Two Gabriels

I was in the kitchen doing something totally frivilous like cooking or teaching when I hear a crash behind me, coming from the living room.
It is a crash that only means one thing- some child has fallen off of something. I whirl around, already halfway to the source of the sound before I'm even done turning. There is Jude, flat on his back, head mere inches away from the brick hearth, doing that giant air suck-in that preceedes a really serious fit of wailing.

Immediately I assess that Jude has climbed up on the coffee table, and from there onto the window sill, then fallen. I'm rocking him in my arms when I see Gabriel attempt the same thing.

"Did you show him that?" I yell at Gabriel. He stops climbing.
"Yes." He says, trying to assess my mood, and clearly failing to see why I'm so upset.
"Get down from there right now!" I hiss-yell at him and he scrambles down.

Jude has quieted, so I pull him away from my shoulder to discover his face, and the left arm of my shirt, are covered in blood. The kitchen sways a little bit, and I try not to pass out. Why does children's blood have to be so dang bright?

I clean nose, lips, and cheek off, then go sit on the couch. He snuggles for a minute, sounding like a boxer when he breathes.

Gabriel is hovering by me, disturbed by my yelling, or Jude's yelling, or Jude's bleeding. Or maybe he's just hovering because he's an idiot. I don't know. He tries to climb into my lap, too, sitting on his injured brother in the process.

"Get off!" I say to him. "You're hurting your brother. Wait your turn." Jude scrambles off my lap, blood flow slowing to a sluggish trickle. Gabriel is immediately in his place.
"Gabriel Vincent," I start, holding his chin so that he looks me in the eye. "Jude follows what you do. You did something dangerous, and he got hurt. I am very upset with you." I continue holding his chin so that he has to look at me.

Gabriel looks into my eyes, very intently, then a huge smile of wonder fills his face.

"Mama!" He says, pointing into my eyes, "There's TWO Gabriels in your eyes! See? One, Two!"

Good Lord. Two Gabriels. Add them to the original, that that makes three.

Salon Donaldson

I know that hair stylists get a lot of "wish commands" from their female clients. "Make me look like Angelena Jolie" or "I want a sort of Gwenyth Paltrow thing" coming from the woman with the fire red, wiry hair. You know.

But I never quite pegged men for the same thing. I assumed they were either so innately comfortable with their appearance that they were fine with whatever happened in the barber chair, or they were so stubbornly fixated on the haircut they perfected in 1982 that there was no reason to experiment.

So when the clippers were hauled out from under the sink today, and Ken told me that if I didn't deal with his hair immediately, he was going to leave me for someone who kept hair-dissolving vats of acid always on hand, I opened Salon Donaldson for business. Fine. All four boys needed their Christmas haircut, anyway.

But then I started to get the weirdo "wish commands". From boys AND the man.

Ken's was easiest: "Make me not look like the wolfman." Ok, I can certainly do that. And with Diesel around, eating the giant tufts of hair that rolled off Ken's head and down to the floor, cleanup was a cinch!

Jude's unspoken wish command was also easy: "Just don't make me bleed." I'm pretty skilled at avoiding drawing blood with the clippers and scissors, so even with a squirmy 15 month old, all went well.

I was starting to feel like some rockstar hair stylist when Gabriel's turn came up. His command was bizarre and obscure: "Make me look like Nemo!" I was unsure if he meant the fish or the child, but when he started hitting his hand against his head and yelling "ow! ow! ow!" at the same time, I figured that he meant the child (this was a move Nemo the child would make. I've never seen Nemo the fish do it). Since Gabriel wouldn't know any better, I cut his hair the way I like it- spikey.
I thought he looked fantastic, particularly since he sat still and let me properly blend it in. Ken said he looked like Edward Cullen.

Then came Joaquin. And he turned those big brown eyes on me, and asked in his sweet little voice: "Can you make me look like Superman?" What could I say? I managed a confident "sure!" and wracked my brains, trying to remember what Superman's hair looked like. All I came up with was black. And some spit curl action.
In the end, I just cut Joaquin's hair as usual, and then slicked it all on a severe side part, hoping that the combination of comb lines and wetness would give it a "good guy in Gotham" feel. Only I think Gotham was Batman, not Superman. And then I was trying to remember where Superman came from. Maybe Metropolis?

Anyway, I'll have much more sympathy for my hairdresser the next time I go in and demand she make me look like Angelina Jolie.

Feet Are Freezing, Must Be Winter

Nothing much new to report. Just the usual:
- babies removing own diaper, pooping, stomping in it
- dogs proving housebreaking is more horrible than potty training
- children stapling their hands
- giant house projects
- holidays and visitors coming
Today I accused my very good friend of doling out "sci-fi smut" to her children and I'm still chuckling over the look both she and the used bookstore clerk gave me.
Yeah....that's all I've got. Ug.