Hurling things, I’ve been told, is of a far greater magnitude than merely throwing things. With that in mind, like it or not I would probably say that Alex is a hurler.

Sweet Ben, my poor sweet firstborn can barely throw a ball–just like his mother!–and will probably never opt to “throw the ole pigskin around” for fun. Because shit, that doesn’t sound like a whole ton of fun to me. The only ball sports I participate in are the sorts that happen in the horizontal position, if you know what I mean.

But Alex, in his demonic toddler glory has decided that EVERYTHING is for whipping around. I have narrowly dodged such implements of doom as a remote control, a large truck, several hardback books, and possibly even a cat or two. He’s bound and determined that pretty much anything and everything is hurl-worthy.

This has effectively turned him into a Toddler Weapon of Mass Destruction, especially when you factor in the teeth. Oh, the teeth. Why yes, I have seemed to somehow raise a biter AS WELL as a hurler. It’s obvious that I’m doing a fantastic job as a parent.

See, I never understood the Biting Kids. I always assumed that they had some terrible home life or something in which they learned from their parents that Biting Was The Way To Solve Problems? Maybe Mom and Dad settled disputes by the gnashing of teeth at each other’s throats or something. Regardless, I never figured that any child of mine would be a Biter (commence Universe laughing at me hysterically).

I have 2 bruises that now say otherwise.

(Segue Time! So, apparently I’d forgotten how as a child *I* handled frustration until I was writing this post. Then it struck me across the face that the reason I’d lost my front baby teeth was because I had become so enraged by some pillows I was trying to make a fort with that I bit them angrily. Guess my kid is really my clone).

And assuming that this new baby does indeed come this winter, I may have to invest in Baby’s First Crash Suit, just so it makes it through the first year.

Oh yes, yes I am indeed fucked.

Happy Father’s Day to the man (Mr. Aunt Becky) I didn’t know I could hope to marry. Sure, you dragged me, kicking and screaming to the alter by my hair, but you know now how lovingly I look at you as I grab your hand, shove your wedding ring in your face and say, “You see THIS RING? It means I OWN YOU.” See, it’s because I love you so very much that I perform such acts of idiocy.

You’re a good guy, The Daver, you always are. No matter how many orphans (or cute cuddly kittens) I rescue from burning buildings (current tally: 0. But I have faith that I’ll do some rescuing soon), you will always be my better half. I can’t top you on that one, even if I can possibly beat your ass. You wouldn’t hurt a PREGNANT LADY would you, Daver? I didn’t think so.

You told me this morning that Ben was going to be a great dad, as he played with his doll Seth the same way you were playing with Alex. And you’re right, Ben will be a great dad. He learned it all from you. Those boys are fortunate to have you, and maybe they won’t always recognize it or think you’re especially “cool” but in their hearts they always will. They’ll always know that the lasting damage was caused by seeing their mother breastfeed, not by you spraying them with the hose.

I love you, and I’m happy to have you in my life. Even if you never change the toilet paper roll. Or manage to place your laundry IN the basket (It PUTS THE LAUNDRY IN THE BASKET). Or notice when I get my hairs did. Because maybe *I* won’t notice when I dump 5 gallons of bleach onto YOUR CLOTHES.

I’m just sayin’.

So, Happy Father’s day to all of you dudes. Your wives (and Aunt Becky, in a purely platonic way) love you.

So it’s been a pretty rough week. Alex has donned his devil horns and has been literally plotting my eventual demise, not that I really blame him. But I just had the most hilarious exchange with someone who knows approximately 5 words:

(On the changing table)

Me: You have a full diaper. Let’s change it.

Alex (reaching downward): Penis.

Me: Yes, you have a penis.

Alex (poking penis painfully with index finger): Penis!

Me: Yup. That’s a penis all right.

Alex (gripping penis between thumb and index finger) Penis! Hahahahaha!

Me (sighs): That’s how I felt the first time I saw one.

Now, part of the reason I feel so strangely about buying animals is because we tend to come across animals that need a home. This is how I happened to adopt Joey The Mean Hamster (a bad, bad idea) and the gecko that I named Robes Pierre.

I’d been oogling lizards for what was probably 10 years before we came across this gecko, who was owned by a kid who worked at the local pet store who had taken him when one of his friends had died (got that? He was third-hand goods). The Daver and I had been pricing out just what a gecko costs to set up when this kid offered us this gecko. Being the kind of people who take people up on these weird offers, Dave went to pick him up that night.

And Robes Pierre came our into lives already a geriatric. A scaly geriatric. And full of The Awesome.

He was never an awesome pet because he snuggled you or sought your attention, or even because he really gave a flying shit about you at all. He was awesome because he was neat to watch. I already have the world’s neediest animals, so I really didn’t need anything else clamoring for my attention.

Robes Pierre died over the weekend and although I knew that it was coming, I am still much more saddened by his ascent to, well, wherever it is that lizards go when they die.

Rest in Peace, Robes Pierre. You’re more missed than even you’d think.

Now, although I’ve been a mother for nearly 7 years (holy shit) I’m completely clueless about this whole “toddler-thing.” As previous exhaustibly documented, Ben was a pretty odd duck when it came to toddler-dom, so I can’t use my vast knowledge of how to treat BEN as a toddler on Alex. It just wouldn’t apply.

So this whole mimicking what I say stuff that toddlers apparently do is totally foreign to me, but is making me rethink taping my damn mouth shut for the next 4 or 5 years (somewhere Dave is frantically nodding his head “yes”) so as not to teach my kid more stuff he doesn’t need to learn yet.

Just so you know, I’m that freak-a-leak at the store that holds a one sided conversation with the baby, not because I really can’t shut up for that long (okay, maybe that’s part of it) but because it was one of those things that we were taught to do to teach Ben to speak. This means that although Alex’s issues are not the same as Ben’s, I still have it engrained in my mind to obsessively explain to Alex whatever it is that I’m doing at any given time.

I probably look insane, but I really don’t care.

But this is how I taught Alex to say “penis.”

In my house we have “penises” and “vaginas” and “uteruses,” but we also take dumps, lest you worry that I passed on my parents insistence that we call taking a dump a “bowel movement” and in the past tense a “defecation,” or the ever-popular “urinating.” I did, however, have to stop myself from calling testicles “balls” when explaining it to Ben. I guess that’s just what I think that those dangly sacs SHOULD be called.

So during diaper changes, Alex would grab his penis, giggle and I’d say “That’s your penis, Alex.” And he’d squeeze it and poke it and laugh (just like a real man) and I would repeat myself. Rather than learn “that” “your” or “Alex” he picked up the most hilarious of them all: penis.

Last night, we threw the kids in the bathtub together and they had a blast, splashing the shit out of me, playing with each other and generally being mischevious. Once Alex realized that his weenier was out of it’s diaper, he became very, very excited and began delicately poking it with one finger:

“Penis,” he’d say happily.

“Yes, Alex. Penis,” we’d all echo.

“Penis!” he’d say.

“I have a penis, too!” Ben told his brother. “And so does Daddy! But Mommy doesn’t.”

“You’re right Ben, I don’t have a penis.” I choked out between laughs.

“Mommy has a uterus. See?” he gestured to my left boob. “It’s right there.”

If you look closely, you can see the water droplets making a shadow on his back. It’s really, really weird.

Trying (and succeeding) in soaking me.

When my brother got a divorce 12-odd years ago (he’s 10 years older than me) the catalyst was the puppy he’d bought. I think this stuff is fairly common, you know, it was one toke over the line (Sweet Jesus!) and his ex-wife had enough.

(She was also a scathing bitch, so I was more than happy to see her go and reclaim my name. Her name was ALSO Rebecca and she took my last name when she married my brother. This effectively meant that there were two of us in the family, and she was the far nastier one).

The puppy was a German Shepard who came with a high pedigree, with both of her parents police pooches and my brother adored her. But he travelled a lot, and without a wife-y at home to help with the dog–Stanzi is her name–he couldn’t care for her. So, as many animals that my brother and I adopt, she moved in with my parents.

She grew from a neurotic puppy into a highly insane dog, climbing onto my mother’s lap–all 90 pounds of her–at the vet’s office and during thunderstorms, hiding from me whenever I’d come home, and playing ball with a devotion I’d never seen before. Our previous dogs had always been of the sweet but stupid variety, but not Stanzi, no never her. She continues to be freakishly clever and my parents have had to take all balls (except those attached to family members, of course) and hide them from her. Because if given a ball, she will play it relentlessly and obnoxiously.

If a ball is not available, she will bring whatever twig, rock, or toy over to you, sit down in front of you patiently waiting, her eyes darting back and forth between you and the ball, anxiously waiting your toss. I found out recently that this is a hallmark of Shepards, the police dogs are given not treats for good behavior, but ball-time. Something in their brain is hardwired to love this simple game at all costs.

It seems that however unlikely this may be as I don’t have The Sex with dogs, that Alex was born with a couple of these Shepard genes. While Ben also loved balls when he was a toddler, he would merely line them up exhaustibly, becoming mad and frustrated when the balls moved out of line (why he didn’t choose something less, oh I don’t know, ROUND, is beyond me).

Not Alex, though, Alex loves balls with an intensity I’ve never seen before. Maybe they remind him of his days at the boobs, or maybe he’s just destined to be a rugby player, I don’t know. What I do know is that I have a miniature Stanzi living in my house, bringing me balls pretty much at all waking points of the day.

He’ll crawl up to wherever any of us are sitting and depending on the size of the ball, it will either be clutched in his hand, making a twack noise–he looks like a wee pirate– when he determinedly crawls to wherever a Ball Player sits, or pushed in front of him as he crawls, bringing it dutifully to one of us. Alex then hoists himself up on one of our legs, ball in hand, or next to him and throws it in our laps.

Once we have possession of A Ball! he sits down with a diapery-plastic thump and crawls about three or four feet back, turns around, opens his legs and yells “BAAAAALLLLL!” The joy oozing from him at this point is palpable and honest.

Whomever his latest victim is will, depending on the ball size and weight, gently toss it to him or roll it towards him. He will scoop it up, hoist The Ball! over his head and whip it at us. This game of catch continues until Ben, The Daver or I get sick of playing, or until he has to go retrieve another ball (he has many). Then he will find his next victim and play with them until they are tired of it as well. Rinse, repeat.

What shocks me the most about it is that he’s actually really good at this game. The child born of a mother who has, in the past year alone, fallen through a door stone cold sober, broken a toe while making a peanut butter sandwich, sprained her ankle while walking down a flight of stairs. It’s safe to say that I am not coordinated. Nor, really, is my eldest (although he’s better than I am, but not by much) and The Daver is not exactly a ninja himself (sorry The Daver).

This leaves me with two viable opinions as to how Alex got to be so coordinated:

1. He’s actually someone else’s child and there was a horrible mix up in the nursery. Someone else has gotten my child who now stumbles into walls, crawls in horrible pathetic circles instead of a straight line, and pretty much will always look drunk.

2. Some previously unexpressed bundle of genes has expressed itself in Alex, and he may grow to be some sort of sports player (and not on the Special Olympics, which is probably the only place that the rest of us would qualify for. And I assure you that even there, we’d all get our asses kicked).

I’m not quite sure which of those options is correct, but since Alex wasn’t out of my sight much during his hospital stint (his insistence, not my own), I’d venture a guess that between this fact and the fact that he looks almost exactly like my father (shut up! Ew!) he’s probably my son.

Which means that I have quite the future ahead of me sitting on the sidelines (freakishly like my past!) and watching as my youngest plays all types of sports.

Maybe I’ll never understand his love for sports, maybe it doesn’t matter because I love him and that’s enough for us all, but hey, at least I’ll get a good tan.

Dear Alexander Joseph,

Exactly one year ago today at 5:18 PM (quite a civilized hour, which I thank you for), you rocketed out of my body and into the world, screaming and peeing, all 7 pounds 10 ounces of you. Like a small dog, you never realized HOW small you were. I’m sure in your mind, you thought that you were much, much bigger and more mighty than you were (that temper is directly related to my genetics. I’m sorry to see that you inherited that trait).

The first time I looked at you (after a record 2 pushes–let’s not say what THAT says about the size of my girl parts), I thought that you resembled either Alien or Predator (I’ll watch those movies with you when you’re a bit older). My own mother looked at me when I was born and said OUT LOUD “That’s a face only a mother could love,” so I guess corny sentiments don’t really run in the family. And as for your brother’s birth, well, I was just pleased that I hadn’t birthed a litter of puppies (he was my first baby, and I had had MANY weird dreams), and then shocked by his toupee.

(Yes, sweetheart, those ARE your fists of fury)

Despite your ugliness (which I seem to be the only one who remembers–your father thought you were gorgeous. He’s a good man, your father, and you’re lucky to have him), I loved you immediately. I didn’t much care if you were “perfect” in the 10 fingers/10 toes manner (I didn’t honestly care if you had only 3 fingers. Who needs 10, anyway? It’s overkill), because seriously, all that mattered to me is that you were alive and breathing. You did end up a bit jaundiced, and I likened you to a Nuprin–Little, Yellow, Different.

(Oh, the screams! Your poor, poor brother.)

When we brought you home, your father (who had couvade syndrome, better known as a sympathetic pregnancy) nested like mad, so proud was he that his second son was finally outside of his (cranky) wife’s body. And your brother was so pleased to have a brother of his own (he had no idea what “having a brother” meant) that he STILL happily wears his multitude of Big Brother shirts with such intense pride.

(Ben has an amazing sense of humor)

I call the first couple of months of your life, dear sweet Baby J, your Asshole Months. You nursed and screamed and nursed and screamed so very much that we all had permanent ringing in our ears (tinnitus). In those rare moments that you were out of our sight, we all interacted with each other like patients at a nursing home. “Huh? WHAT’D YOU SAY?!?” was a staple of our conversations.

Whether your love was for the boobies or for my sparkling wit and fantastic personality, I don’t know. All that I do know is that you could not bear for us to be apart for even a moment. An hour was inconceivable, and you were so damn loud that I learned to pee with you sitting on my lap. Often nursing, which goes against my whole “don’t shit while you eat” motto, but hey, it beats the alternative, which was the loss of several more decibels of my hearing.

(You fucking wit me, you’re fucking wit a P-I-M-P)

Something snapped into place around month 6 or so, and you then became the most cheerful and sweet baby I’ve met. You’d smile at anything and everything, laugh loudly and often, and in those small actions (should *I* act like you did, people would think I was quite Simple.) you made the sleepless nights worth every second. Now, you play ball with such incredible dedication that it touches everyone who you throw your ball to (you’re obsessed, my sweet) and your new game of Peekaboo gives you such a charge whenever you play it. It appears that every time you indelicately whip the blanket off your head, your not quite developed vocabulary wants to remind the world that you are here, damnit, so listen up.

(Glorious, glorious smiles for glorious, glorious food)

On a more corny level (don’t fear, I won’t say this to your face because I’m uncomfortable with emotions), I think of you as my Redemption Child, and as the saying goes, if the shoe fits, over-analyze wear it. My relationship with your brother is more complicated, of course, as your brother tends to be a more complicated person than you are. Dr. Spock told me (well, not me PERSONALLY, of course. He was dead by this time.) that you love your children differently, and I think he’s right. I won’t bother with the gory details as to what makes you different than your brother, but as parents are wont to do, I spent a good deal of my life thinking that your brother’s eccentricities were my fault.

You proved to me that without a doubt, although you both are going to need scads of therapy to undo the damage I will no doubt inflict upon you, that I am a good mother. You love me purely and simply and without complication. You love me for being me, and I can’t help but think that you were the child I’d never dreamed I’d be lucky enough to have (this is not to diminish the love I have for your brother, which is mighty and fierce, but this is YOUR birthday, not his). I feel the same way about your father (although, of course, you will never picture us as anything other than Your Parents, until you are much, much older and you realize where babies REALLY come from. Answer: Hot Beef Injection), but again, it’s YOUR day, my JJ.

But it’s also a day that we’re honoring other children too. Children who are not going to be coming over and sharing cake with you in the most literal sense, because they do not live on Earth with us any longer, but I am quite certain that they will be here with us in our hearts. If I try even slightly, I can hear them at the party: laughing, smiling and eating loads of cake. I wish, just like you do (and of course, their wonderful families do), that they were here today and every day, but the world can be a damn unfair place sometimes, which you will learn all too soon. This is why we must be the voice for those who have none, we must do this.

So today, one year ago since you entered the world madder than a wet cat Alexander J, we raise our glasses to you, our sweet angel babies, who should be here today celebrating. Since you are not, we celebrate YOUR lives as well. Smootches and cake and love to Heaven, for you today. We know all too well that the world is missing something incredible.

We’re thinking of you today Caleb, Baby JP, Kalila, William, Isabel Grace, Miss Maddy, William Henry, Aodin, Callum, Connor and Sarah, as we’re thinking of all the other angel babies I haven’t listed. We love you very, very much.

My only hope is that I prove to you time and again that I am up to the task of raising you to the best of my abilities. I may not be the wisest (I do many, many dumb things which you will notice and point out to me sooner than I’d like) person on the planet, but I have learned certain things that I wish nothing more than to pass down to you.

First, be genuinely kind to everyone you meet. Someone said that God is found in our interactions with other people, and despite not being Christian per se, I agree with that. I’m not saying that you need to be a doormat to be a good person, no, not at all. Stand up for yourself and for people who may need you to do it for them (not everyone is as forceful as you happen to be–I like to think of this as my contribution to your genetic soup), because sometimes taking a stand against a Wrong is the first step to making it Right.

I guess what I’m saying is don’t be an asshole unless you need to be (and I assure you without the slightest doubt in my mind that you will need to at some point), and treat other people well. You may never know where someone else is coming from, but that doesn’t mean you can’t try to understand. Walk a mile in someone else’s shoes before you judge them. Alas, since you don’t walk yet, we might have to save that lesson for another year.

Secondly, and equally as important, be true to who you really are. It sounds so simple when I write it, but it’s far more complicated, because first you have to figure out who the hell you are. That takes much longer than you can imagine. I know some people are still not sure who they are (even at my advanced 27 years), but I have little doubt that you’ll be a follower. Listen to your heart (or your head, if you’re like me) and follow what IT tells you, and not what someone else tells you to follow (nobody likes a follower) no matter who it is, unless it happens to be your mother (me), and then you listen like it’s the Gospel Truth.

(don’t listen to me, ickle dude. Just don’t.)

And possibly the most important lesson of all is this: do not, under any circumstances, allow your mother to pick your Halloween costume. It’s a bad, bad idea. See?

(Payback’s a bitch, eh? MAYHAP YOU SHOULD’VE STARTED SLEEPING THROUGH THE NIGHT SOONER.)

I won’t bore you with any other pointless crap that you will, no doubt, just like I did, have to learn on your own, so let me end this letter with this:

I am insanely proud that you were chosen to be my son. You light up my days (and thankfully, no longer my nights) with your sweet face and intense dedication, and I thank you for everything you’ve given me. Redemption is a little heavy to put on your wee shoulders right now, so let’s make no more mention of it, lest you get a big head or something.

I’m looking forward to watch you grow and change throughout to coming year, and can’t wait to see who you’ll become.

Love you madly,

Mommy

P.S. Make sure the next time you have to drop major pipe in your pants that you do it when Daddy is home to change you. I’ll give you a cookie if you make sure that your dump squishes up your back. He likes changing those diapers, let me tell you.

See how happy it makes Daddy when he has to change your diaper?

(Daddy says, “I love poopy diapers, dude!”)

P.P.S. I’ll give you TWO cookies if you do that. Maybe even THREE.

This morning, left to his own choices, Ben decided to put red and green highlights into his hair, a process that was only slightly less painful than getting a colonoscopy (why YES, I have had the pleasure, thankyouverymuch!). To his credit, however, he is a mere 6 years old with the correlating attention span of a housefly, and the whole process did take about 2 hours. I myself got antsy and bored after about 20 minutes, so I can’t say that I blame him in any way.

I’ll post pictures just as soon as I have a tutorial from The Daver (who is sadly back at work after a couple of blissful days off), but I am now perplexed. Am I officially the worst mother on the planet, destined to take my 10 year old to get his tongue pierced and sign for a tattoo (not of a pot leaf, however. Or flames. Even I have my boundries) at age 16?

I mean, since I’ve gotten my own hairs did, I’ve been barraged by strangers asking if Ben was my own child, which leads me to believe that a) I look far younger than my 27 years or b) I don’t appear fit enough (mentally) to have a child of my own. Sweet, I suppose, but also somewhat baffling.

Either way, babysitter or mother, what’s done is done (although it can be easily rectified by a pair of clippers) for now and he seems to dig it. But I’m not sure I could handle doing it again with him without trying to commit suicide by highlighting comb or some such implement OR some medicinal drugging (me, not him).

Somewhere along the lines, someone far smarter than I once told me that children will make liars out of you. No sooner have you said breezily “Oh, Alex now says ‘Light'” when he will suddenly decide that being mute is far better than actually expending energy TALKING.

One of the biggest battles I’ve had in my parenting experiences thus far (to be replaced, I’m certain, with arguments over who did not fill up the gas tank AGAIN–likely answer: me. I hate getting gas) has been that of Food. Fought, primarily, with my eldest.

Ben was born with a number of intense sensory issues, most of which I will not bother regaling you with, lest your head explode, but food was numero uno on his own personal Shit List. As such, as a toddler he ate such a lack of variety that I frequently wondered if I’d birthed an android or robot.

During that point in our lives, we lived with my parents, who assumed much of the childcare responsibilities while I completed my nursing degree. My mother’s solution to Ben’s refusal to eat was to pump him full of Juice.

So, we had a vicious cycle: he wouldn’t eat because he disliked food, but he was so full of carby goodness that he wasn’t hungry so he wouldn’t eat.

It displeased me.

And displeased my mother even more intensely when I informed her that Ben did not require 14 gallons of Juice each day to live.

To her, this was akin to child abuse! How could I deny my son Juice? Juice is healthy AND delicious (I personally, hate juice) and it was calories! And he liked it! I was a Bad Mother for trying to deny him the sweet nectar of the Gods!

I nixed Juice for the next couple of years completely, and have only recently begun to allow the succulent flavor to cross his delicate palate again because he will eat! real! food! now!

Likewise, pop (or soda, whatever you prefer to call it) is staunchly guarded in our home, only to make an appearance on special occasions or when we go out to eat. Unless my kids are sick, in which I assume that any fluids (save from blood or pee) are better than none, and I allow them to drink the carbonated goodness whenever they want.

During this last bout of misery (of which Alex is still suffering), I introduced my youngest to a little drink we call Sprite here in Chicago, and I’ve never seen someone more willing to drink massive amounts of liquid in my life. And who can blame him? I’ve frequently hoped and prayed that someone come along and serve ME a bottle filled with The Uncola, but alas, my dreams have not come to fruitation just yet.

Except that this Plague has gone on for longer than even I expected (having been sick myself for nearly a week) and Alex has become hopelessly infatuated with his new favorite drink. So great is his love for it, that if I dare try to substitute it for mere water, he throws a massive fit (to his credit, he is still both sick AND insufferable), I mean it LOOKS like Sprite, but it doesn’t TASTE like Sprite! THE INJUSTICE!

So here I sit, knowing in my heart of hearts that it is only I who created this particular monster, eating my own words.

And they don’t even taste good.

Yesterday, when I went in to the Beauty School to get my hairs did, I learned something that made my incredibly grubby heart smile: I could get Ben a haircut for $6. $6! A bargain!

Now, having birthed Ben, who was born wearing what I can only describe as a bad toupee, I am no stranger to having to get his hair cut. His first haircut SHOULD have occurred when about half of his newborn hair fell out (on the sides) while the stuff on top was left to be darker and longer than the rest of his head. He looked like a member of Flock of Seagulls.

But, because I was being incredibly sentimental, I refused to cut it (IT’S HIS BABY HAIR, AND I CAN’T CUT IT! IT’S SOOOO CUTE!), and now look back at the pictures and hang my head in shame. What was I thinking?

He began going to the salon with me to get his own hair cut a little after his first birthday because it was just that long and unruly. Had I left it to grow on it’s own, I would surely have picked him up from a weekend at his father’s house sporting a buzz cut, which would have only accentuated the largeness of his head. And TRUST ME when I tell you that he needs NOTHING to accentuate THAT feature.

After awhile, I noticed that he’d return from the salon looking just like I had cut it, only I was $20 poorer, so I took matters into my own (cheap) hands and cut it myself for a couple of years.

Since I have approximately NO eye for style and absolutely no experience in cutting hair, I eventually gave up and started paying someone again. But it STILL looks like I inexpertly cut it, and I hate paying through the teeth for something I can do myself, so I am determined to try out my far cheaper alternative.

————–

I have taken a lot of shit over the years from the male portion of my family (the adults, not the kids) over my practice of painting Ben’s toenails. As a toddler, he’d trundle over to me while I was doing my own nails and indicate that he wanted his done, too. Since he was non-verbal AND I don’t wish to inflict such rigid gender stereotypes on a baby (only GIRLS have their nails painted), I always gave in and painted his nails, too.

No harm, no foul, in my mind.

Well, the males in my family had PLENTY to say to me about that. And often did. Eventually, I made the switch from brightly colored polish to clear, but hey, if the kid wants his damn toenails done (and I’ll never have the daughter to do it with), so fucking be it.

And I can only imagine what they’re going to do when I show them what I have allowed my big son to do now.

I have generously offered to allow Ben to put a chunk of blue (or whatever color he’d like) dye into his hair, JUST LIKE MINE (well, mine is electric red, I’m not so much a blue person) when he gets his haircut. It’s his choice, and I don’t really care one way or another, but since he’d asked to do it when I’d first dyed my hair, I am going to allow it.

And I will most certainly take a hugemongeous amount of shit for it. There will be NO END of what I hear about it.

But hey, I told him that he couldn’t put PINK into it.

So, opinion time, Internet: did I do the right thing? Would you have done this, or am I the worst, most hideous mother on the planet setting my son up for ridicule and tomfoolery?