When in Doubt, Just Bake a Cake

I really don't like Brent's latest batch of homebrew. I've tried to like it, really I have, especially since he brewed it with his own hops from the backyard, but it has this certain je ne sais quoi that lingers on my palate (oh alright, I think it tastes musty- there, I said it.) It's unfortunate, too, because we have not one but two kegs of the stuff. Two kegs! Who has two kegs of beer? Who do we think we are? Is this some sort of party house? Are we going to start having shows in our basement? (We do not have a basement, maybe that's for the best...)

I am really feeling happy about the old italicize button tonight.

So I am holding out for apple cider! Oh yes, this year it is all about the apple freaking cider around here. I can't wait! I can't wait! (And I don't even really like juice, which I know is totally weird, but I can get pretty amped up about some homemade apple cider!) (Because clearly I need to get out more...)

(I guess I am also digging the parentheses and the ellipses...)

We picked apples at our friend's grandma's property. And by "we picked apples" I mean that Brent RISKED HIS LIFE climbing a big ass apple tree, giving it the shakedown and then scurrying around to collect the fallen soldiers while I sat around and ate chips and tossed a few apples into a box as we were getting ready to leave. I was in charge of supervising the children and I'm happy to report that no one was lost or injured. See, I did my part.

(Oh my god. Seriously, somebody should do something about that child's hair.)

Sawyer flies on that Radio Flyer bike. He really loves to go for bike rides around the block and screams "BIKE!" repeatedly until someone agrees to take him. Every time we go in or out through the garage he jumps on that thing and peels out down the sidewalk. A habit that is very annoying when you are actually trying to go somewhere at a certain time. And the whole screaming-until-I-get-what-I-want thing is getting totally out of hand with him, too. He's also famous for going completely boneless when you try to pick him up and move him away from breakables or dangerous objects.

(I ragged on Jack a few entries back, so I figured it was Sawyer's turn this week.)

Speaking of Jack, we finally did it! A real haircut! Yes, I know, three and a half years old and he finally gets a real one. What can I say? We are slackers. Brent and I had been bugging him for the past few months about getting at least a trim, but he was adamant about keeping his long hair. Which I would have been fine with except that he just looked so scruffy all of the time and I just knew there was a sharp looking little man hidden under that mop of blond curls. I really wanted the haircut to be his idea or at least for him to be into it and thus we hit the roadblock. He was having a particularly shaggy day on Saturday when I finally got the idea to rephrase the haircut scenario to include the words "just like Dad's". Now believe me, giving Jack and Brent-like haircut freaked me out, but those three little words sealed the deal and I grabbed the clippers before anyone could lose their nerve. And...

Isn't he dapper? But oh my, biggest big boy ever. That makes me kind of sad.

But I do love the new and de-shaggified Jack. He liked it too, at first. He kept running back to the mirror to admire his new look and petting his freshly shorn head like it was a baby duck. When the afternoon fatigue rolled in, however, Jack discovered that his new haircut did not allow him to practice his time honored tradition of twirling his curls around his fingers. This has been a long standing habit for Jack and one that always indicated to us the degrees of his tiredness. One hand twirling meant he was a little bit sleepy but could easily be rallied. But every once in awhile he'd have a particularly taxing day and both hands would be twirling away in that mess of curls. Then you knew that he was going to be a disaster until bedtime. On that afternoon, I watched Jack as he brought his fingers to his hair and saw the painful look of realization on his face: his hair twirling days were gone. His bottom lip began to quiver and I went with the first thing that came to my mind- cake! Yes, I made a "Happy Haircut" cake for Jack. It was pumpkin spice, nothing special (except for the pumpkin, of course!) from the Better Homes and Gardens Cookbook that is probably gathering dust on your shelf. I iced it with a maple cream cheese frosting. Mmmm. The cake provided the necessary distraction to get us through the afternoon and we caught Jack twirling Sawyer's hair as Brent read bedtime books that night. I guess little brothers are good for something every once in awhile.

Jack says he is knitting a white had for Dad for Christmas. Sweet. Now I don't have to worry about finding Brent a present.

What's wrong with me? Why do big boy haircuts make me feel so sad? Just the other week I was complaining about how I'm so over Jack and his terrible threes. So how come my eyes started to water when I tossed that pile of golden curls into the garbage can? And why did I get choked up when Jack walked down the hallway this morning and it took me a second to recognize him?

These kids are turning me sappy. I'm going to go eat another piece of "Happy Haircut" cake.

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