Oh, the humanity...

All right, everyone, listen up. I haven't posted in a while. There's just something about having 5 kids home for the summer that puts a major crimp in my blogging-world style. Three of those kids have been back in school for 3 weeks, and yet, here sits my poor blog, abandoned and alone.

And so it may have continued to sit, had not recent incidents in our otherwise placid, uneventful lives nudged me back to the computer keyboard to document a most unfortunate occurrence. Of course, I'm talking about... a haircut! An ugly, defacing haircut, the kind of haircut dreaded by self-respecting mothers and given by and for children! Sometimes other children's heads are the target of the ill-wielded shears, but, more often, calamity falls upon their very own monstrous heads. Such was the case in our home last night. I sincerely apologize to any of our dear neighbors whose windows may have been shattered by my ear-piercing shrieks. Once you've seen the results of my middle son's encounter with the clippers, either here in photos, or up close and personal, you will surely, dear family and friends, confirm the necessity of such deafening screams.

And so, without further explanation, I present to you... Quentin's Reverse Mohawk:

Oh, yes, little clipper monster, hide your face in shame.

Actually, it'd be better if he were ashamed, instead of proud! Because, let me tell you, he was really angry with me when I informed him that I would now have to cut the rest of his hair to match the jagged furrow he'd created. "No, Mom! It'll look DUMB!" Yes, he actually said those words. Add to that my usually reasonable husband, who agreed that this kooky kid should leave his hair the way it was, and you can feel my pain. But, fortunately, my family subscribes to the "When Mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy" credo, and the kid got a haircut.

We both cried during that memorable haircut, my offspring and I--I at the loss of his shiny locks and disturbing parade of irrepressible mental images (boot camp, concentration camp, neo-Nazi hate rallies...); he at the untimely loss of such a cool 'do. Yes, I repressed his self-expression and imposed on him my version of normal and acceptable, but, come on, wouldn't you have done the same?!?! He's six! Totally incapable of making any decision more important than what to eat for breakfast! Back me up here, people!

And so, this morning, my darling Q-ball (I never thought that nickname would be so aptly suited to him) headed to church looking like this:

Thank goodness hair grows rather quickly (about half an inch a month, according to howstuffworks.com and various other websites I checked out last night), so this episode will be only a(n unpleasant) memory in about 4 weeks....

Say cheese...

I've got lots of candid shots of my kids, but not very many more formal, posed pictures of all of them together. And so, it's time for me to get out the camera, dress all the kids up, pose them somewhere nice and green in the yard, and attempt to take their picture. I don't mean to be melodramatic, but this prospect has me all nervous and just a little scared.

I used to get their picture taken in a studio, but it's gotten to be too much of an ordeal. First, you have to pick a time to go when it's not anyone's nap time, then you have to get them all dressed and make sure they don't soil their clothes, then you have to do their hair all cute and not let them mess it up, and then you have to drive at least 30 minutes away to the nearest studio (that I can afford). Do you know what can happen during those 30 minutes? Well, a lot, apparently. Then, when you finally get into the studio, you have to get all the kids to look at the camera, smile, keep fingers out of their own and each other's facial orifices, and be still--all at the same time. Those poor little photographers are completely wiped out by the end of the session and get a weird, crazed look in their eyes and a whole-body twitch. I'm sure they're seriously rethinking their career choice or thanking heaven above they're only doing this till they graduate from college.

I have a very talented sister-in-law (Sarah, I'm talking about you) who is a great photographer. I've considered asking her to take their picture, but I treasure her too much to risk losing her friendship over this.

And so, I'm left with only one other option: taking their portrait myself. I'm planning on doing it this Sunday after church. That way, they're already dressed and their hair is already done. I'm writing about it now because I need some time to get psyched up for it.

I'll post the results of our photo shoot next week, but for now, please enjoy this lovely photographic progression of shots taken for Father's Day last year.

Selective independence

One frequent struggle I have encountered in my parenting endeavors is children who whine, "But I can't dooooo it!" when asked to accomplish a task around the house. Now, mind you, I'm not asking them to change the oil in the car or re-wire the house.
It's just astounding to me that the following exchange can occur:
Me: "What're you doin'?"
Child: "Oh, just makin' myself a Monte Cristo sandwich with a side salad of mixed greens and fresh crudites."
Me: "That's great! When you're done, how 'bout we go clean up the playroom together?"
Child: "But I can't doooo it!"
Of course, the preceding example is an exaggeration, but only a slight one.
Where's my Michelle Duggar handbook? I need to figure out how that woman gets her kids to do their chores (without yelling, spanking, or threatening bodily harm).

You can't tear the pages out of a blog, can you?

So I've jumped on the blogging bandwagon. I'm not really sure how the blogging world works, and I don't necessarily have anything particularly novel or interesting to say, but I figure maybe this will get me to keep some sort of journal. So even if no one else ever reads anything I write, it's just fine, because at least I can print out the things that I blog about and save them for my posterity. Heaven knows how little this poor, deprived posterity presently has to read from me...

I've never been a diligent journal-keeper, with maybe one exception. When I was about 12 and living in France, I received a little diary (with a lock and key! Like, how totally fresh is that?) as a birthday gift. I wrote regularly in that little book. It was a great record of the friends I had and all the great trips we took all over Europe. Totally worth keeping, right? Well, one of my dear children found this cute, little book, and thought it would be great for his/her own use. The only thing keeping the book from being absolutely, completely perfect was the writing on a few of the pages. "Not really a problem," I imagine this child thinking. "I'll just remove those few pages, and this book will be as good as new!" I'm sure my reaction upon finding the pages--each in about 3-4 pieces (kids don't have the manual dexterity needed to cleanly rip pages out of a book, don'tcha know)--can be justified.

Why, oh why couldn't this beloved child have chosen my other journal, the one from high school, to hijack? The few entries I did make in the journal of my adolescence are embarrassing, hyper-emotional drivel, and the only reason I haven't burned it is the deeply-rooted belief that YOU MUST PRESERVE YOUR HISTORY--all that "turning the hearts of the children to their fathers" business we learn in Sunday School. But, come on, really, do my kids and grandkids really need to read the really bad poetry I composed as an awkward, angst-driven teen? I swear the only time I ever wrote in that journal was when I was oh-so-depressed. Does that melodrama really need to be preserved for generations to come? I think not. Then again, maybe my posterity would be grateful to me for giving them a good laugh ("Great-Granny was kind of a dork, wasn't she?").

So, anyway, I hope I can write at least a few things worth reading. And if I manage that, hopefully none of my kids will figure out how to delete them!