September 2009 Archives

After one and a half months potty training was a bust for me. Everything I was doing was yielding little results. I would have one success only to be followed by more and more failures. All parties involved where frustrated. It was time to research again. I needed more graphs. I needed more data. I needed more ideas. I needed Google.

Google and I are great friends. I knew her when she was a newborn. Tyler introduced me to her fancy search engine and although he referred to her as a "thing" I knew immediately she was a female, because who else can keep all that information straight and organized?

Google provided me with the fresh restart I needed. If anything it was nice to see what other parents were doing and that I was not the only one. I did get a bit angry at some naive parents' suggestions. It seems when some people have an easy time with it they feel that everyone else with problems must be doing it wrong. They also have a tendency to rub in their accomplishments. One parent insisted that all she did was tell her daughter to "now pee on the potty" and the next day she was out of diapers. She was chastising another parent that was having trouble telling her, "You're making this all too complicated. Potty training is so easy!" I wanted to invite her to my home and prove it to me. I also wanted to crush her spirit.

I have never wished harm on another human, so I knew I was stressed on the subject when I had these thoughts. I also knew I was getting delirious when I was willing to spend unimaginable amounts of money to help me get the potty job done. I am extremely frugal and when I was looking up flights to the other side of the United States for a potty training boot camp I knew I was hitting my breaking point.

I did stumble on some interesting information during all my research and decided to completely change my attitude about the whole thing. I decided to make the process more fun and inviting. It needed to fit both my personality and Isaac's.

First of all I needed to teach Isaac a few skills to help him feel successful. He needed to know what wet and dry meant. He needed to be more of a pro at pulling his own pants down. He also needed to be clearer on what was expected of him. He also needed more motivation than just pleasing his parents.

For the next few weeks I worked on these skills with him. I would point out wet items and dry items in the house. He wore mostly cotton underwear at home so I could continue to show him wet and dry and say, "hey you are going pee pee." When I would notice he was going, I would say "now you are wet. We like to stay dry." I would try to make this as non-threatening and casual as possible. I then would comment, "someday you will put your pee in the potty. That will be awesome!"

I had him watching every potty video I could find that I felt was of high quality. The fact that Elmo used the potty too was a huge eye opener for him. We talked a lot about the potty and how we all use the potty. I got a ton of children's potty books and read them to him often. We would talk about the characters and point to the pictures. We would take field trips to our own potty and talk about the things we read about. Our toys used the potty often and we would wipe their bottoms. He had a set of bath cars that would fill with water in a small hole out the bottom and we would hold them over the toilet and they would "pee" into the toilet. Isaac would dutifully wipe them clean and flush. He was very encouraging to them and would exclaim "Good job, red car! Good job Lighting McQueen!"

I also tried using this same technique for poop. When he would poop in a diaper we would hold the diaper over the toilet and let it fall in and then explain, "Poop's home is in the potty. Poop belongs in the potty. When we poop we will try to poop into the potty like mommy and daddy." For a teaching session I got one of his toys and it would grunt and strain over his potty chair and poop out a Hersey's chocolate square. It was all I had in my cupboard. The first time I tried this Isaac's eyes were huge and he squealed in delight. He then dove straight in after the candy and quickly plunked it in his mouth. Thankfully the potty hadn't been used yet. He then yanked the toy from my hand and shook and squeezed the thing all the while excitedly questioning, "Where is the chocolate? Where did it go? More poo poo chocolate, please!" I learned my lesson not to use anything as easily recognizable as Hersey's chocolate again.

Isaac was also still weary to sit on the potty. So I had to make that more inviting. I ditched the potty chair for a while, since I felt too many negative feelings were attached to its use. I went and got a potty chair that fit over our toilet seat and a stool. I then decorated up the toilet with paper and put waxed paper over the tank area. I put play dough and some toy cars up there as well. I faced him backwards on the toilet and let him color pages I ripped out of a coloring book and taped to the back of the seat. I chose car characters since he was really into that at the time. I would give him water and after an hour I would take him in there to play.

I did all this for about a month and really only got him to pee on the potty a few times. I was happy with the results, because at this point I was just happy he was sitting there without fuss or major melt down. The real miracle came on a day when I least expected it. He had been sitting on the potty coloring and decided he was done after twenty minutes. He climbed off and we both went into the living room. I noticed I had an email, so I started to reply as he was playing with some toys. We hadn't gotten around to putting his pants back on.

After a few moments he wandered back into the bathroom and I quickly tried to finish up my email in case he tried to get into some trouble in there. Quiet is never good when it comes from a two year old boy.

Suddenly he came running back into the living room exclaiming a bunch of incoherent toddler speak of which I could only understand the words "potty" and "fell in." He also looked extremely worried. I immediately begin to panic over the number of Tyler's fancy techno gadgetry that could have been dropped in the toilet. I rushed into the room as if I could save the doomed device or catch it lest it be hanging on a precipice. Upon my arrival I peered into the toilet hesitantly expecting to find an iPod only to discover a child-sized turd. I had never been so happy to find a floater in my life. I knew that it was not in there before and only Isaac and I were in the house. I really hoped I didn't have a toddler-sized intruder using our toilet that was going to spoil my fun. I jumped up and down and screamed happily and Isaac's expression changed from worry to glee as he realized what was happening. I immediately took a picture with my phone and sent a picture and text to my husband. I then called him to relay the newest achievement. Tyler awkwardly spoke with Isaac and I while trying to avoid using the words 'pee' 'poop' and 'potty' and not alarm his co-workers to the strange client he might be working with that would require him to use such vocabulary.

My pessimistic side was trying to convince me that this was a freak accident and he probably pooped on the floor and shoveled it into the potty. But my optimistic side was winning out and I was assured that all of our hard work for the last two months was finally paying off. After this point I knew it was all a matter of practice and continue doing what I was doing, since it was finally working.

Isaac randomly used the potty for the next few weeks and I was comfortable with the way things were going. He was not a master of the potty domain yet, but I felt he was getting there.

Just before the beginning of the spring season my brother came to live with us until the baby was due. It was a nice arrangement: he did lots of chores around our house and yard and got free rent until school was out. I slightly fretted over this big change in our household and how it would affect our potty training progress. My brother provided little intrusion in the matter as it turned out and Isaac continued to do well with expected set backs here and there. My brother also provided another cheerleader for Isaac and Isaac didn't seem to notice that my brother was horrified and grossed out by the situation.

Only after a week of living with us and watching Isaac learn to go on the potty my brother summed up everything about potty training it took me months to learn. He said when talking with a toddler about going to the potty it is best not to ask "do you have to use the potty?" because he will tell you "no." It is better to tell him "it is time to use the potty." And then trick him into it and wear him down when he says "no."

Most importantly, he confided to me "no means yes and yes means it's too late."

Three weeks into "potty training" and I thought I was going to have a mental break. One of the worst things about being a psychologist is that you can diagnose your own mental shortcomings on a moment-to-moment basis. And then check the DSM-IV for accuracy in your self-diagnosis.

It was the middle of winter and I had realized three things. One: most people potty train in the summer so they can run their naked toddler around outside and not worry about the mess. Two: it is recommended not to potty train with an end date in mind. My end date was six months from when I started, because I was going to have a baby. And that brings me to my third point: don't potty train when a stressful event is inevitable (example: moving, changing schools, HAVING A BABY!). But like all good overachievers when I hear the words "you can't..." I immediately want to prove I can. It seemed none of the books I read agreed on anything except those points. I was 0 for 3.

I had given up on my end date. I would be happy if I could get Isaac to even speak friendly about the potty. I was also clueless on how to even start the process of getting him to actually sit on the potty. At first I went with what I knew. I had raised dogs and when a dog looks like it's about to go you rush it outside. After a while they get the idea. When Isaac would fidget or squirm I would immediately rush him over to his potty chair. He would scream and freak, because I think the first few times I was a bit too eager and scared him. Since I am a good little behaviorist I know when something doesn't work you have to change what you are doing. I figured if taking him to the potty didn't work I would bring the potty to him. A few times of him peeing and me rushing his potty chair to catch the pee was exhausting. I also hardly ever got the timing right. Most of the time I was following him around with the potty chair. He would sneeze or pause in playing and I would fumble excitedly with the chair and slide it under him like a baseball runner trying to get past home plate. He would give me a look of confusion and concern that I am sure I will see again when I am old and senile.

I continued to take data on his fluid intake and urine output with baffling results. I never took physics, but even I know what is outside the realm of possibility. If anyone can explain to me how you can pump over 8oz of fluid into a little body and not have any pee come out the other end for over 3 hours I would love to hear the mathematical and anatomical theories on that.

It was evident that Isaac was overwhelmed as well. One night I decided to test my rusting child counseling skills to see how he felt about all this potty training business. Each of his toys used the potty and we clapped and cheered for them. Isaac's enthusiasm for each successful toy I could tell was lack luster. I could even detect a bit of envy. I then took his favorite stuffed animal. A yellow duck we named Brahms, because when you pull his tail Brahms' lullaby tune plays out of his butt. I told Brahms he had to use the potty and Brahms said he didn't want to and kept exclaiming "No!" I then walked Brahms over the potty chair and had him sit on it. I puppeted Brahms yelling and screaming to be left alone in the same fashion I had witnessed a certain toddler doing the last few weeks. Isaac clapped and squealed in delight, gleefully encouraging his toy's rebellious outbursts. I then had a long talk with Brahms that it was time to use the potty and that we all use it at some point. After much discussion Brahms decided to give the potty one more try and sat on it with pride as he peed lemonade I had hidden in a syringe behind his back. Isaac's face crumpled and the look of betrayal would have been almost comical if it hadn't been so revealing of his true feelings. He marched over to the offending toy and yanked him from the potty. He then screamed a loud "No, Brahms, NO!" and promptly ran over the kitchen cupboards and thrust the toy inside and slammed the door.

My husband's eyes lit up and with his eyebrows raised higher than I have ever seen them whispered to me in his best psychoanalysis impression, "So, Isaac, tell us how you really feel."

I then tried to smooth things over only to get pulled into a rousing game of "no."

"Isaac do you want to take a break?"

"No."

"Isaac, do you want a snack?"

"No!"

"Isaac, let's go for a bike ride."

"NO!"

I tried to soak up as much comfort and joy from the game as I could, but I let out a big sigh. I was frustrated too. Neither of us were happy and I rhetorically stated, "You are probably as frustrated with this potty training as I am."

There was a short pause.

"Uh...yes?" he answered as if trying the word out for the first time. I was hoping the day that word magically appeared in his vocabulary would be cause for celebration after months of hearing its counterpart, but instead I felt empty.

A few months before my second child was to be born I decided it was time to potty train my first. I pretty much fretted and stressed over the day that I would have to confidently begin this process. When he was younger I tried to implement some "pre-potty training" activities with failing results. I still shuddered at the memory of the day his first potty arrived in the mail. He eyed the little chair with a hole in it with concern. He couldn't really talk at this point, but if he could I am sure he would have asked me how someone could sit on something they might fall through. The potty was very obviously a doorway into hell as far as he was concerned. I promptly took off his pants and tried to get him to sit on it with no success. I then tried to get him to sit on it with his clothes on and still, no go. I put the potty in the bathroom and tried to coax him on each time we would go in there. It took a long time before he felt confident to use this seat. I wondered how I was supposed to potty train him when he would refuse to sit on the potty.

Up to this point my potty training experience only applied to the three Guide Dogs for the Blind puppies I had trained. I figured a child was smarter than a dog so he should catch on at some point. I had visions of my son in High School using the lawn to go the bathroom and me following behind him with a black plastic bag to tie and keep in my pocket until I could find a place to throw it away.

I began my initial training experience armed with knowledge I had gathered off of the Internet. It was confusing and strange trying to gather information I could use. One professional insisted that children should not be trained until they are at least 3, while another provided statistics that waiting too long would only make the process harder and create bladder and bowel problems. Already I had conflicting information from two different schools of thought on the subject. Some moms insisted that boys were harder than girls to train and other moms boasted their children were trained over night or in a week after some light coaxing from them or another family member. I longed for such a miracle to happen with my experience. I took one look at my stubborn son and decided that this was going to be awful.

Like most parents I looked to this day with fear. I wanted to just get it over with. I wanted the miracle child who woke up one day and said "Mummy, I want to use the potty!" I wanted someone to do it for me. And I wanted it done yesterday.

To make matters worse Isaac was just entering that horrible "no" stage. Children are smart about the use of the word at first, so it sort of sneaks up on the parents. At first we were amused at his use of the word. I would hold out a favorite cracker and ask, "Isaac do you want a cracker?" and he would mumble "no" as he grabbed and devoured the offering. Tyler and I would chuckle and muse over the cute interaction. We were also proud. After all, that counted as one of his first words next to "mommy" and "daddy."

The next trial of "no's" Isaac began to have more meaning behind the word. He would say no to just about everything. There is a certain kind of comfort and joy knowing what the answer to every question will be. Predictability I came to expect and look forward to hearing. I would tell Isaac, "It is time to wash your hands." Isaac would put forth his inevitable 'no' and look distressed for a moment. To most watchers it may seem he might put up a fight, but once I picked him up and started the task he would calm and do it anyway.

As time went on the 'no' was still a staple answer and although I began to tire of hearing it I still felt comforted knowing it was coming. Even if at this point he was beginning to shout it out and adding more venom behind the word. I even started to have a bit of fun.

"Isaac, do you want a BMW?"
"No!"

"Isaac, do you want a foot rub?"
"No!"

"Isaac, would you like a personal chef to create a confectionary masterpiece in which Gregorian Monks of the Swiss Alps grow the ingredients?"
"NO!"

Isn't this a fun little game? See what I mean by the 'no' providing predictability bringing comfort and joy? "Soak up the comfort and joy," I would tell myself.

Just the other day I was in the store and saw a weary mother pushing her toddler in the grocery basket. The toddler was in a feisty mood and was exclaiming 'no' to just about anything the mother offered. She finally asked in a huff: "Do you want me to buy you a private island?" The little girl screamed out a "NOOOO!" and the mother gave a little smile to herself and mumbled, "I thought you would say that." I could practically taste the comfort and joy dripping off her. Other parents were playing the same game. It must have been universal. I wondered if I visited the poorest villages of indigenous countries if the parents there were having as much fun.

The key is to ask for something the child doesn't quite understand yet. Otherwise it backfires.

So I began potty training. I started out when Isaac was a year and a half, just making him sit on the potty when I would go to the bathroom. Six months later Isaac was still refusing to sit there. He also became more deliriously angry to follow me in there as time went by. I decided that the easing into potty training method was not working for either of us. I started to do some more research. And by research I mean I read just about every book available by a creditable author on potty training. I also took notes and created a behavior plan. Don't judge me, I have a Master's in child psychology and after seven years of school they practically bore the natural mother instinct out of me. I have to read to fill in those instinctual gaps. And create behavior plans.

With charts.

And graphs.

(and ok I admit...the occasional statistical data. BUT you have to admit the charts and graphs are meaningless if you don't have the means and averages to back them up!)

I measured Isaac's fluid intake and noted the average time it took for him to urinate. I filled in the data on my chart and began to draw predictions on when his next urination session would occur. The graph was color-coded.

I decided a blind study was not conducive to my experiment, so I decided to explain to my test subject the nature of study.

"Isaac," I started "We are going to begin potty training."

"No," he replied dutifully.

I love it when my test subjects are as excited as I am.

"You will use the potty to pee and poop."

"No."

I felt the stirrings of comfort.

"You will no longer wear a diaper. You will only wear cotton underwear or nothing at all when we are at home. I haven't decided what we will do when we need to go out."

"No."

I felt joy.

On Raising a Guide Dog:

It is hard to describe a miracle when you have lived it. Even harder trying to write an emotion that doesn't exist except in what we cannot see or touch. And while I am stumbling in the dark with explanations I will start from the beginning. Maybe I will find my way as I write.

When I was twelve I wanted one thing more than anything. It wasn't a brand name pair of jeans. I had no need for material things. It wasn't to be able to wear make-up. I had no use for vanity. It wasn't to be popular. I had no desire for others to determine my worth.

I wanted to raise a Guide Dog puppy.

I saw a clipping in a magazine about raising Guide Dog puppies in 4-H and I was like a torpedo in my pursuit to achieve this goal. My sixth grade teacher was the local leader and I think I annoyed her with my million questions a day about the project. My parents took a while to convince, but they eventually caved.

I raised two German Shepherds and would have raised more if college wasn't looming so closely in the distance. I always promised myself that before I had kids I would raise at least one more. Something didn't feel complete. An unfinished puzzle with an important piece missing: the one that reveals the picture.

My husband and I got Balina soon after the ink was dry on our mortgage to our first house. I had just finished graduate school and was about to embark in an exciting career in school psychology and counseling. The school I was set to work for had agreed to allow Balina to come to work with me; in fact, they were ecstatic about the idea.

Balina started out as an amazing puppy. She was house trained in a week and learned the majority of her commands early. She did have one weakness, and that was other dogs. If ever a dog could have ADHD one minute and be the model citizen the next, it was she. And I think most people in our Guide Dog group were convinced my husband and I were crazy when we insisted she was the perfect dog outside of our club meetings. In all other ways she was seemingly ordinary.

Except she wasn't simply ordinary.

I had a secret wish that Balina would fail out of Guide Dog school and Tyler and I could keep her. Most guide dog puppy raisers have this secret wish in the back of their mind. I remember the day I realized she was meant for something bigger than being our devoted pet. It was the day I realized she was special.

I went up to visit my parents and see my cousin's new baby. Balina was only a few months old. Things started out calm and Balina was doing her normal puppy thing until she started to become agitated. I took her outside because I thought maybe she needed to go "do her business." Balina didn't need to go, but seemed to calm a bit while outside. I brought her back in and after a while she started to become frantic. She was jumping up at me. Something she hadn't done before. She was pulling on her leash whining to get away from me.

I picked her up to take her home and make my speedy exit. As I was making my apologies and trying to sooth a wiggling and squirming dog she jumped straight out of my arms and over to my younger cousin who was laying on the floor. My younger cousin has cerebral palsy; a condition that confines her to a wheel chair and prevents her from verbally communicating. Balina began to lick her face and paw near her. My cousin looked shocked and I quickly jumped in to grab my dog only to have Balina squiggle her way back. I was falling all over myself to apologize. After all this is the Guide Dog puppy raisers equivalent to having your child screaming in a crowded store for candy. My aunt and uncle were extremely understanding about my dog's misbehavior. Balina was more catlike in her ability to squirm out of my grasp. Each attempt I made only left me more annoyed. I couldn't get her under control. Suddenly my cousin started to have a seizure, a large and serious grand mal seizure. My cousin had been having trouble with seizures in the last few years and they had become increasing in the frequency and duration. Balina just lay next to her and kept her head close by as my aunt uncle and my other cousin rushed to get my younger cousin's medicine and make the necessary calls. When the seizure was over Balina was suddenly calm.

I drove home and cried, because I knew then that Balina was too special to keep. She could help people with her gift and I was selfish to try and keep her with me. People always ask: "how can you raise a dog, love it, and then give it up?" I don't have an answer other than I don't think I can love something so completely and ever really give it up. Each dog I have raised is a part of me and I have followed each of my dogs to their new owners like a parent would follow a child. Do we expect our children live with us forever? Or do we raise them in hopes they will start a family of their own and achieve the things we have only dreamed of? The second thing I always hear from questioners is not really a question, but a statement: "I could never give up one of my pets." My answer to that: I don't believe it. I think each of us has the ability in us to give up something we love to better the life of someone else. If we didn't have this ability I wouldn't want to raise children in a world where this type of altruism didn't exist. Someday my children or someone I know will be affected by a gift given by someone who gave up a part of herself. It may have been hard for her, emotional, or inconvenient, but she did it and it made a difference even if she didn't see it.

As the months with Balina moved on she continued to astound me. I worked in a school and my chief duty was to counsel junior high students. Balina always stayed in her corner of my office curled up on her bed until a student would come in that was in extreme need. Usually these were the worst cases I ever had to deal with. Students who had been abused, students who were emotionally lost, and students who turned to drugs or abused their bodies to cope with stress....over and over again Balina would come out of the corner, only for these students, and rest her head on the couch next to him or her. If the student would look over to her without fear she would nudge the students hand and place her head on his or her lap. The student would usually cry and in that moment I knew that he or she was safe.

Balina was an emotional catharsis for not only the students, but parents too. I had a number of concerned parents in my office over the year I worked with Balina at my side. One set of parents I remember well. Their son had just tried to commit suicide the night before. They sat in my office in silence. I usually like to wait for the person in my office to speak first after the introductions are made. This silence was awful and my heart broke for them, because I knew that I didn't have the words to comfort them and I didn't have the rapport to reach out and offer a hug or touch: which is what I wanted to do. Balina didn't have that awkward space people hold between them. She uncurled herself from her mat and trotted calmly over to the mother and father and managed to lay her head in both of their laps. The look in her eyes soaked up all their sadness and I had to look away while both mother and father cried and held Balina. I usually have to remind people to ask permission to pet her before they do. This one time I made an exception. I knew it was coming. This is what the people on the titanic must have felt when all the lifeboats ran out.

When the day came to take Balina in for her final training I was devastated. I didn't think I could give her up, but she was never really mine. I didn't know how I could proceed in this next step in my life without her. I had come to depend on her. My husband and I were a week away from having a baby and I needed her in my life. I needed her more right now than anyone else could. It wasn't fair that she could show me what love was all about and then I had to give her back. We brought her inside and my movements felt wooden and fake as I tried to stay emotionally disconnected. The workers in the kennel offer raisers the option to take their dog to the kennel to say good-bye and I couldn't do that extra step. The idea of leaving her in a kennel and closing the door with the intention of never coming back was too hard to fathom. So we said our good-byes and rushed back to the car. I glanced back her direction only to see her confused expression as she jumped up from her kennel where she was placed. She watched me leave and I let out a gasp and clutched my chest as I held back racking sobs. My husband turned to me with red eyes and concern. At the time, I was nine months pregnant after all.

When we got back to the car my husband announced he had to pee before we went on our long ride home and I sat on the curb next to our car holding the empty leash. The leash was brand new when we first got it as a gift from Guide Dogs for the Blind. It was now worn and marked: the perfect symbol of our journey. In life I felt I had given up a lot. I had given up two other dogs and each time got harder. I don't believe the raisers who say that it gets easier each time you say good-bye. It is only a way we explain the social awkwardness of what we do. After all, who can give up something they love so much?

I looked up and saw a little girl making her way to the office. She stumbled and swayed and felt around for the curb even though she had a person with her holding her hand. The person, her guide, left her for a moment at the door and walked in to the store. The girl stood there briefly and then attempted to enter the building. She walked to the door and felt around. She missed the door handle over and over and soon was way off from the door altogether. I could see the moment she gave up and just stood there in the bushes. She looked defeated.

I wanted to help, but I couldn't. What could I offer her? I felt I would only embarrass us both if I revealed my presence. I could have done something and I sat there watching, waiting for her true guide to rescue her. After all what difference could I make in one life? I suddenly had a flash of memories with Balina. In all these little interactions Balina had had with people she didn't have barriers. I needed to tear mine down.

I realized in that moment I was the blind one and Balina had led me. I had the power in me all along and I just needed to believe in it. I had the power to change lives and someday because of volunteers like me that girl would find the door and walk though. It is a humbling experience to realize the difference someone has made on a life. And I realized the difference Balina had made on mine. Every day people do amazing things, people achieve amazing feats, and I was standing by not noticing until now.

Balina became a breeder. Which is considered the highest honor among Guides. This means that she will breed more exemplary dogs like herself. People asked me if I was disappointed that she didn't become a Guide Dog. I answer simply "If Guide Dogs finds one good dog then that dog becomes a guide. If they see the potential of hundreds of good guides they make that dog a breeder." I will admit that I was jealous that someone would get to keep her as a pet near the Guide Dog campus (we were too far away to be considered a permanent home for her). I was happy that she was placed in a home with kids who loved and adored her. She is spoiled like we were never allowed to spoil her and her family thinks she is as special as we do.

Here is another awesome story about a working guide (not written by me). The story has appeared in a number of magazines and other media. It is the story of a how a Guide Dog saved the life of his owner during the World Trade Center bombing on September 11th.

http://dogsinthenews.com/issues/0109/articles/010914a.htm

It is no secret that I am a horrible speller.

Although I have tried through the years to hide or disguise it I have some of the most atrocious spelling and grammar you will ever come across for a college-educated individual. I am, in fact, quite bitter about this one personal flaw. I have tried over and over to improve this one aspect, because I would love to be a perfect writer. If I had mad spelling and grammar skills this would elevate me to the next level. I think I can be creative on telling a tale, but when it comes to the mechanics I am flabby and weak. I decided that since I can't become a great writer under the definition that I have to be a good speller then I will become a word artist! What is that you ask? Well, I made it up, that is what a word artist does: creates art with words and leave spelling and grammar to good editing. Even with my funny new title I still felt I was missing something.

Throughout my school experience all my friends would try to help me out. It seemed that all my friends were so much more advanced than me in this subject that I was their pet project. When I would pass notes in class to friends they would often send those notes back with their replies and my original note properly spell checked. I would write that I thought so and so was fake in a cute, funny and creative way and they would make a note in the column "I don't understand your sentence structure"...or "What is your thesis statement?"

This is when I finally realized it is an "us" vs "them" when it comes to writing mechanics. I have rarely come across someone who is indifferent on the subject. There are two personalities in the war: Perfectionist grammar police and Lazy dunce hickabillies. OK, so I just made up the word "hickabillies", but I think it describes the personality stereotype the best. Making up words is just one of the many attributes of a word artist, such as myself.

Grammar Police are the people who I often find making such silly statements as this: "The author made so many spelling mistakes that I lost all respect for the writer" or "I often find that when I am reading a book or article I find one error in spelling and grammar and it ruins the entire experience for me." I think it is safe to say the grammar police know who they are and they have already found five errors in my post and are simultaneously writing up an email to alert me to those errors, so as not to subject others to the pain of spoiling their reading experience.

Now on to us dunces and we pretty much know who we are. The first indication you are a hickabily dunce is you are usually asking how to spell very simple words or more often you don't even know you have made the spelling error. Someone points out that you spelled something wrong or used the wrong form of "there" and you reply "I did?" and that is followed up by a long lesson from (usually) a Grammar Police member, on verb conjugations and linguistic theory. The hickabilly's eyes glaze over and he/she fails to understand half of the words the Grammar Police use, because we hickabillies are simple folk and the Grammar Police harness a vocabulary that is vast and immeasurable.

Grammar Police are the first ones to the scene in the event of a writing mishap with a pencil in hand. It's like watching flies swarm to an outhouse and the Grammar Police are the flies....Ok I realize that in that analogy that makes us hickabilys the poop, but bear with me. I like to find out who in the room is a Grammar Police by loudly making a statement like this one: "I think spelling and grammar rules are silly we should return to Old English before they had such silly restrictions" or "I think a few spelling errors in an article are OK as long as the article is well-written and creative in other ways." Grammar Police in the room can't help themselves. They will come swarming over to you and commence arguing. The resulting conversation can only be described as similar to putting Democrats and Republicans in a room and not letting them leave until they agree on Health Care Reform.

In the war of spelling and grammar the English teacher is the atom bomb. They cause mass destruction in their wake, wielding the most feared weapon of all time: the red pen. They cut and mark up papers and then return them with all the finesse and pride of a cat that just left a barely alive mouse at the doorstep. The majority of the Grammar Police army is housed in the English and Humanities Department. So if you are a hickabilly and want to have peace, avoid these common landmine areas.

Grammar Police seem sympathetic and understanding by the way they support the work of struggling authors. For example, in high school they make you read such torturous and boring stories as Old Man and the Sea and Walden Lake. Grammar Police are the first to jump forward to defend these authors and call their work "masterpieces" and "classics", but a hickabilly misspells one word in an otherwise flawless essay and we are careless. I'll tell you what is more careless: an old man goes out to sea, alone, and gets lost out there and rambles on about it for the length of a novel ...that, my friends, is careless.

I found myself in college trying to hide the fact that I was a hickabilly and disguise myself as a member of the Grammar Police. My covert operation was an utter failure. I was a top student in most of my classes so the stretch wasn't too far off. Sadly, hickabillies can't hide for long. Let it be a lesson to all hickabillies that to Grammar Police our well-taken class notes look like random symbols on a page barely resembling the written language of an intelligent life form. I found this out when a fellow top student decided to try to reference my "notes." I guess we could roughly call the scribbles my attempt at note taking. I often had teachers accuse me of cheating. My writings in class without the help of editing tools and Grammar Police friends to read over my work were far different than the polished papers and essays I would complete outside of class.

My first year of Graduate school I finally decided to read more to help improve my writing. Considering how much I read now, I really wonder what I used to do to fill up my time (probably staring at a wall drooling, like the dunce hickabily I am...I honestly cant remember). Reading more did help, but I still was not the perfect writer I longed to become.

I wish I had a quick fix for this problem. I have tried it all, including numerous classes that help teach grammar and try hard to memorize words I commonly misspell or misuse and not misspell or misuse them. It will take me years to improve enough in this subject to even be considered adequate, but oddly enough I keep going in for the punishment. My new goal is to try to write more and hope that will improve my writing.

Well this is the point of my article that I contact my Grammar Police husband (I know: I married the enemy), and he explains all my errors and uses big words I pretend to know the meaning to. Then I attempt a re-write and ponder the proper use of numerous vocabulary words he suggested then use a thesauruses to try to make myself sound smarter or laugh over how I can take a word out of sentence or add one in and make it sound like a line from a porno...ah the simple life of a hickabily word artist.

• P.S. I spelled Hickabily different ways throughout this story for special dramatic grammatical effect. It was a joke for my Grammar Police friends to sweat over. My hickabilly friends probably didn't notice.

I have noticed a strange phenomenon with my favorite clothing company. For my last two pregnancies they make the cutest clothes and styles when I am at my largest and can't wear or try them on in person. Eddie Bauer was relentless this second time around sending their catalog to my house and email. And worst of all they had the best sales on all my favorite items. To add insult to injury they gifted me triple point rewards on all purchases made the month of my birthday. Sadly my birthday month was also my due date month (at the very end of the month too!). Why would they taunt me at my most vulnerable and fragile state?

Then when I was not pregnant anymore I rushed to my nearest store only to find all the clothes I wanted are gone. I am not a shopper, in fact, I loath shopping for most things, especially clothes. I usually buy something every few years, wear it until it falls off my body in some way and then sadly wave goodbye to it at the good-will drop off. This last time I got a shirt just in time. Which is rare for me. I tried on a really cute one I had eyed through my entire pregnancy and watched as the price kept lowering and lowering to a point I would consider actually buying the thing. Then I go to the store, try on a size too small and one too large only to realize they don't have my size. "No problem" the sales lady assures me, "just order it over there on our customer-service phone." What a nice store, they must have been thinking of me when they installed the phones. All I had to do was pick it up and a sales representative was right there. I didn't have to wait for ringing or anything else. It actually caught me off guard.

"How can I help you?" She chirps.

"Uh, I want to buy this shirt..." I started to blank on where to go from here, pregnancy really does a number on brain function and I was just beginning to get mine back after the abuse it had been through the last nine months.

After an awkward pause she gently directs me, "Can you give me more information about the shirt?"

"Oh, well it is hot pink, but I was hoping to get it in the 'ocean blue' color I saw in your magazine. Also this one is large and I want a medium." I think I rambled on a bit more before she finally stopped me.

"Can you tell me what the catalog number is?" She was being so patient with me, I decided she must have to deal with people like me on a daily or even hourly basis. Thinking about all the other people out there as mentally deprived as me at that moment made me really anxious. I fluttered around the booth trying to figure out how to find the catalog number on the shirt. Would they have it on the tag? Thankfully she must have heard my brain trying to think because she added helpfully, "Look in the catalog in front of you." I then noticed the catalogs stacked neatly in front of me. I quickly glanced around the room. How did she know? Was she watching me and giggling at me from a distance? I decided not to ponder on that one for too long as I grabbed for the magazine and began frantically searching the pages. I would think after pining over this shirt for months I would have memorized the page number for an emergency situation like this. "It's ok, take your time." She soothes me. This time I searched the room more thoroughly; she had to be watching me! I could feel people were starting to stare at the commotion I was making in the corner, so I quickly turned back around before they thought I was loony homeless bag lady and kicked me out of the store. I don't have the best sense of style and my hair was all messed up because as a new mom I don't have time to really make it look good, so I was actually in danger of my feared scenario coming true.

Finally I found the page number and ordered the shirt. Thank God! And they only had one left. I got so excited I leaked a little breast milk. Except they only had brown. I have a closet full of brown shirts, so I guess this one will fit right in with the rest. When things like that happen to me, like getting the last item in a clothing store, I think they must have set that up to make me feel I really scored big. Ha! I would exclaim and run off to the register and quickly pay and run off with my goods. Then the sales people would go in the back and pick out another of the same shirt hang it nicely on the rack. It would have to be placed in a semi-obvious spot, but not too obvious so as not to insult the intelligence of the victim, uh I mean, buyer. They do this for people like me who never buy anything unless they are pushed in some way. Seeing a really cool shirt that actually looks nice on me, and it is the only one, is too much to pass up. I am on to them now though.

I just got the catalog for fall and was really excited to see what they would have. I usually need new shirts after giving birth. Clothes never fit right after your body has been stretched to impossible limits. Sadly they are back to advertising un-exciting items. Or they have really cute things I would never, ever, wear.

Let me guide you to page 80 where we have a nice brunette lady sporting a chocolate brown cowboy hat, poncho, and tan corduroy pants. The pants appear to being going for the painted-on-as-a-second skin look, which I am sure I cannot pull off at this post-pregnancy time. And a poncho? Come on Eddie Bauer, I think I haven't worn a poncho since I dressed up as Pocahontas for three consecutive Halloweens when I was a teen. I don't remember being as sexy as the model while doing it though. Which leads me to another annoyance with clothing companies. How come all the clothes look so awesome on the models? I know that is their job, but in reality they should have normal looking people wearing the clothes so I can more accurately make decisions on what will actually look good on me. The model is also wearing a "come hither" look that I know will appeal to a number of men, but sporting that poncho the look just falls flat to me.

Another look (page 88) has another brunette model with a cardigan. I sometimes wonder if they have my profile information and send me catalogs with mostly brunette models that look like me. Which is kind of a bit paranoid to think about, but it is an awfully big coincidence.

I'm on to you Eddie Bauer.

The cardigan the model is wearing is beautiful with its rich autumn colors in merino wool. Then she has a tan skirt and lace up boots. I always love the skirt idea in theory but, I have a nice chicken leg look going on and I don't want to spoil the view of my blinding white legs with a skirt that is so long it will cover most of them up.

* sigh *

Eddie Bauer, when will you learn? Its no wonder you almost went bankrupt. How will you make money off of me if you keep playing this dangerous game? I think the company must find it funny to taunt its pregnant customers; but in the end it is their loss.

For the first time in my life I experienced major nipple envy. I pine for nipples that stick right out to the world and seem to say "I am here. I am happy (although a bit cold). I boldly face the world!" I found out after two adventures in breastfeeding that I have very flat nipples and that this, it turns out, is a very undesirable trait. I thought I had a pretty nice rack, I mean my husband seemed to really like them, I got lots of complements on how nice they looked and others just simply stared at them or directed their conversations to them. Aren't these all signs of a more than adequate chest region?

Over the last few months I have developed a burning and passionate hatred for my nipples. I never ever felt I wanted to change a part of my body. Now I know if someone were to ask me "what would you change about your body if you could?" I will not hesitate to inform them that I would like new nipples.

I guess I should explain why a seemingly harmless body part has solicited such hatred in me. I'll start at the beginning. A few months ago I had my second child. A girl (and she is perfect!), but sadly it seems my children never seem to fit my body. My hips are too narrow for their slightly-larger-than-normal bodies. My nipples are too flat for their higher-than-normal-pallet and slightly tongue-tied mouths. I had to use a nipple shield for a long time with my first born, so I vowed I would NEVER use one with my second. Just as Q-tips are evil and should never be used on your ears, nipples shields have somewhat of the same reputation.

In the hospital I struggled to get my daughter to latch onto my flat nipple. Try picking up a watermelon with your mouth without using your teeth. I imagine this is what it was like for my daughter to try to latch on to my nipple. She did what any self-respecting human would do and waged a battle with each latching session. So as a result my nipples were very badly injured in the war. I had cuts and grooves on both sides and blood everywhere. The hospital sent me home with a goody bag of lanolin cream, gel packs for ulcers and a 24 hr hotline number for breastfeeding help, and oh almost forgot a nipple shield, but I refused to acknowledge its existence.

A week and a half went by and I was still very sore, still bleeding, and not at all looking forward to feeding the baby. I knew I was in trouble when I started eyeing the nipple shield, so I began dragging myself to lactation consultants. I vowed I would see one every day until I got this right. I would not let this defeat me. I wanted to be a super-breast-feeder. After all: I had breastfed my son for a year and a half; I should be a pro. It hurt too much to breastfeed and my baby was gnawing away what little nipple I had left. I had nubbins where my nipples should have been.

Finally a lactation consultant identified an infection, but was unsure of what kind. Lack of identification was not a concern, because she had prescribed this cure-all nipple ointment that apparently could cure my infection, heal my nipple and end world hunger. So I dutifully smeared this cream on my nipple after each feeding, even though it burned and irritated my skin, I didn't care, because it was 'healing' me and I wanted the infection to go away. After four days the infection didn't get better. It got much worse. I now had pain radiating back into my chest cavity. It felt like someone had replaced my milk supply with shards of glass. I knew that this was not normal and so I trotted back to the consultant's office. She ordered me over to my doctor and suggested another well-known lactation consultant that could solve all my problems with breastfeeding, help figure out how to end this infection and maybe solve the economic crisis if the government would only let her. At the end of my musical chairs with doctors and consultants it was concluded I had a staph and yeast infection super-combo that had traveled up into my mild ducts. I was prescribed an oral antifungal, oral antibiotics and still had to use the nipple cream so it could continue to topically heal the nipple and continue its fight against world hunger. I argued that my nipples didn't react well to the cream and that it burned, but this concern was brushed aside and explained away that it was a rare side effect and not harmful at all. I didn't want to jeopardize my wayward nipple healing process, so I continued to dutifully smear on the cream.

Soon it was the fourth of July and my nipples were celebrating the holiday too. Throughout the day my nipples would change colors from white to purple and back to pink/brown. It felt like someone was biting down on them randomly thought the day, even when I was not breastfeeding. I had been living with nipple pain for a month and by now I was sick of it and wondering if it would ever go away. Now I was desperate and since there was not as much skin left on the nipple I had to use a shield, so much for my determination to live without one.

After another month of complaining I started receiving advice from lots of well meaning friends and family. I started getting flash backs of the advice people would give me regarding my very itchy ear problem a few years ago. Cabbage, vinegar, garlic, salt water, you name it - as long as I could Google it and it worked for someone else I was willing to give it a try. Sadly nothing seemed to really get rid of the pain.

At three months of experiencing pain, I finally broke down and started calling lactation consultants again. My daughter's latch seemed to be good. The last couple times I went to the lactation consultant she praised me on her great latch and I beamed with pride. (My daughter was showing signs of being a genius early in life. Obviously gifted.) After my conversation with her she instantly knew what the problem was, "Reynaud's Syndrome" she piped confidently. I instantly had an image of a dirty old naked French man in a trench coat exposing himself on a street corner. Great, I thought, I have a "syndrome" named after that guy. After I ended my conversation with her I promptly started searching for all the information I could get on this new diagnosis. It seemed this accounted for the strange color changes my nipples would express throughout the day. It also explained why I was always so sensitive to cold, especially now.

I was reading all sorts of interesting tidbits about this new "syndrome" of mine, and one point caught my attention. Stress and high emotional response can trigger the reaction. I hide my emotion well, so this amused me to think that I could not seem angry, but my nipples could give me away. Good thing I keep them covered up. Other wise I would have to explain awkwardly to others that "No, I'm not angry right now. But my nipples are furious." They say that the eyes are the windows to the soul; nipples are the windows to mine.

I made a doctors appointment for the next day to confirm the diagnosis. I was not about to try one more medication and have it not work again. Thankfully I had stopped taking the topical cream and switched to a more "natural" cream, but nothing dramatic happened. I did the whole song and dance of getting my blood pressure and weight at the doctor's office. The nurse's assistant exclaimed excitedly "Oh my gosh! You lost like 15 pounds since last time you were here!" She glanced at my chart. "Which was, like, 6 months ago. Have you been doing anything special?"

I glanced at my three-month-old baby and wondered if she was trying to make some sort of joke so I interjected my own.

"Well... I went on the labor and delivery diet."

She gave me a strange look. My sarcasm was lost on her.

"Oh. Okay. What are you coming in for today?"

I started to tell her all about he infections, the pain, etc.

She continued unfazed. "I see. How do your nipples feel, right now?"

I said they feel painful during feedings and I get attacks of pain in-between feedings. She shook her head as if to clear it of my ramblings.

"No, how do they feel? Right Now??"

I tried again "Uh, like someone is gnawing on them."

She gave me another blank look and I knew at this point we were having a communication problem. She confirmed this by asking again as drawn out as she can.

"Hooow dooo they feeel?"

I decided I could either get really mad at her insulting tone or fight back with more humor so I answered:

"They feel angry. I think they are mad and wreaking havoc on my home life."

She finally left the room. Was it something I said? I instantly regretted my smart-mouth comment.

The doctor came in and I quickly glanced over at my chart to see that the only description she has written in my chart after my story about being infected, not healing, and pain episodes was "Patient says her nipples are 'angry.'" Ok, I have to admit she got me back good. Now I looked like a crazy.

I told the doctor what was going on and explained my conversation with the lactation consultant about Reynaud's and she said "I am not exactly familiar with the syndrome, not to say it doesn't exist, just that I am not familiar with it and how it relates to breast feeding."

Ok great, this lack of information coupled with the description: "Patient says her nipples are 'angry'" might only lead me to a referral of anger management for my nipples. I quickly had to dash away thoughts of my nipples battling it out with nerf bats. She prescribed the medication for Reynaud's and gave me a look that made me feel slightly like a hypochondriac. She also said she really wanted to take a swab of my nipple to be sure that they were not any other major bacteria or yeast growing on them. This warmed my germaphobic heart to have her think to rid me of any lingering bugs on my nipples.

As I sit here now, I have the prescription that will "cure" Reynaud's, if that is in fact my problem, in front of me. I don't know if it will work, but I really hope it does. I do not enjoy painful, angry nipples and so far the only benefit I have gotten out of them is a good laugh while writing this and telling all my friends and family about my ailing nipples.

Today I took Isaac in to get a haircut. I love our little local shop and it is just a few short blocks away from our house and provides a perfect outing walk. As I was walking to the shop I remembered Isaac's first haircut. I think every parent looks on their child's multitude of firsts with love, pride, and happiness. I wish I could do the same with Isaac's first haircut.

It started out on a cold morning soon after his first birthday. Tyler and I had decided that it was probably time for Isaac to get his hair cut for the first time. He looked a bit like a roughed up hippy and while we found it cute we had gotten a few polite comments from family members that alerted us to the fact that it looked "shaggy" and "unkempt." Social pressure led us to believe that by not cutting our son's hair we were making a statement against the establishment and we didn't want to seem Un-American. Off we trotted to a salon that specialized in children's hair. "Make you child's first haircut memorable" it boasted. That was what we wanted, so we swaggered into the shop and proudly announced that it was our son's first haircut.

If I was expecting balloons and a parade I would have been greatly disappointed when a girl unexcitedly pointed to a sign that read "please sign in." I looked around and there was nobody in the shop. My husband and I were baffled, but figured they must have lots of appointments and a busy schedule so we signed our son's name. The girl was sporting a nice skeleton tattoo on her arm along with her short spiky black hair and extra thick mascara. She was sipping a Snapple while she watched a TV over in the corner above one of the styling stations. The sneer on her face did little to assure me of her ability to work well with children, as I would expect any shop specializing in children would provide.

Tyler and I looked eyed each other while we tried to communicate with our special marital telepathic abilities. "Should we go?" I tried to wiggle with my brows in Morse code. "No, too awkward to leave now" he shrugged and coughed in wordless response. I did notice him eye the door longingly. Isaac began to fidget and wanted to play with the toys in the waiting room. Several of the books were chewed around the corners. Perhaps this was done by some feral child who had been dragged in from the wilderness by a concerned family member to get a haircut, I mused. I knew some people who would do this for animals and then release them back out into the wild.

The girl finished her Snapple and then calmly walked over to the counter. She checked the sign in sheet "uh...Isaac?" she asked as she looked all around the (empty) room. My husband jumped up and presented Isaac to her. "It's his first hair cut!" I announced proudly. She looked unamused and asked, "Which chair do you want him to sit in? We only have one that is for really young kids."

I quickly thought about this choice. Was it a trick question? I appreciated her illusion of choice though, first ask me where I wanted him to sit then direct me to the only choice available: brilliant! The chair she directed us to was a seat that resembled a battered circus elephant and was about four feet off the ground. It had a little bench for him to sit on, but no back and the place where he could stick his feet was too shallow. It also lacked a seat belt, but I could see evidence of where one used to be. It was frayed around the edges; the feral child had already been here. And it seems he escaped.

Lacking any sort of safety mechanisms, my husband bravely volunteered to hold our son in place while she cut his hair. After a moment the girl agreed. But she warned: "don't get in the way ok, my scissors are really sharp." Yikes, was that a threat? I suddenly began to worry for my husband's safety. I hoped he wouldn't try anything shifty, "no sudden movements" I tried to telepath to him, but he was looking away. Darn it, he was on his own.

My husband began to lift Isaac into the seat and as he was doing so I noticed that the seat was covered in hair. There was brown hair, blond hair, and some others mixed in between. Gross! Either the seat had not been cleaned for a few appointments or the calico feral child running around Chico with a well gnawed on copy of 'Goodnight Moon' clutched in his jaw had immediately preceded us. I quickly stopped my husband from putting Isaac in the seat. I hoped this didn't qualify as getting in her way, her scissors did look pretty sharp right about then. "Could you maybe clean off the seat first?" I asked timidly. She looked inside the seat and let out a huff followed by an eye roll. I don't know if she was annoyed by my request or angry at the hair for not blowing off magically on its own.

When the hair was cleared we continued with our goal: finally our son's first hair cut! It was already proving to be the memorable experience that they had promised us. I couldn't wait to see what kinds of memories the actual haircut would provide.

She began with a few snips and then grabbed the buzz cutter. As the buzz cutter hummed away my son started eyeing the thing with desperate concern. His little chest was rising up and down dramatically and already his lip was starting to protrude out in warning that he was about to cry. "Maybe not the buzz cutter today," I suggest. She barely took her eyes off the television program she was watching as she replied, "Can't do that, we have to use them." Huh, I didn't have any experience with hair cutting, so I was unaware that certain utensils were required. I wondered what they did before the invention of the buzz cutter; perhaps this is why long hair was so fashionable then? I would have to google that when I got home.

Isaac began to cower into my husband as she came closer. When his head was completely buried into my husband's chest the girl gave out an annoyed sigh. "I can't get to his hair from there." My husband tried to move away in hopes to expose some of Isaac's head for her to work with, but Isaac's death grip coupled with my husband's security lock on his body was not providing any entry. I tried to help, but we all had little success and by this time Isaac was wailing and trembling. Isaac's first haircut doubled as his first traumatic experience. We were doing a great job as parents racking up the first experiences today.

Someone was holding him down, another was prying his head from a safe location and someone else was coming at him with sharp objects that were fashioned after implements of torture. The buzzer squealed and hummed in the background. I tried to dash away all the Sweeney Todd musical numbers and scenes that kept popping inappropriately into my head.

I tried to suggest more forcefully "Can we try to just use the scissors?" The girl was exasperated now. "It will take longer," she grunted. She didn't look happy to be the one serving us and continued to go at Isaac with her tools. He screamed and cried and fussed, but she battled on with her task with what would have been gusto, but for the utter lack of enthusiasm. I kept interjecting suggestions here and there and she would assure me that those suggestions would not work for some reason or another.

Finally we were done, and Isaac's face was red and wet, and he still had a look of horror. I stood shocked with my mouth open at the whole event, while my husband's face turned various shades of red. I could tell the experience of holding down our screaming son had triggered his fight or flight response. Meanwhile, the girl brought out her most torturous instrument of all and in the most sarcastically excited voice I had yet heard her utter she exclaimed "Smile" and I heard the hollow click and whine of a classic Polaroid. The flash blinded all three of us. If I ever am able to wipe this memory from my temporal cortex, I now have a picture to remind me and place all those horrible memories right back in there.

She gathered up some locks of hair off the floor and haphazardly plucked out the brown hairs that most obviously didn't belong to my son. When it seemed she was pleased with her selection of blond hairs she taped them on to a yellow photocopied certificate and signed her name. She promptly misspelled Isaac's name by giving him two s' instead of two a's and asked us how to spell "Smith" so she can get it right on the certificate. I didn't correct her, since I was getting excited thinking about being freed from this place. I thought back to the chewed books and began to understand the stress children go through in this shop and forgave them their transgressions. I mildly wondered if I could chew on a few books while I waited for my husband to finish paying. She pasted on the picture with an Elmer's glue stick and I realized that the smell of the glue that used to bring me lovely memories of school projects will forever be associated with this trauma.

We loaded up in the car and both my husband and I were speechless. Our son was still whimpering in the back seat. I decided that just this once I would allow him to use the pacifier I stash for naptime emergencies. He took it with a shaky hand that resembled a deprived smoker lighting up. I glanced in the window of the shop and saw the girl already back in her stool and enjoying what was left of her Snapple.

Just then we saw a happy couple walking toward the shop with their smiling little preschool girl. I had the urge to be a good citizen and warn them, but before I could roll down the window my husband was speeding away.

I turned to him instead and said, "Let's never go back there." He looked at me with appreciation and replied, "Somehow I knew you would say that." As the shop faded into the distance the Polaroid began to slowly reveal the picture of the shock and horror that was our son's first haircut.