|"Nap times. Nap times are the worst."|
I thought I'd take a brief timeout from trying to load Pez into dispensers, to fill you in on one of the weekend's exploits.
Oh, you don't fill your Pez dispensers on Monday?
The fact is, Doc's hair got out of control. Freakishly thick and curly, the mop on our seven-month-old's head had taken a turn from Chia Pet-cute, right into the land of mistaken identities.
Often, I'd be making breakfast, turn around, and be confused by the person sitting in the rolly seat behind me. "Albert Brooks?" I'd inquire.
He'd wave a toy at me, "Daaaa."
I'd hand him a teething biscuit. "I loved your work in The Muse."
On Saturday, Husband and I finally took a look at the smallest Kellerman, and decided the boy needed an intervention.
"He looks like a cotton ball."
"But it is cute when he rubs the back of his head and makes dreadlocks when he's frustrated."
"He looks like he stuck his finger in a light socket."
I considered. "You're right. He doesn't need to look like me any sooner than he needs to."
And so, for the next fifteen minutes, we held down a very angry, beet-red baby, and sheared him like the fat sheep he is.
We now own our very own Albert Brooks with a Mohawk.
Until Next Time, Readers!