Reluctant Cowboy

Reluctant Cowboy
Reluctant Cowboy

Saturday, August 24, 2013

I wish that I had never heard of a "spike" hairdo

 and why in the hell did I buy my spawn the blue goo? Yea yea yea... he wanted it. Yea yea yea... he looks cute as the dickens. But who knew the upkeep this mama would be facing? Oy! It's enough to turn this WASP into a yenta.

7 am: Dark thirty. "Mom, can I take a shower?"

Me: "I don't care what you do as long as it isn't here." (in the bed)

Blessed peace.

7:10 am: "Mom, is my hair dry enough to put the gel in?"

Now, it's one thing to wake up to a nude male beside the bed. It's another when it's your nude 9-yr old, waking you for the second time on a Saturday Morning (yes, I meant to capitalize that), so that you can check his hair for moisture content in preparation for gel. Gel he's going to launch into his hair so that he can look suave and debonair for THE DEER LEASE. Yes. Making my day. If he keeps this up I'm not wiping the excess blue gunk off his forehead like I did yesterday. He can look like a goober for all I care.

"Yes." At this point, unless you've met Mason, you don't know that he has the tenacity of a bull tick and to make him leave me alone I have to answer in the affirmative because to tell him the truth, which I tried to the day before, would only cause an internal cosmic quake the size of which San Francisco suffered from. Because he JUST.CAN'T.WAIT.LONG.ENOUGH.TO.DRY.HIS.HAIR. It messes up his flowwwwwwwwwwwwww.

Closing eyes....

7:11.5: "Mom, is this nickel-sized?" I open my eye to peer at the blue goo in his hand. Lying again, I say yes. It's actually more like a silver dollar size, but I really don't care. The sooner he uses up that shit wonderful product, the better.

Turning over, pillow over head....

7:12.45: "Mom. Am I big enough to use the hair dryer? Because the gel isn't working. I think my hair is too wet."

See? There is a conspiracy somewhere (and since both my parents are in heaven, I'm guessing there) that Heidi cannot sleep past 7 on Saturday or Sunday. What the heck am I thinking that I get some kind of day of rest? HA! Mason Hard was sent down here specifically to make sure that I don't rest until I'm DEAD.

I climb out of bed and follow the miscreant into the bathroom, where I pull out my fancy-dancy chi blowdryer with the diffuser attachment that he is exTREMELY enamored of. I start to dry his hair and this brings on the wiggly shivers. He cannot hold still. And you know why? Granny? Anyone? Because the way that I'd turned him to dry it that was the most convenient for my arms was with his face turned AWAY from the mirror and he couldn't watch himself every.damn.second.

"That's enough! That's enough! I'll comb it now." I started to comb it and was given the hand. "I'll do it. *I* know how."

Combine this charming behavior with his loud, piercing DADDY! screams and you'll find me looking for the Kahluah to put into my coffee at 7:30 am.

Yea for hunting season! I love it when the hubby sighs and talks about how hard it is to deal with the Mighty M, who's already requested to use someone's shower at the deer lease so he can wash and MOUSSE out there. Can't WAIT for that story......