Post-Traumatic Hair Cut Syndrome

"Wow, he's out cold.  How do you get him to sleep so well?"
"You traumatize him so that he exhausts himself while he's sobbing."
"Huh?"
"He got a hair cut this morning."

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This past weekend while home, Niles and I decided to take the kids to get their hair cut.  Owen's had pretty regular hair cuts since he was 9 months old while it was going to be Anduin's first.  I had kept letting her hair grow out, hoping that eventually I could just tuck her hair behind her ears.  Then again, I'm not the one at home wrestling with the tiny rubber bands the size of pencil erasers on the toddler who giggles and runs away.  Nor was I trying to trap her with my knees to put a hair clip in that she would just pull out.  Nor was I the one washing her hair again because Nutella/cottage cheese/whatever snack makes terrible styling gel.

And you would think with regular haircuts, Owen would be a natural at this.  He is not.  He has Post-Traumatic Hair Cut Syndrome.

The moment I walked into the salon, it was straight out of a cartoon.  Owen starts freaking out.  He's screaming, "No!  Go!  Go!  Go" in between chest heaves.  He actually has his little fingers wrapped around the door while I'm trying to simultaneously carry him and pry them off the frame.

Anduin, oblivious to what terror a hair cut holds, looks a little concerned that her older brother's suffering through hair cut flashbacks, but otherwise she contentedly drinks her cup of water while spilling some of it on the floor.

Then my mom hands her to Niles, who puts her on his lap so the stylist can begin cutting her hair.  That's when she realizes that something terrible is going to happen.  While she's begins to freak out, I'm still trying to talk my other toddler off the ledge using the wonders of Thomas the Tank Engine youtube videos.  This means I'm distracted and don't notice my mom giving the stylist instructions on how to cut Anduin's bangs.  What I see next is the shock on Niles' face as Anduin's beautiful, rocker chick bangs are cut... straight across... like a terrible bowl cut...

It was a scene out of my worst baby hair cut nightmares.

I may have lost it in the salon.  I may have screamed at my mother.  I may have acted less than the professional Naval officer I normally am.

And then, it was Owen's turn.  In order to prevent him from covering his hair with both hands, I literally had to pin his head across my chest and his arms against my stomach.  I rotated his taunt, ninja-esque body into various contortions as the stylist very quickly trimmed his curls and bangs so that he could see again.  He was so upset with me, he let Niles (who's normally chopped liver when I'm home) hold him and console him for the next hour.  Even excessive bribes of rides, ice cream, AND candy could not perk him up.

Maybe eventually he'll outgrow the Post-Traumatic Hair Cut Syndrome, though with my luck, it will be Anduin's fingers wrapped around the door frame.

The good news for Anduin?  That hair grows back.  The bad news for Owen?  That hair grows back.

Maybe next time, we'll try Nyquil first.

Veteran Mom = "Salty" LTJG

While at a party for a friend's child's one year birthday, I got to have an awesome Mom moment...  I was able to channel whatever skills I've attained as a mom of 2.5 and 1.5 year olds to gently rock a fussy newish born into nearly sleep.  You know, I've perfected the rocking motion, the gentle pat, the shushing sound, and I play a mean game of peekaboo.

On the way out, the Dad commented how I was a "veteran" Mom with "veteran Mom" skills.

And that's when I realized being called a "veteran" Mom of two young kids is like being called "salty" as a LTJG.  This is what I mean...  My kids are still young.  I haven't done anything super challenging yet like start them in school or fight through teenage rebellion.  Heck, I haven't even really tried potty training.  And let's be honest, celebrating birthday's for young kids is more like high fiving yourself that your child -- despite your "best" efforts -- has managed to survive another year as a generally well adjusted tiny human being.  (Do I need to mention the chef's knife incident?)  

It's just like being a LTJG.  It means that you have managed, despite some of the terrible decisions made as an Ensign, to have gained just enough requisite knowledge that the completely clueless Ensign standing next to you makes you look somewhat knowledgeable and dare I say it, "salty."

And now as a Lieutenant with my vast experience of... um... 8 years, I am finally starting to know how little I actually know, just like as a new Mom, I am starting to understand how completely amazing my children have celebrated multiple birthday's.

My Role as the Stereotypical Husband Is Set...

While checking my email a couple of weeks ago, I noticed there was an "order confirmation" from FTD.com.  Annoyed that someone would be so brazen as to steal my identity and account information AND then to not even bother changing the email address, I immediately opened it up to see where this imposter lived.

Turns out he lives in my house in Maryland.

And he was ordering a surprise bouquet of flowers to send to my work for our eight year anniversary.

My anniversary ---  CRAP!  The next day was my 8 year anniversary, and not only had I forgotten, I had completely forgotten while my super sweet husband had not only remembered, but he had planned ahead.  I would find out later that he had even called the quarterdeck of SWOS to make sure that the flowers could be delivered there.  He had called my roommate to double check.

In short, I had completely assumed the role of the terrible, stereotypical husband.  No last minute trips to the jewelry store here...  At least, my husband hasn't assumed the role of stereotypical housewife and demanded a diamond tennis bracelet as an apology.

He just laughed.

So next time you hear of Niles and me arguing over something pseudo-important, please remind me he has an out for remembering our anniversary while it was just another day to me.