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Screw that stupid Oregon Trail theme and its false promises. . . there was neither free childcare nor any possibility of me figuring out how to insert my own image into the header. There was only heartbreak and disappointment, and an inexplicable chain of covered wagons that would not go away, no matter how many times I hit "Upload" for my own picture. Screw them, I say. Enough time has been wasted. My readers (yes! plural!) need something to read. Maybe even something interesting, although probably not today.

I think I have a food hangover from all the eating yesterday, and then again at brunch this morning.  Because what you really need the morning after a Thanksgiving feast is obviously pancakes. Big, fat, butter-drenched pancakes. My stomach hates me. Except the part of my stomach that intends to remain slightly pregnant-looking forever. That part loves me right now, and is currently giving thanks for my inability to stop eating foods drenched in butter.

So . . . here's a story:

Yesterday will be remembered forever in the catnamedpig household, not as Elliot's first Thanksgiving, but as the Thanksgiving of Siena's DIY Home Haircut. Photos will be added as soon as we can find our camera (so I would not expect them any time that is particularly close to today.) But the story is worth telling now.

Allow me to set the scene: Siena is at the table, finishing her breakfast and declaring repeatedly that she NEEDS to do an art project, that she is just going to do a project, NOW, because she just needs to cut something really quick, for a special, SPECIAL project, right now, or she won't be my friend anymore today. (This is a common threat, so I am not too worried.) I am getting ready to meet my friend Sara at the gym (yes, she really is a friend, even though she made me work at an ungodly hour of the morning) and Matt is still in bed, despite the steady crescendo of Siena's demands and my requests to "please get up, hon, I have to get going."

I need to put my contacts in before I leave, so I ignore 3+ years of parenting experience and ask Siena to just hold on a minute while I go into the bathroom, telling myself that she will either find something else to play with or that Matt will get up and get out her scissors and paper. . . .

OF COURSE, it does not work out this way. OF COURSE I come out of the bathroom to see her holding the scissors to her scalp, huge chunks of hair in her hand.

The pieces she had cut were so short, less than an inch in some places, that there was really nothing we could do to disguise the damage. I ended up trimming about 6 inches from the rest of her hair and trying to layer the parts around her face a little so it looked like an actual hairstyle and not the result of poor distracted parenting. And then I borrowed a line from Sara (the one who makes me go to the gym) and told Siena that this is something every kid gets to do once, so now she has done it and that's it - never again. We'll see how well that works out.

I have a feeling Elliot's fuzzy mullet is in trouble, if she can ever find her scissors again.