The Mangy Monkey

On a scale of one to ten (one being pathetic and ten being very, very bad), where do I fall if, under the pretense of giving my son a haircut, I made him look like a muppet who may or may not have mange? In my defense, he moved. All the same, I swore I would not be one of those mothers who not only trims her own hair but also her son's - thereby creating a family of trolls - and yet here I am, justifying what may very well be deemed physical abuse by the fact that it isn't worth paying for him to get a haircut yet. After all, his hair does not yet grow at the same consistency all over his head. Unfortunately, now it never may.

On a more positive note, Isaac's mental capabilities don't seem to be affected by his mother's poor judgment. He has officially learned how to open doors (I'm trying to imagine in what context this can be construed as a good thing considering it means he can leave the house without my knowledge, lock himself in the backroom and slam the toilet lid up and down, or lock me out of the house, to mention a few possibilities . . . and by "possibilities," I do not mean "things that have already happened." At least, mostly I don't.)

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