I can also imagine the look on my sister’s face as she got swatted just for driving down the street. 

If I had to moralize this story…I guess the moral would be, be careful of what you do because your actions can imprint others.  See, that just seems ways too gooey for one of my blogs.  I just don’t do sweet and sappy.  The moral of this story is, watch out for Volksawagens.  Because when it comes to Beetles it’s much better to be the whacker than the whackee.  Yup…that sounds like me!

The Precious has needed a haircut for quite some time.  Knowing how he behaves when his hair is cut, we have avoided this process.  At least once a week we ask, “do you want to get your haircut?”  The answer is usually said in a scream as he runs as far away as he can get….”No, I don’t want a hairtut.”  Well, last night his mother threw down the gauntlet.  “You are getting your haircut tonight.  Now, do you want it cut inside or do you want to go out on the basketball court?”  After many tears, and much denial he admitted that he would rather have his hair cut on the basketball court. 

As I was setting up all of the equipment, he grabbed the clippers.  I knew he wasn’t going to hurt himself with them.  They have a built-in safety guard.  He felt them.  He made his mommy feel them.  He was laughing about the vibration of the clipper and how much it tickled.  I asked for them back, and in return put his “superman” cape on him.  He willfully and without force climbed onto the bar stool for his hairtut.   I was foolishly thinking that this could be easy.  I was thinking he had finally gotten old enough to have his haircut without it being a totally traumatic event.  Wrong.  It was just as this sense of peace came over me that the screaming began.  “Stop it, Emmy…don’t…I don’t want my hairtut!”  At this point I have clippered half of the upper part of the right side of his head.   I am not stopping now.  He’s mommy is right in front of him shouting bribes.   “If you’re good, you can go with me to pick up some food, and then we will go to Starbucks!”  The kid loves Starbucks.  Isn’t that the Yuppy of the yuppiest thing you’ve ever heard?  For just a moment he slows down…not calms down…just slows down.  I am chasing the kid’s head with barber’s clippers.  Not an easy task.  I asked him if he wanted his mom to hold him.  “No, I don’t want my mommy.  I want down.  I don’t wanna’ hairtut!”  Now, I have decided not only to cut his hair, but to cut it shorter because I don’t want to have to do this again any time soon.  “Do you want to sit in mommy’s lap?”  “No! I don’t want to sit in mommy’s lap.  I want down!  I don’t want a hairtut!  I want to sit in mommy’s lap!”  “Quick, he wants to sit in your lap.  Now, hold him down!”  We used moves previously only seen on professional wrestling.  We used the head clamp.  We used the neck twist.  We used the ear flip.  We moved like Hulk Hogan and Randy Savage.  He had no chance.  We were a two in one tag team and he was that wimpy kid who was trying to stay in the ring with us for three minutes.  I was running the clippers over his sweat drenched head so quickly, it’s a wonder the kid still has ears.  She would point out a spot I had missed, turn his head in that direction, and I would buzz that section and move on to the next.  From beginning to end it probably took 15 minutes.  The fifteen longest minutes of my life!  When I thought I was done I threw my hands up in the air like a prize winning goat roper.  Done!!!  His mother put him down so fast I’m surprised he could run as quickly as he did.  The child ran in a couple of circles.  Then he dropped to the ground, “itchy…itchy…I’m itchy.”  His mommy is trying to take his shirt off, but he is convinced that she is going to put him back in the choke hold.  “NO!!!  I don’t want to!!”  “Hey, why don’t you jump in the pool and wash all the itchy off?”  “No, I don’t want to.”  “Why don’t we go inside and take a bath?”  “NO!!!!  I don’t want to.”   “Why don’t you shut up before I punch you in the face?”…okay, I didn’t actually say that last part.  Well, in my head I sorta did.  He is sitting on the ground and heaving with sobs.  Not really crying any more just trying to calm down and heaving.  His final battle cry is a weak, “Nose” in one breath, followed by “snot” in the second…the word under his breath is itchy, and he says it a lot.

So the Precious at least looks like a little boy.  His imperfectly cut hair is much cooler, if not stylish.   And when he took his bath, (Oh yes, dear ones.  She got him in the tub) his hair was much easier to wash.  Although, he threw a minor fit over the hair washing…it was nothing compared to the WWIII that the cutting caused.  When they left, I felt like I needed one of two things.  Tequila or pancakes.  So we went to IHOP and I had pancakes…with lots of butter, and syrup, and bacon.  I felt better…not healthier…but better.  Now, I’m not saying I will never cut his hair again.  For two reasons: 1) I truly believe at some point he will realize haircuts aren’t life threatening, and 2) He won’t always be three.  If he’s still acting like this about haircuts when he’s 13, I’m going to suggest therapy.  If not for him, for his parents….and perhaps me and Boppy.  But….here’s the trump card, when Boppy came in from golf and came into the family room to see The Precious, he looked up at him and said, “hey Boppy, do you like my hairtut?’

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