Red rum?
Ever since I cut Dash’s hair, strange things have been happening to me: neighborhood drama, apocalyptic weather, and a sudden and complete lack of lettuce at the grocery store are just a few small disasters that have come into being since Sunday’s Extreme Makeover: Baby Edition.
Ignoring my omen on Sunday night was a huge mistake. I was sitting at the kitchen table reading while Dash ate his dinner, and paused briefly to look up at him. He had — in the two minutes since I last looked up — decided to eat applesauce with his hands, and was wearing the half-empty bowl on top of his head like a hat. Being the good-natured and well-tempered mother that I am, I simply smiled and removed the applesauce hat while reminding him that the spoon is a very underrated utensil that can make eating a lot easier.
Then I received a splatter of applesauce on my face, followed by an evil chuckle.
[I will leave the disciplinary action that took place next a mystery, but I will say that it involved a very un-fun bath and a "rest" in the time-out chair. ]
Usually when Dash goes to time out, the following routine takes place:
2-5 minutes crying
1-3 minutes covering face and checking to make sure I see how sad he looks
4-6 minutes talking to himself and trying to slide far enough down the chair that I won’t notice
2-4 minutes crying after I do notice, and demand that he sit back up in time out properly
1-3 minutes counting to ten with me to calm down and focus before heading back out into the world
Sunday was different, though. As soon as he sat in time out he fell silent - no crying. He just sat there, staring at me, hands folded in his lap. I walked over to him about five minutes into time out and asked if he was ready to count to ten with me.
“No,” he said, lowering his head but still looking up at me with his eyes in that creepy Jack Nicholson Shining sort of way. “No counting.”
“I guess you aren’t ready to hop down, then.”
“NO.”
“Ok. Stay in time out, Dash. We’re not going anywhere.”
Mike and I migrated to the kitchen where we could still see him but were far enough away to not be an audience for him. He continued to sit silently, staring at us all the while, for fifteen minutes. Finally I walked over, counted to ten by myself, then tucked him in bed without argument.
“Night night, I love you.”
“Bye,” he said, pushing my kiss out of his face.
At the time I figured he was just mad at me — after all, I did force him to wash his own hair (which he hates) and didn’t allow any toys in the bubbleless bath. He didn’t finish his dinner, and he got absolutely no praise from his father or myself for the rest of the evening. Of course he was pissed, I thought as I fell asleep. He’s just mad, he’ll be fine tomorrow.
I swear to God: since that night (the haircut night), my son has been the embodiment of disaster and deviousness. Every moment has been spent in search of a new way to destroy the world. Whenever I catch him in trouble, he gives me the Shining look and smiles. His smile says, “You just wait, lady, you just wait.”
Mike commented last night after dinner, “He does look a lot meaner with the short hair.”
I scoffed, “You have no idea. I think I somehow shaved his soul out on Sunday.”
I’m waiting for the sun to drop out of the sky.
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