Getting my hair done

Lucy is doing my hair right now, using her "equipments" - which is a set of wooden chopsticks and some seriously sticky fingers. She says she is going to make my hair long and beautiful.

Good Luck with that.

Her littel body is wedged behind me on the stool, and she is keeping up a running commentary about her excellent work, and how beautiful my hair looks, just like Aurora. Every so often, she will announce "I have to go potty" and run to the bathroom. Then she chants to herself (if you can chant at the top of your lungs) "FRONT TO BACK" and then come racing back to return to her very difficult task of making my hair "booty-full, like Auwoahwah".

Man, I wish I really could be beautiful like Aurora, kid - but I don't sleep, which is what Sleeping Beauty does best. So I am going to go for something a little more attainable - like haggard evil witch.

Lucy has also begun worrying about her appearance. The other day she said something about getting fat, whcih I found so alarming and unsettling that I immediately started peppering her with questions about where she had heard about being fat. Certainly not here, because honestly I may curse like a sailor, but rarely use the word "fat" - which I consider the true F-word.

I have never worried about my weight - which may be why I gained 80 pounds when I was pregnant. I have never discussed my children's weight, or told them they shouldn't eat something because it might make them "fat". I won't let them eat something because it will make them totally hyper and obnoxious - but that is the extent of it.

I am off to a night on the town, and I am going to squeeze myself into something totally inappropriate for a woman of my age, and accompany my husband to a gig at a local bar. I think I will even wear some makeup, which is just unheard of........