So that sounded like a resounding “we don’t really know” about the crib bumper. Or possibly “we don’t really care” with a side of “do whatever you want.” Either way, thank you, and we can stop talking about it now.

Let’s see, what else has been going on around here? The construction noise seems to be over, hooray! Yesterday was caulking day and today there was no work at all.

And remember how I said that funny bit the other day about them breaking a new doorway in the wall? Ha ha! So funny! Guess what we have in our interior walls? Brand-new cracks! Plus there’s the clock that broke when it was knocked off the wall, but that’s hardly worth mentioning.

We spent most of yesterday at the park, and today we had friends over for a while, but what you really want to hear about is Owen’s haircut. He had to have a trim this week, since next week is Thanksgiving and family and pictures and blah blah blah blah, so we finally got around to it tonight.

He’s had a long-ish bowl cut since… um, since his hair started growing, because it’s cute and toddler-y. Also because that’s what I could figure out how to do with scissors. But tonight when I broke out the clippers he announced, “I want it short. Like this.” And he pushed all the hair up off his forehead.

After a quick consultation with the short-haired parent, we decided to do a very short bowl-sort-of cut. Which we did! With great speed and minimal accuracy! And when I sat Owen up on the bathroom counter to check it out in the mirror, he smiled and said, “Great!” And then when he thought I wasn’t looking, he pushed the remaining bit of hair up off his forehead and glanced wistfully at his reflection. So. Clearly that was not the haircut he was looking for.

“Are you happy with that, buddy, or should I cut it shorter?” I asked. (I do not want to cut it shorter I do not want to cut it shorter I do not—)

His whole face lit up. “Shorter! Make it short like THIS!” And he demonstrated again. So I did. I cut it short-short-short all over; it’s sort of like Dane’s hair but with more bald-ish spots and more long spots. But that’s what you get when Mama cuts the hair of a wiggly three-year-old while he sits in the bathroom sink and watches in the mirror.

He looks like an entirely different kid. Also, he tells me it’s “yelling hair.” I’m sorta hoping he forgets about that part overnight.

Abigail then decided she needed new hair, too, so she’s gone to bed with half a dozen teensy little braids. We’ll see if she keeps them in tomorrow or pulls them out to have wavy hair. Should be an exciting weekend—no one will recognize my kids. We really ought to take advantage of this rare and brilliant opportunity to conduct espionage. But I can’t think of anything specific. Oh well.