"My Mommy Cuts My Hair" Hair.

It's 4th of July. 7:33am. I've had about two sips of coffee and my blessed children are pounding native drum beats against the walls with their tiny hands. Just thought you should know.

Yesterday was a monumental day. A day that happens once every three months. It should happen more often, but the sheer misery of it keeps me from getting it done. Yesterday, I cut Aden's hair. I know this may not be a big deal for the rest of you Mommies and your children without sensory issues, but for us, it's a nightmare. I have to warn Aden for a week before we actually get down to it. The day of, he gets a warning every hour, then every 30 minutes, then every fifteen....you get the picture. Aden wants his shirt off during a haircut so that it won't get dirty, but he refuses to wear a towel around his shoulders. The spray bottle, a strangle sound next to his ears, the falling snips of baby blond hair onto his soft, pale skin, it's his own personal version of hell. There he sits, on the bathroom counter (yes, like a 2 year old), and the screaming commences. We've tried suckers, TV, computer, conversation, bribery of all things amazing and even iPhone privileges during the big event, but to no avail. The kid can't cope. He screams, cries, wiggles, throws my makeup brushes and bottles of lotion off of the counter, the boogers come, he spits all over the mirror, and eventually sits somewhat still and makes Jabba The Hut noises until we're done. Tongue out, scrunched up face, the works. For 10 minutes. 

"Blllllleeeeeeeeeeeeeeegggggghhhhhhhhhh!!!!!"

"Blllllleeeeeeegggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!"

I don't tell him, "no".  He's never in trouble for his terrible haircut behavior. I let him completely destroy my bathroom so that we can have a four year old with choppy "my mommy cuts my hair" hair. After I brush him off and he hops down, he's gone. A screaming flash, flying through the house, uncontrollably. No destination, no purpose, just pent up anger that can only be released by running like a banchie. Eventually, he tires, and comes to me to talk about it. At this point, he falls into my arms and wails about how sad he is, how he hates haircuts, and how his back is itchy. After a long, warm shower, he emerges, renewed. My boy has returned! 

Praise God.