The Snowsuit

When I was a little girl, my Papa bought me a snowsuit. I wore it for a couple of winters, playing in the snow outside the duplex we lived in and learning to ski in my private lessons at Alta. (Oooo, private lessons at the posh place. Aren't I all fancy pants?)

My mom, ever the careful and meticulous one, kept it in perfect condition and every one of my sibilings wore it, too. Turns out, after 27 years it is still safely stored in the snow clothes tupperware in my parents' basement.

Today, MJ put Bug in it. I'll stop talking now and just let the pictures say the rest.


Me, November 1986.



Bug, today.

I'm getting all weirded out, and I'm not even my parents.

Laughing all the way

Hoping that your family had as merry a holiday season as ours did!

This year in particular we've held our babies close, remembering just how terribly lucky we are to have these two little sugar snaps underfoot with health, happiness, and more than enough little extras to go around.

Ready for Santa

First Christmas!

Search for Christmas PJs = WORTH IT.

We spent the holidays surrounded by everyone we love (with the exception of Elder Uncle Big, who is serving away in Fiji. Bug singing The Wise Man and the Foolish Man to him on Skype was basically the highlight of our Christmas!)

After an accidental back-of-the-head-to-the-face collision

Merry Christmas, all!

Lone Christmas warrior

With regard to the much-procrastinated buying of Christmas pajamas, which now apparently do not exist, nay, neither can they be found in any part of the land roundabout them.

Actual conversation had mere moments ago:

K: Babe. You've looked at a million places today. I'll get dressed and run to one more place before work.
P: I cannot be conquered by jammies. This is my battle now.
K: We're a team honey. We're ONE.
P: You don't want any part of this. Get out while you still can.  

Merry Christmas.

Social Realities.

If I sneezed with a mouthful of sweet potatoes anywhere near as often as this guy does, I'd have, like, half as many friends I bet.

(Picture was taken pre-haircut.)

I cut his hair again.

So the very same day I wrote this post including my questionable impulse to trim the Mister's hair--and despite Sammi's warning that he would look too old if I did--I found myself giving the baby's head of floppy hair the stink eye from across the room. And that's when I decide to just go for it. You know, one of those How bad could it really be? and C'mon, go big or go home! sort of moments that always lead to brilliant decision making.

 I'm sure the set up I had would've made every cosmetologist I know have a stroke right there on the spot: Baggins in the pink Bumbo seat munching on some crackers and me, sitting cross legged in my sweats with a pair of all purpose scissors and a kitchen glass full of water for me to dip the comb in. We were destined for success.

So the long and short of it is that it turns out he's a lot wigglier than the last time I tried this, and also he has a lot more hair now in a lot more places. Like, for example, the sides of his head. I gave it a good hearty try, but an unfortunate lunge on his part the very instant I was trimming around his little ears just might have resulted in some awkwardly high sideburns that generated some hearty laughs from a certain Daddy when he got home from work.

I offer the following items in my defense:
1. I have never been trained in the fine art of hair cutting. I'm a total amateur here.
2. It took about 4 and a half seconds for the crackers Mr. Baggins was eating to get all covered in hair, and then he got restless. Once he got restless, he really started to notice that, HEY, SOMEONE IS STABILIZING MY HEAD! WHY CAN'T I THRASH AROUND FREELY?! The obvious trauma inflicted by me depriving him of his God-given right to recklessly whip his head around brought on tears and hollering and, well, we finished up in a hurry.

Daddy mocked us both endlessly over the weekend, and today I took matters into my own hands yet again. During bath time, I sneakily picked up those orange handled scissors again and took a quick little snippity snip to the especially egregious areas on Baggins's head.

I am happy to report that with the notable exception of the sideburns (may they rest in peace) the Baggins is sporting an acceptable and quite nearly STYLISH new 'do.

Oh, and Sammi was right. It does make him look older, but so does BEING OLDER and he won't stop doing that, either.

Chimuelo

When I was in Kindergarten, my teacher had one entire bulletin board dedicated to teeth. Every time someone lost a tooth, we'd get a laminated tooth cut out with our name on it on the board. I was sort of an early tooth-loser, so my name was splattered all over that board right from the beginning of the year. Trust me, no one wants to be that braggy girl with all the missing teeth.

On a non-toothy but related note, my teacher also had a racetrack numbered 1-100 along the top of the wall, and we each had a labeled car she'd move along the racetrack based on how high we could count. Since I got all sorts of attention from adults at home (oldest child, you know) and no TV to distract me (Bug may not ever learn to count correctly, but she can sing the entire Doc McStuffins theme song, so, tradeoffs...) I could count to 100 before Kindergarten. If there's one thing that tooth board taught me, though, it's that no one likes an overachiever. I think my teacher may have been a bit suspicious of my social strategy when I abruptly stopped counting ("...fifty-five, fifty-six, I don't know anymore. Really.") but she obliged and my car stayed right in line with the pack. MEDIOCRITY IN THE NAME OF CONFORMITY. YES.

So anyway. Teeth.

Bug had, I don't know, like a million teeth by the time she was 9 months old. In the fine tradition of his father's family, Mister Baggins can't be bothered to waste time he could otherwise spend being adorable growing teeth.

His daddy calls him his little chimuelo.

 There has never been such a cute gummy gaping mouth in the history of the universe.

If he was any more scrumptious, he'd probably give me hives or something.

Daddy likes the floppy hair. I wasn't too sure until I saw that little glowing halo around his ear, which is pretty hilarious. What do you think? Cut, or floppy for Christmas?

Guess which one happened today.

Sometimes I vacuum so I can sit back in my perfectly clean house and enjoy the pretty straight lines in the carpet.

Other times, I vacuum so I can't hear the symphony of crying coming from both of my children at once.