Giving in

This week has been one break-through after another. While teaching Nick, both he and Catie picked up the word "more" which has made my life just that much easier (read: I don't have to listen to screaming all day long.) Yesterday, Nick starting saying "ball." I am officially not worried about his speech. And, today I took Catie to get her hair cut. I still have mixed emotions about it. I've agonized over this decision longer than I ever agonized about my own hair. You see, it all started when I was pregnant and found out that I was having a boy and a girl. I vowed right then and there that no one would ever have to wonder about Catie's gender. Surprisingly, we've had relatively few people get it wrong, mostly due to the fact that Catie has had 500 times more hair than Nick since birth. I'd like to continue that until her gender is obvious no matter how short or long her hair is (read: puberty.) Why, you may ask? Perhaps I was traumatized by my page boy haircut in the 3rd grade. Maybe it was my short permed hair (read: Grandma hair) in the 1st grade. Maybe it was the time when I was 10 and the man at the fruit stand on the side of the road told my mom that she had some cute boys. Yes, I still remember that. As much as I want Catie to avoid these traumatizing experiences, I also was getting to the point where I couldn't stand how straggly her hair was looking. So, I had the stylist cut off as little as possible, but still even it out. Here's the result:

It's so short! Sigh.... It's only hair; it will grow. It's only hair; it will grow. It's only hair; it will grow...