I can't decide if he looks like Edward Furlong in "American History X", Private Pyle from "Full Metal Jacket", or that kid from "Sling Blade". Should you ever get the wild hair to go buy yourself a hair trimmer to give your 4 year old a hair cut, a word to the wise: DON'T.
If you spend any amount of time reading this car wreck filled with incorrect pronunciation and grammar, you know that I'm either doing one of two things: pontificating about the Red Sox or talking about my deranged family.
Yesterday was one of those days where I went to bed at night thinking I'm a horrible Dad and convinced my kids would be better off being raised by Angie and a hamster: every time I turned around there was yelling, crying, screaming, and throwing something at someone. And that was just me.
Due to the fact it was pouring down rain all day and about 40 degrees outside, we spent all of Saturday indoors. Having to spank Trot on the hand for trying to bite through the PlayStation cord and then pulling it off the cabinet, then listening to him scream for, I kid you not, 47 minutes that "Dad pop" while he smacked his hand was just the start.
Until nap time, the rest of the day consisted of Trot and Rakes on what appeared to be a concerted mission to do everything in their power to see how many different shades of red my face could turn: if I wrote it all down, it'd make the Mitchell Report seem small.
At 5, I had to go pick Ciera up from play practice in the rain and somehow in the entire 20 minute drive home she picks me backing into the garage as the perfect time to let me know she has the Youth Pastors keys: I didn't ask why she had the keys because I was scared the top my head would pop off.
Giving Rakes his haircut while he screams "Dis it taking FOREBER" in between crying fits, it hit me about 5 minutes in: This was NOT going to be good. I don't think Angie even got that slow pit in her stomach like I did: she pretty much just started to cry.
We ended the day with Curly and me playing Star Wars Legos on the PS2, fighting the bad guys while my 4 year old mental patient berated me with "You not mobing fast enough, Dad" for an hour and a half.
After feeling sorry for myself the rest of the night, I woke up this morning and came to some realizations:
I'm not a bad Dad, I just had a bad day, and all the things my kids do that make me want to run away and join the French Foreign Legion don't make me lose my patience: They TEACH me patience.
Finally, I learned this: trying to cut corners and save money with 3 kids and a stay-at-home Mom anywhere you can is a good and noble idea.
You just don't do it with hair cuts.
The Stuff You Can’t See
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