We learn a lot of things as parents. For instance, I have recently learned that even if you buy your kids their own real live horses, they will still want to ride the the cold, hard, mechanical pony at the grocery store.
Today I learned that the little boy who stayed in the corner for over an hour yesterday because he didn’t want to say please, will gladly and enthusiastically say that very word if there is cookie dough to be had. He even said, “Peese dough, peese.”
I also learned that if you decide to be mean by starting to say yes to someone’s request (like, “Will you play a game with me?”) but then changing that yes to a no a nanosecond after you’ve made that someone happy, that is spelled, “Yno.” Courtesy of Midge.
I’m also learning things about horses, but I don’t think that actually has to do with being a parent. For now, though, Beat0 stays. The kids just aren’t allowed to ride him until McH and I have worked through his issues. I think we got a good start at that today. I may have to stop my pre-movie-release re-read of New Moon so that I can read horse books instead. Not what I really wanted to do, but whatever.
While we’re on the Whaddya Know topic of things that have nothing to do with being a parent: flat irons! I got one for my hair (due to a recent haircut that . . . )
Wait. This will be too long even for a parenthetical statement made with great poetic license and disregard for actual rules of grammar and usage. So, backstory:
A couple of weeks ago I got my hair cut on Friday night. And Saturday morning. Because? The haircut I got Friday night was awful. Awful. This happens to me quite frequently (literally, probably 95% of all haircuts have to be redone the next day, and I’m not even joking). Despite this, I always make hair appointments at the worst times. Like the time I got my hair cut the night before I had to leave town for my grandfather’s funeral and then had to get it re-cut the morning of said departure. This time I got my haircut the night before a birthday party for Tank Boy and L~ in which we were hosting a zillion of their friends and parents (most of whom I’d never met since L~ only recently started going to school and making friends outside of church). So I had to go Saturday morning to get it fixed but, due to time constraints, I couldn’t drive all the way back to the place that butchered me.
So instead? I went to the Wal Mart salon. Add that to the list of things I am mortified to type. But? The woman/girl (she was really young) at Wal Mart was so nice and so good at what she does. After going through my hair, combing and pulling and comparing, and saying, “Oh my. Oh my! Oh my!” a thousand times, she told me that she is the manager at this Wal Mart salon and, therefore, gets to go over all the bad hair cuts when people come back to complain. And? “This is the worst haircut I have ever seen!” she said.
“This is not the first time I’ve heard that,” I told her. Seriously. Because it wasn’t.
Anyway, she fixed me up and felt so sorry for me because the first haircut was soooo bad and I had a million people coming for a party, that she styled it for free. Mighty nice considering it wasn’t even anyone at her salon who gave me the weed-whacker inspired ‘do. And when she styled it? She used a flat iron.
McH saw the newly flat ironed hairstyle and got a look in his eye that I haven’t see in response to my hair since I dyed it purple.
Well, probably the rest of the female population of this country knew, but I didn’t. I mean, I knew flat irons existed, but I didn’t know! Now I know. I also know that you shouldn’t get one of the cheap ones they actually sell at Wal Mart because they have metal in the plates, which fries your hair. You need to get a good one that is all ceramic (so said the Wal Mart hair goddess). These cost way more than I would ever consider spending for my hair, but thank goodness for Overstock.com! So I have a flat iron and hair that I don’t need to dye purple.
And George, if you’re out there, Tewt the Newt says hello.