I cut D1's hair for the first time this week. It wasn't particularly momentous; I don't even think she noticed what I was doing. There are no before and after pictures, because you really can't tell the difference. But now she has official bangs, and it's one of those things you're supposed to write in the baby book, which I don't keep, so there it is. Haircut.
I rather like that my children are slow in the hair department, requiring two years to come up with a respectable quantity of blond fluff. Babies with full heads of hair always look so much older. I don't really want my children to act like babies a second longer than is necessary, but I'll take looking like it.
D1 feeds D2 pretty regularly now. She doesn't have the patience to do a whole bowl of food, but once I'm finished eating she'll often shovel it in for awhile, which gives me a moment to get started on the dishes or run downstairs and switch the laundry. D2 likes it because she drops even more food than I do, and then he can pick it up with his fingers.
"Baa, Baa, Black Sheep" continues its prominent place in our lives. It happened the other morning that D1 was beginning to get a bit drizzly, and I requested that she produce some more cheerful sounds. She began singing, "Baa, baa, black sheep . . . "
"Yes," I said, "That's a happy song."
Well, somewhere in the inner workings of her mind, she's taken from this the idea that singing it is the proper response anytime she is miserable. Whether she thinks that singing it has the power to make her happy, or whether she thinks I will accept it as ipso facto proof that she is happy now and not send her off to her room to compose herself, I cannot tell. But so it goes:
"Baa (sob), baa (sob), black sheep (sniifffff), have you (sob) any wahhhahhahhoolll?"