My alter-ego has arrived. You can call her Mindy. In short,
the spirally goodness known as my hair has moved from the Shirley temple-esque
coil to more of a cooked fettuccini look. Hormones, anyone? I’m hoping that the
birth of this baby may greet the return of the prodigal curl. Until then, I’ve
picked up a few hair-smoothing tips, and am attempting the feat of actually
styling my hair every morning.
Have you ever watched a Stir Crazy popcorn popper in action?
Aside from the fact that it may be the most effective vehicle for making good
popcorn, it’s also an appropriate comparison to life’s sometimes-surprising
pace. Typical days move in a steady circle – like the calm twirling of the popcorn
rod thingy that pushes around the oil and seeds. Other days, the unexpected is
popping from all directions, and you’re just not sure where to look first. Some
might call that lack of planning. I call it life.
It’s safe to say that the last eight weeks at the
Corrigan/Conrad abode matches that of the Stir Crazy popcorn popper. No complaints
really. I mean, there comes a point where you simply have to melt some butter,
grab the salt and just enjoy the popcorn.
We’re at T minus 16 weeks, and I’m tickled to report that
only one person exists in this world who knows whether this bun in the oven is
a boy or a girl. Ah, the life of a secret-keeping ultrasound technician. I
contend it’s a girl; Adam thinks it’s a boy. Considering I’m oh-for-two in the
knowing-the-sex-of-the-baby department, I won’t be crushed if you side with
Adam on this one.
At sixteen months, Sam’s vocab abounds. Yesterday he
sneezed, and then promptly said, “Bless you. Thank you. You’re welcome.” This
is just one example of the full conversation he completes with himself on a
regular basis. Other dialogue-turned monologues include, “Here you go. Thank
you. You’re welcome.” And, “Read a book? Ok. Here we go.” Sam is almost always
enamored with his older brother, will cry if you roar too loudly with the
story-book lions, and he absolutely loves to sing. His melodies often reflect a
blend of nursery rhymes and our daily prayers. I have yet to meet another kid
who transitions from “The Itsy-Bitsy-Spider” to “Hail Mary Gentle Woman” in a single
key. I adore him.
Ken makes me laugh every day. I will admit, however, that
we’re still working through that older-brother-bossy thing. Last week he pushed
Sam over in order to acquire the Magna-Doodle. Before I could intervene with
proper repercussion, he carefully tucked the toy under one arm and said, “Here,
Sam. I’ll give you a hug.” Sam, always quick to forgive accepted the hug, smiled
and moved onto the next toy. (A plastic dinosaur with a broken head. Really?
C’mon, Sam. Bamboozled.)
How is it that a kid who still dwells on the younger side of
two has needed (and completed) a total of five and a half haircuts? Yes, half. Let’s
talk about it. Our most recent trip to the barber was nothing short of an epic
fail. I should have known we were in for it when it took coaxing (a dum-dum
sucker) to even get him to sit in the damned chair. While the barber shop shall
remain nameless, I will say that impatient grunts and scowls from our ‘stylist’
may have also contributed to the slippery-slope of the impending melt-down. After
a 10-minute battle with a penguin-painted apron, electric clippers, a few
hearty screams and some toddler tears, we walked out of the shop with a bloody
knick on the upper-left earlobe, a partially shaved head and a soggy dum-dum
stick. Ken was pretty upset, too.
Yesterday, we completed Adam’s top-of-the-line-home-haircut,
and I said to Ken, “See, Dad’s really gentle with haircuts. We should finish
your haircut so that you can be just as handsome as Dad.” Without missing a
beat, Ken replied, “No thanks, Ken and Sam don’t need haircuts.” Needless to
say, it may take a while before my sweet-but-serious two-year-old steps anywhere
near the kid shears again. I’m open to suggestions for how to remedy this. Any
ideas?
And, the story continues. Adam and I are holding our own in
the realm of responsibilities that life has laid out for us. Despite the mach
speed that my work has become, and the hilarious chaos that ensues with two
toddlers and a baby on the way, I continue to fall in love with all three of my
boys a little more every day. Life is
good. And the popcorn is delicious.
