Awkward Mom vs. Star Wars - The Empire Strikes Back

They aren't watching Empire Strikes Back, mind you. As much as the Supers are into Yoda, we are not sure they are ready for limb severing. Since Awkward Mom is using an episodic form of storytelling this time (instead of her standard long-winded run-on post that takes days to read), she is inserting subheadings to mark her place in this tale. Obviously, she is using the original trilogy, rather than the hextology we have now. We are in the major arc of the story, not the exhausting fifth act.

Only read this next paragraph if you want to go on a nerd tangent with Awkward Mom. If not, just skip to the un-italicized part.

Of course, is it truly a hextology? Since the proper order in which to watch it is 4-6 and then 1-3. (Maybe, if one is really a completest or someone stole your copies of the Indiana Jones movies or maybe you are just drunk and can't operate Netflix.) My point (and the point of most Star Wars fans with sense) is that I doesn't hate the prequels, some parts of them are quite watchable, but you lose a great deal of dramatic tension if you head into A New Hope knowing that Darth Vader is Luke's father. Knowing that Luke and Leia are twins. Knowing the true meaning behind the Clone Wars. Now, one could argue that we know this already. We have seen these movies a hundred times. They are ingrained in our psyche and infused into our mythos. Fine. That is technically true for all movies. But unless you are a droid, you still think it is kinda cool when they are trying to figure out what Rosebud is. You gasp when Dorothy opens that door onto Oz. You still think the ending of Sixth Sense is amazing. And you freak out with him when Luke screams at the end of Empire Strikes Back. No one is making me sit through 3 other movies to help me understand Dorthy's background or Bruce Willis' motivation. Heck, Orson Welles does it in one scene with Agnes Moorehead and some snowballs; he didn't need 3 other movies. Sorry, that was truly a tangent within a tangent. My point is that when I originally watched the actual arc of the Star Wars epic, I had the pleasure of watching it without having to visualize Darth Vader as a whining little child and then a crabby young man. I got the mystery, the magic, and the some other M words that mean "really really awesome stuff" without someone having to explain everything to me. And my children will too. As fabulous as Samual L. Jackson is, as cute as Ewan Mcgregor is, and as cool as it is to see a young computer-animated Yoda kick some Empire butt, I am fine with my kids thinking of that as a neat flashback within some yucky romantic stuff, some questionable alien choices, and some bad writing. (Yes, I said it, and I have heard worse, so relax. Lucas is still sleeping on his pile of money and inventing awesome stuff, my barb aside.) OK. I am done. Just think of it as my prequel to this post; unnecessary, full of nerded-out references, and completely optional.

Where did I leave you last? This is starting to feel like one of those serials where the camera cuts away just when the hero is jumping the big ravine on his horse. Which is totally appropriate because Lucas was inspired by movie serials when making Star Wars. How do I know this? Because I have listened to a lecture on the importance of serials every single time I have watched Star Wars with Awkward Dad. The lecture he is starting right now, as the word crawl starts to crawl. Super Baby must not be into it because she quickly puts her fingers in his mouth; it isn't like she won't have another chance to hear it. We settle in to watch and the children properly ooh and aah as Leia's tiny rebel ship is dwarfed by that huge testimony to the true power of the Galactic Empire. (Shivers, Readers. It gives me shivers.)The rebels run around and Super Preschooler remarks that their helmets could use a major re-design. The Supers giggle as R2-D2 and C-3PO make their bumbling appearance and that brief glimpse of Leia continues to send Super Preschooler into raptures. I swear, this princess phase is really hanging on.

OK, we have been here before, but I am starting to panic a little because you know who is coming through that door in about 10 seconds and I can't watch Awkward Dad's heart break again. I start biting my nails and nervously glancing at Super P., then Awkward Dad, then the screen, then back to Super P., then Awkward Dad, and then the screen. The tension is palpable and I swear that my heart is starting to beat out bum bum bum-bum, bum bum-bum bum....oh, you know how it goes... One quick look to Super Baby reassures me, as she is foraging for fallen popcorn and we could have Pyscho on; she wouldn't notice. Super Toddler is all but chanting "the Empire Forever," as he laughs and awaits his buddy, Darth. Super Preschooler's arm has snaked around Awkward Dad's and his eyes are darting back and forth, much like the rebels' on the screen. OK, door busts in. Here we go.

Oh, Readers. It is perfection. He gasps. He hides his face in Awkward Dad's chest. Awkward Dad pats him on the back and says "Oh, there he is!" Super Preschooler pops up and peeks at Darth through his laced fingers, just in time to see him choke someone to death. Charming. "Oh, he is so bad," he intones; amazement and horror fighting for control in his face. He clings to Awkward Dad in a way that his big 4-year-oldness hasn't allowed him to in ages, you know, like 3 months or so. Super P. turns to gaze up at Awkward Dad, and Awkward Dad smiles reassuringly and kisses him on the head. I have an uncontrollable urge to follow him into battle.

Darth stalks around the ship and we all can't look away. Super Preschooler yells at R2-D2 to hurry up and white-knuckles it, until the bad guy declares that no life forms are aboard the pod. Super Toddler seems disappointed that they didn't shoot it down. Super Baby is bobbing for popcorn between 2 cushions and my heart rate is slowly returning to normal. Awkward Dad and Super Preschooler both look about 4 years old in the flickering light of televised space. With their expressions softened in wonder, they could be clones. Good ones, that is.

The action shifts to Tatooine and Awkward Dad and Super Preschooler start an animated discussion about Jawas. Their eyes, round as saucers, troll the screen together, and I finally relax enough to rescue Super Baby from a crevice in the couch. Super Toddler has run off to get a light saber, and as I pluck a popcorn kernel out of Super Baby's hair and pop it in my mouth, I am quite content to let the empire be in charge of my evening.

Oh, don't give up yet, dear Readers! Our tale shall come to a roaring conclusion with interactive light sabers fights, first crushes, and more geeking out than you can shake a blaster at.

And no Ewoks, I promise!

Toddler Awkward Mom, about the time she first saw Star Wars.

Super Toddler, showing that he resembles Awkward Mom in many ways.

Awkward Mom vs. Star Wars - A New Hope

A long time ago (or maybe last Thursday) in a galaxy far, far away (somewhere awkward and actually just in Ann Arbor)....

When your supers are little, you dream about their futures. You hope that they inherit your stunning sense of humor and someone else's nose. You dream about all those seminal moments in their lives. Those huge milestones that you will get to share with them. First steps. First teeth. First days of school. Taking them to college. Walking them down the aisle at their weddings. And if you are awkward, more important than all the rest, the first time they watch Star Wars.

I am not even going to explain why Awkward Dad and I love Star Wars. It should be clear to anyone who has read even one entry of this blog. But really, the main reason is that Star Wars is awesome. If you don't believe this, don't tell me. I just don't want to believe that people in the world could be immune to the glorious pageantry, the ancient wisdom, or Han's grin. Just go watch it, preferably with someone under the age of 10. I believe you will be taken in before you know it. Soon, you too will be humming Darth Vader's theme and plastering your bedroom walls with Harrison Ford posters. OK...that might just be me. 13 year old me, to be exact.

Awkward Dad and I have been waiting for this day the second we found out we were having children. I am serious. The birth and all that might have been a distant second or it might have been even further back, behind the first time they saw the Muppets. It is all a blur now. We were so looking forward to this day, that we tried to rush it. Never a good plan when pushing your passions onto your children.

When Super Preschooler was about 3, Awkward Dad got a little ahead of himself. You see, Super P. had been playing with Awkward Dad's old Star Wars toys. Little Jawas and Yodas had made their way into his toy castle. Luke Skywalker was pinch-hitting for the prince, and the Star Wars story had worked its way into the bedtime story catalog, with coloring books and comics serving as visual aids. Light sabers had even appeared for Super P.'s birthday, but the only one interested in those was a 1 year old Super Toddler. Emboldened by Super Preschooler's interest and his recent trauma-free viewing of The Wizard of Oz, we all settled onto the couch and settled in for some magic.

He was fine with spaceships. He wanted the word crawl read to him. He laughed at R2-D2 and C-3PO. He gasped with delight at the brief glimpse of Leia, and then it all fell apart. Darth Vader came sashaying through that door, flanked by an army of stormtroopers, with an undercurrent of danger thundering from his menacing music and the harsh hissing of his helmet, and Super Preschooler lost his mind. And I don't mean the full glorious absorption into our childhood wonder that we were desiring. No, he actually fled the room. Awkward Dad and I didn't notice at first because we were watching Super Toddler, who was laughing and waving at Darth like they were college frat brothers.

I found Super Preschooler hiding in the hallway. He refused to go back into the living room. Awkward Dad begged him. He pleaded with him. He promised him candy and toys and basically violated every parenting rule under the sun. He promised him more Leia. He promised to let him watch Return of the Jedi and see Leia in her slave girl outfit, which really did nothing for Super Preschooler and I think was pretty self-serving. He refocused and promised Super Preschooler jawas, hutts, wookies, and ewoks. Super P. was not having it. He looked right at Awkward Dad and told him that Star Wars was too scary and that he would be ready to watch it when he was 10 years old. I am pretty sure all of Ann Arbor heard Awkward Dad's heart break.

The next year and a half passed in anguished slowness for Awkward Dad. (I had a few other things to keep me busy. You know, just little things, like a new baby.) Super Preschooler continued his Star Wars interest with unflagging enthusiasm, but when asked to watch the movie he would relentlessly announce that he was too young. I could see Awkward Dad going gray before us, it was heartbreaking.

Light saber fights would erupt in the living room. Are you ready to watch the movie, Super P.? Nope.

They would pretend to fly the Millennium Falcon (a diaper box with a toy cat in it) through the kitchen. Are you ready to watch the movie, Super P.? Nope.

Jawas would be found in the fridge. Not ready.

Yoda would take a bath with them. Not ready.

Coloring book pages of Hoth would be ripped out and hung on the wall. Not ready.

They would parade through the house and announce that Awkward Dad was the Death Star and Super Cat was Darth Vader, while dressed like Thor and a ballerina. (I don't pretend to understand toddler logic, I am just the reporter.) Not ready.

Sometimes, Super P. would act out parts of the movie that he hadn't seen yet but had witnessed in his comics. It was like he was messing with Awkward Dad. But, he was heartless, not ready. Not old enough. Too scary. No. No. No.

And then, a new hope. (wink, wink, nudge, nudge.)

In our effort to promote family cohesiveness and bounding, while being cheap and laying around on the couch, we have started family movie night. We were debating which movie to watch last Thursday when I, jokingly, suggested Star Wars. (Sometimes, I can be as mean as Super Preschooler.) Poor Awkward Dad. He didn't even try to look excited or hopefully as he popped the popcorn. I was digging through the DVDs, looking for Toy Story or Night at the Museum, when Super P. shrugged a shrug that looked about 17 years old, and said, "OK."

Time stood still, as we all turned to watch Awkward Dad straighted up and take the popcorn out of the microwave. Ball was in his court; how was he gonna play it? He slowly turned around, popped some popcorn in his mouth, and shrugged exactly the same way. "I guess that would be fine." Oozing nonchalance, he sauntered to the couch, looking like this was a normal Thursday. But I have been married to the man for nearly 10 years, and I could see that the light in his eyes was brighter than an exploding Alderaan. This was no normal Thursday movie night.

Oh, is she really gonna leave us hanging like that? What is her problem? She is acting almost like this is going to be a trilogy post or something.....

I want to rename our stroller the Millennium Falcon, but I am afraid that the Death Star is more appropriate.

Awkward Mom vs. Eavesdropping

Awkward Mom has many super powers; acute eavesdropping, level 10 gossiping ability, and a tendency to judge moms who wear makeup to the park are just a smattering of her many gifts.

In my pursuit of healthy outdoor activities for my children, I sometimes listen in on the Perfect Moms. It passes the time.

"I was rather disappointed with the marathon aspect of the Disneyland trip."

"You have injured Joyful's spirit, please make amends."

"I just feel that her use of formula is tantamount to child abuse."

"I am sure there is an app for that."

"Not that I am judging, but she is a terrible mother."

"Well, you have to saute the Chard first. Duh."

"I wouldn't dream of owning a television, can you imagine what it does to their focus?"

(this woman's son was using her iphone at the time.)

"Oh, I was much bigger at 8 months. Have you talked to your midwife?"

"Sugar is really just poison, everyone knows that."

"I mean, you are doing your kegels, right?"

"If I don't run at least 10 miles, I feel like such a blob."

"We just swapped the letters; that way hers is unique."

"Oh, Brooke potty trained herself, but I hear that can be a problem for boys."

"Oh no, thank you, sweetie, but we don't share food."

(This was after Super Toddler tried to share a Cheez-it with another little boy. His mom threw it away. Super Toddler gave him another one while her back was turned.)

"Oh, I would just be naked without it."

"Well, Dr. Oz says so."

"Have you fully grieved your C-section yet?"

"We started his violin lessons late, around age 4. But I think he is ready for piano now too."

"Hey, I think that awkward looking mom over there is listening in!

What a weirdo. Oh, and did you see her shirt? Yikes."

Despite the presence of about 600 Perfect Moms (seriously, it was like a convention of perfection), Excellent Mom and I enjoyed our park playdate. We were great moms today, ensuring that the kids were outside, experiencing the splendor of nature.

While eating Cheez-its.

Whatever. Judge if you want to, you know that I do!

Who goes to Disneyland and runs a marathon? Is this a thing?

We aren't starting any lessons late around here!

Awkward Mom vs. Romantic Comedies

Stop being so friendly, Super Baby!

I am watching Super Baby romp with Phenomenal Baby. Phenomenal Baby is a true phenom; grace personified in a pink dress as pretty as she is. At an amazing 10 months, she prefers to walk, but she really floats. She is gorgeous. I tear my eyes away to watch Super Baby roll by. I think rolling is easier for her because she is completely round and looks exactly like a grape in her purple corduroy overalls. They looked so cute at home. Now, I am not so sure. This is not the first time I have questioned my ability to make appropriate sartorial decisions for my daughter. This is not the first time I have questioned my ability to raise a daughter.

I am worried that I am raising a friend. You know what I am talking about. The friend character in the romantic comedy. The one who listens patiently to the lead get drunk and whine all about the woes of dating a rich, handsome, wonderful architect/doctor/ad executive, when she really loves the broke artist, who is also handsome and wonderful, and who becomes a rich, successful artist in the last scene anyway. That one. The listening one. The one who is funny. The one who has dates and adventures that happen completely off screen. The one who bails the lead out of jail when she completely misinterprets something the architect/doctor/ad executive does and flies into a rage that would be frightening, but because she is beautiful and the lead, it is just mildly silly. The one who has to drive the lead across town in 7 minutes, through traffic, so she can catch the architect/doctor/ad executive before he gets on a plane and flies off to whatever exciting and humanitarian adventure his perfect self is flying off to. The one who then drives the lead, back through the same traffic, when she realizes, midway through her big monologue, that she really loves the poor and struggling artist. The one who is either fat, ugly, or a flamboyantly gay man. I think Super Baby may be able to avoid that last one, but she is still heading toward friend territory. And yes, I know that movie-star fat and movie-star ugly is still jaw-dropping beautiful. That isn't what worries me anyway. It is more her inner "friendness" that concerns me.

Super Baby has a passivity that has made her first 8 months of life so easy and so full of sleep. I am quite grateful for this, but now I am ready for some feistiness. I know that it is in there. I have seen flashes of it; mostly when she is hungry. But most of the time, she is a total, go-with-the-flow, slacker baby. I watch Perfect Babies snatch toys from her and I see the frustration flash in her absolutely beautiful eyes before a gentle resignation takes over. You can almost see her baby shoulders shrug, while her "oh well, there are other toys" attitude kicks in. Maybe it comes from a lack of mobility. Maybe it comes from being a third child. Maybe she is just that peaceful and non-materialistic. But I keep seeing that flash. Where is that flash going? And what is gonna happen when it finally blows?

Whatever it is, I have never really worried about this before. Super Preschooler is straight up lead, with his confidence, charm, and, most importantly, clothes. Super Toddler has already informed us that he will be staring in action movies, so this just leaves little Super Baby for me to fret over. And fret I do.

What kind of friend will she be? Will she be the mopey one who never finds love, except for in the last scene when she drops her glasses and bumps into a man who has also dropped his glasses? Will she be the funny one who steals all the scenes but still doesn't have her name above the movie title? Will she be the goth one they throw in there sometimes? Will she is be the nerdy one who figures out some MacGuffin that moves the plot into its final arc? Will she be the angry career one? Will she be the angry divorced one? Will she be the party girl who really longs for love? Will she be the one Hollywood keeps telling us is the lead but we really know isn't? (I am looking at you Katherine Heigl.) Will she be the one whose parts you fast forward to because she is just way more interesting than the lead?

Because that is the real secret, isn't it? We like the friends. We really prefer the friends. We relate to them and identify with them and find their tiny bits of plot way more fascinating that anything the leads are doing, which is mostly staring into each other's lovely, but rather bland, features, when they aren't racing around New York City in their "getting-to-know-each-other" montage. No, I don't mind her being the friend, I just don't want her to think of herself as just the friend.

Because I spent more than 30 years thinking of myself as "just the friend," and that, as you know, my dear Readers, is a giant waste of time. No one is "just the friend," especially not in the movie of his/her own life. (Mine is no romantic comedy though, I prefer to think of it as an Epic.) I am the star of a wonderfully awkward adventure and it pains me that it took me so long to see that. I am a great friend and I will totally be the friend character in your romantic comedy. I will come bail you out of jail, drink with you, and tell you it is OK to break up with the architect/doctor/ad executive if you really want to be with the poor, but utterly gorgeous looking, artist who "stirs your soul like he stirs his paints." I won't even tell you that you sound stupid. Because I am a great friend. But I am the lead over here in my Epic, and, because I am married to Foggy Nelson, there is no need to drive me anywhere. We are gonna eat some chocolate and watch some Netflix; you are welcome to join us though.

I want Super Baby to be a great friend and a great lead. And I want her to realize that her friendness and her leadness can coexist and realize it long before her 30th birthday. I just have to figure out how to do this, so advice is welcome. I am on the fence as to whether or not the purple corduroy overalls are hurting my cause, but I still think they are kinda cute. I mean, who doesn't like grapes?

We have a feeling Super Baby's Romantic Comedy is gonna be a hit; that it will feature a lot of indie music, win a Golden Globe, and pair her with Joseph Gordon-Levitt goes without saying.

Well, this look is slightly better than the grape one.

Awkward Mom vs. Poetry - rematch

The muse strikes again!

Baby girl is first awake,
in a bed magically full of children;
weren't you all tucked in somewhere else just hours ago?
You stretch and retch into my ear,
so I blink awake to marvel at your beauty.

It is immense.
You giggle and gaze until your merry eyes land to your left;
you seem startled, like you can't recognize your brother in his resting state.
But then a coal lights behind your cobalt eyes and smolders

until a burning desire shakes your tiny fingers with glee.
You lunge out towards him, leaning dangerously off my chest in your quest;
your entire body tenses and arches toward him,
every muscle working for your goal;
baby Olympian despite my best efforts.
You finally reach him and hover,
for just one single second of peace;

one single moment to admire you both so close together,

in the cool morning air before the day gets hot and heavy.

One single moment
before plunging your adorable fingers into his beautifully tousled hair.

I don't blame you, baby girl,
those tendrils are tempting.
You shriek with laughter.
He just shrieks,
And the eldest slams a pillow into the both of you.
Must be morning.

Good awkward morning, Readers! Hope yours are as festive, although maybe just a hair quieter.

The early bird.

Awkward Mom vs. Haircuts - part 2

Will Super Toddler tie himself to the hair salon and pull it down around himself? Will we get his hair cut first? Are this many Samson references sinful or just awkward? Let's tune in and find out!

So, when I last left you, I was explaining that Super Toddler gets a little godzillaish when we attempt to cut his hair. OK, when I pay someone else to attempt to cut his hair. After our Super Cuts disaster, we were a little lost as to where to take him, and after witnessing the Super Cuts disaster, I was even more committed to not doing it myself or inflicting him on any of my generous frugal friends who offered to do it in a swing at the park. Y'all are sweet, but please, think of the children. Think of the poor park equipment. Think of DCFS; they are busy enough.

Anywho, enter the Awesome family. They didn't offer to cut Super Toddler's hair at the park. They kinda thought that was as weird as I did. They informed me about this hair salon just for kids. A magical place with televisions placed in front of firetruck chairs, a slide in the waiting area, and balloons everywhere. Numerous suckers just for sitting still, and all the children sit still because all the stylists are fairy godmothers with PhDs in handling Samson-like children. It sounds like Shangri La, Neverland, and Mario Tricoci all wrapped up together. I worried that such a wonder must be out of our reach, financially speaking, and while it is no swing at the park, a quick peek at their website told me that it is fairly reasonable, especially when we are talking about avoiding Hulk-level destruction.

Super Toddler has been there twice now, and while he hasn't knocked down the building, he sure hasn't sat still. The first time we went was an Awkward family outing because I sure wasn't gonna attempt it myself. We took both boys (Super Baby was still super-incubating at the time), and the way they walked in the salon told me everything I needed to know. Super Preschooler walked in like someone coming home. He skipped through the door, greeted the fairy godmother stylists like he had known them his whole life, and climbed up the stairs of the slide while holding hands with some random little girl. I swear to you, he looked like something out of the end of Sound of Music. He and his new hair BFF slid down together and romped happily until his name was called. He angelically scaled a Lighting McQueen chair, selected a Curious George to watch, and politely cocked his head to the left. The stylists were about ready to crown him king of the haircuts and shower suckers upon him when they realized that he was related to the loud pile of toddler collapsed by the front door.

Super Toddler behaved like a vampire that hadn't been invited in, so he had to be bodily carried over the threshold of the salon. Once inside, the vampire antics continued; he howled and thrashed like we were bathing him in holy water and garlic. I was fully expecting his head to start spinning around, but he settled for banging on the windows and screaming for the passersby to save him. I don't even think he saw the slide. His name was, reluctantly, called by a fairly capable looking women with impressively motionless Farrah Fawcett hair and glasses the size of small moons. Awkward Dad plopped Super Toddler into her firetruck chair, from which he immediately escaped. We tried a rocket, a police cruiser, and Super Preschooler's Lighting McQueen car; he bested them all. We had to settle for Awkward Dad's lap. We strait-jacketed him into a drape, Awkward Dad pinned his arms down, and I held his head, as this woman used some sort of spell to make her scissors fly. (Told you they were fairy godmothers) The Backyardagins did nothing to drown out Super Toddler's screaming and even the children playing by the slide stilled to stare at him. Our fairy godmother stylist showed her ignorance of Super Toddler and tried to bribe him with a sucker before the hair cut was over. Within 5 seconds, she was forced to cut it out of Awkward Dad's hair. Multiple balloons popped, combs went flying off her shelf, and I received a bruise that lasted 3 weeks, but Super Toddler's hair was cut. Here he is, tamed:


Well, slightly tamed. Whatever. Super Cat seems impressed.

That was the last haircut Super Toddler had. That is, until yesterday. I put it off as long as I could, but the child's hair was looking like this:


It was beyond time.

OK. So, this time I was flying solo. I let Super Preschooler go in first to charm them. He wasn't getting his hair cut, as it still grows about the speed of sloth snails sleeping, but I figured he could run reconnaissance for us. With a quiet stillness that I hoped would inspire confidence, I secured Super Baby in the stroller, placed Super Toddler on the sidewalk, and wheeled Super Baby past him to the door. Then, I flung the door open, shoved her and the stroller inside to the ohhing fairy godmothers, and took off at the sprint down the strip mall to catch the fleeing Super Toddler. I snatched him two steps from the dance studio and hauled him back. I think his banshee screams might have caused an accident or two on the way and I am truly sorry for that.

By the time I reached the hair salon, Super Baby was in danger of being adopted by Farah, whose glasses had grown to the size of medium moons in between visits. With no ceremony whatsoever, I bundled Super Toddler into a drape and plopped him in the firetruck chair. Like a modern day Houdini, he escaped within the time it took for Super Preschooler to find a slide-friend, Farah to tuck a towel around Super Baby, lest she get chilled in the air conditioning, and me to take off my backpack. I caught him at the door and, wrapping myself in a Disney Princess drape, I set my jaw, rooted Super Toddler onto my lap, and settled into the regular barber chair for whatever shenanigans this child had up his sleeve. There were a bunch.

He zigged. He zagged. He pretended to be interested in Phineas and Ferb, only to fling his head into my face the second I got complacent. He screamed. He cried. He nearly hyper-ventilated. He made teeny, tiny whimpering sounds that tested my resolve like nothing else my young motherhood has ever encountered. His blue big eyes were wet with tears as they met mine in the mirror; the betrayal he felt was palpable and stinging. As a result, I was a little rough to Farah as she offered him suckers midway through, but really, had she learned nothing last time? I don't really blame her, it was the longest haircut on record.

But, unbelievably, the Samson principle holds true. With every lock of silky golden hair that tumbled to the floor, his strength weakened. He started like a lion. He struggled, he kicked, he fought with every ounce of his spirit, but in the end, he was cuddled up in the arms, weeping quietly and letting Farah trim around his ears. And I will tell you a secret, Readers; I didn't like it one bit.

It was scary. Super Toddler is joyful and loud and feisty and passion personified. To have your wild child, broken, sad, and curled up in your arms like he doesn't care what happens, is something I don't want any of you to experience. I would rather have to peel him off the ceiling than gingerly pull him off my lap. But I did it. I pulled him off my lap and knelt down in front of him to wipe his tears away with the Sleeping Beauty section of my Princess drape. There was not much I could do about the hair we were both covered in, but I brushed away what I could, while avoiding his sorrowful eyes. I picked him up, and he clung to me like a baby kangaroo. I overpaid Farah and gathered the other Supers, and I somehow got them all to the car without putting Super Toddler down. I gently put him in his car seat and offered him a sucker. He gave it to Super P. with a shrug that fractured my heart.

We began the ride to met Excellent Mom at Ikea (post coming!) in deathly silence. I rolled up the windows, so that I wouldn't have to face the fact that the wind didn't whip his hair around anymore. I called back that we were gonna have a special lunch at Ikea, but I got no response. I was about to despair when Super Preschooler started to talk about bouncing on the beds in the furniture section; a huge no-no. I gazed into the backseat to meet Super Toddler's eyes. With every mention of bed-bouncing, they got a little brighter. And brighter. And brighter. Until they were burning with a sass unparalleled. I could feel my own sass returning as well. We might be about to be kicked out of Ikea, but, Samson-headed or shorn, my wild child was back in the saddle.

PS...Do people really cut their children's hair in swings at the park? We have never seen this with our own eyes. Does it happen at night? It is a pagan ritual? Comment us and let us know if this is a real thing or if Awkward Mom's frugal friends were having a laugh at her expense. It is common knowledge that her frugal ways are not fully developed and susceptible to gullibility. Thanks for the read, Readers; catch you next time for some Ikea adventures!



Fear not, Readers. He'll probably be back to this look by next week.

Awkward Mom vs. Haircuts - Part 1

We now understand why Samson's mom let his grow out.

All of you know how Super Toddler can be. For a refresher, check out this post; it introduces you to the wild child of the Awkward clan. If it is possible, he is even more delightfully outrageous these days. He has been talking more and his inner world is every bit as spunky and gleeful as I thought it might be. However, his hair is starting to match his wild ways:

Now, I know that I could let him be a hippie child if I wanted. After all, this is Ann Arbor. However, it is also summer and the poor thing is starting to resemble a poodle stuck in a sauna. I decide to bite the bullet and schedule a hair appointment for him.

What's that, my frugal friends? Why am I not cutting it myself? Ah, well, let me tell you a little story: Once upon a time, Super Preschooler was nearly 2 years old and finally ready for a haircut. Super P. resembled Professor X from birth until then, so no haircuts had been needed. Awkward Dad proudly bought a pair of clippers, spread a plastic sheet on the dining room floor, placed Super Preschooler, in his high chair, in the middle of it, and commenced clipping. To this day, I do not know if it was the inexperience, the slippery plastic sheet, or the screaming emanating from the high chair (most likely all three), but Awkward Dad slipped, knocked the high chair, with the heir to the Awkward line still screaming within, directly onto me, who was trying to capture a sweet and endearing picture for his baby book, and then clippered right through the power cord. Call it trauma. Call it lazy. Whatever it is, we have let other people cut the Supers' hair since then. Leave me alone, I use coupons!

So, Super Preschooler has been an angel at every haircut since his second haircut. He just goes with Awkward Dad and behaves like a teeny tiny old man:


Personally, I like the critical head-cocked-to-the-side, like he is really considering asking her to take more off by the ears. He sits stone still, moves when they ask him, and politely thanks them for the balloons and suckers they lavish on him. Emboldened by this behavior, we didn't panic at all when Super Toddler arrived looking like a refegee from Woodstock:



We took him to Awkward Dad's Super Cuts before his first birthday. Oh, naive Awkwards....

Readers, I am serious when I tell you, I really didn't know that a child of 11 months could have such a strong right hook. Now, Awkward Dad likes his Super Cuts, and his Super Cuts likes him. They really adore Super Preschooler, but after Super Toddler's unique expressions of displeasure, they were not going to serve the Awkward Family without endangering their lives and building. I think the options were pretty clear. We had to find a new place for Super Toddler's haircuts. And a gym for him to train in.


Oh Readers, I hate to leave you hanging like that! But if the noises coming from the living room are to be believed, we are at war and I better go deal with some lego-projectiles before someone loses an eye. Back soon to let you know how the whole cutting of Super Toddler's hair went. I bet you can guess, and know this, we are really lucky that we didn't enter any pagan temples today.