My Mini Me

One of the great things about taking care of my son is the frequent compliments that he receives while we are out and about. Everywhere I take him the ladies we encounter say “I know who he looks like” or “I know where he got that curly hair”. It’s been said that BC looks just like me. A lot. At first glance you’d probably question it, because he is about ½ my height and about 1/6 my weight, but other than that there is apparently a significant resemblance. Or so people tell me. Personally, when I look at him and look in the mirror I don’t see it.

That’s not to say that he doesn’t look like me. In fact, I think he really looks like me. I know that may sound contradictory to what I just said in the last paragraph, but he does look like me. When I was 3 years old. Given that he is almost 2, I’d say we have a good idea of where he is headed. For better or worse. 

One way that he resembles me is hair-wise. I already told you about the debacle of his first haircut in my blog post: “A Little Off theTop” but what you may not remember is that he has my curls. No doubt about that one.  The weird thing about is that my hair was bone-straight until I was 12. BC’s hair was straight until he turned 1.

I wonder if people would still say that he looks like me if I still had a super short buzz cut like I did just a couple ago. Even at my wedding my hair had been clipped with a #2 guard just a few days before the ceremony.  Now my hair more resembles a blend of Andy Samberg’s & that creepy reporter kid from Glee. I guess the goal is Hip with a hint of Jewfro. 

There is one group of people who do not think that my son looks like me, however.  They make up a tiny percentage of the population that has volunteered their thoughts on the matter. They’ve been adamant since the day he was born when he was still waterlogged and scrunched up like beef jerky. Those people are my wife’s family & friends. They insist that BC looks exactly like her.

I guess I should tell you that as long as she and I have been together, people have said that SS and I look similar. I guess from a distance that’s plausible: we both wear dark glasses, have medium skin tones and thick dark hair. But that’s where the comparisons end. Once when we were first dating, we were out to dinner one night at a nice restaurant in Santa Monica. Toward the end of our romantic evening, the waiter asked if we were brother and sister. Would you like to guess what kind of tip he received?

Anyway, my wife’s family insists that he looks like her. My family says he looks like me. So I guess the general population has the most unbiased opinion on the matter. And 99% of them say he looks like me. If you think about it, who is more trustworthy than the checkout woman at Ralphs or the random woman on the street walking a dog? (Side note: I said women because only women comment among people we don’t know). At the end of the day it’s not a competition anyway. And besides, my wife was the Prom Queen her senior year in high school, so it’s not like she looks like Chaz Bono (pre- or post-op). No matter who he looks like, BC is going to turn out just fine. As long as he can learn to keep the ladies at bay. As it is, he’s already a chick magnet and he’s not even 2. 

Judge for yourself. Who do you think BC looks like? 

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My favorite season: TV

As we cross into the second half of September and summer rolls to its chilly end, the calendar is almost back to the most glorious time of year. No, not autumn. I live in Los Angeles where there is no autumn (or winter or spring, for that matter). No, it is almost time for the Fall TV season to kick-off.

I’ll be honest. I’m a big TV fan. Huge. I’m not quite as rabid as Jim Carrey in The Cable Guy, where the obsession goes to dangerous places.  More like the guys on The Big Bang Theory, except I’m not into sci-fi and I’ve kissed a girl before.  

I’ve always been a big sitcom fan. As far back as I can remember I would watch just about any sitcom that was on TV. I was really into Soap for a while in reruns. I got very sick my junior year in high school. My family did not have cable, so as I laid on the couch for a month recuperating from mononucleosis, I became hooked on reruns of Andy Griffith, Gomer Pyle, etc.  

I remember many Saturday nights as a pre-teen watching the NBC prime time lineup that included 227 and The Golden Girls. Both were obviously shows that I fit the primary demographic for, as a 12 year old Midwestern Jewish male hypochondriac.  No matter the case, I kept watching for better or worse. And more often than not, they were worse.  

I’ve never been a big fantasy or science fiction fan. I find the bizarre characters, alternate universes and odd languages remove me too much from the story as I try to figure out what a Klingon or a Hogwart is.  I know people like that stuff.  Not me.  My wife watches Fringe, a show that has some sort of alternate parallel universe story as its mythology. Huh? I have no desire to keep up with the Kardashians, let alone these physics weirdos.

I don’t get into the procedurals, either. I’ve never seen CSI, NCIS or any of that stuff. It’s hard enough to keep track of all the new networks, let alone watch shows whose names sounds like a dyslexic’s worst nightmare. I was recently surprised to learn that CSI and Law & Order were not the same thing. No joke. Never watch ‘em. I know they all have secondary names, like Law and Order: SVU or CSI: LA. Why not just make one big mega-show and call it Law & Order: CSI, the NCIS years. I don’t know what those acronyms stand for, but I’m sure the producers can come up with an explanation.

Obviously BC is too young to watch most of the shows that my wife and I like. Likewise, I’m generally too old to enjoy the shows that he likes.  I already told you in my blog entry “From Deadhead to Elmo Addict” how he and I have gotten very into Sesame Street. I know it’s cliché, but the show is somewhat tolerable and he likes Elmo. 

What I find most interesting about it is that all of the humans who live on Sesame Street are not at all bothered by the fact that 95% of their neighbors are monsters.  Given the propensity of studios these days to mix things up to keep franchises fresh, I’d like to see Wes Craven direct an episode of Sesame Street. You know that within 10 minutes Luis and Gordon would be slaughtering Big Bird and sacrificing him to Satan in return for the right to eat Snuffleupagus.  That I’d willingly watch. 

There are a couple other shows that BC’s gotten into that I also find intriguing:

Dinosaur Train: This show is possibly more preposterous than Sesame Street.  It’s a cartoon that takes us back to prehistoric times where we meet a family of dinosaurs and their kids. The kids are very curious about other types of dinosaurs and take the Dinosaur Train to other historic periods to learn about them.  Um, were the creators unaware that there were no combustion engines functioning in the Triassic period 230 million years ago? Also, when I was in school it seemed like there were 3, maybe 4 different types of dinosaurs. This show has a new type every episode. How is that possible?  

Yo Gabba Gabba: If you haven’t seen this show, drop what you are doing and go check it out. YGG is like if Sesame Street mixed with the cartoon sequence in any movie where the main character accidentally takes drugs.  It’s a funky show with unique monsters who are all very talented singers and dancers.  The show mixes in C-list celebrity cameos (Weird Al! Rachel Dratch! Angela from The Office! ) and a pimped-out ringmaster named DJ Lance. This guy has sideburns that go on for days and is almost as proud of them as he is of his neon orange jumpsuit and fur hat.  

Yo Gabba Gabba incorporates a lot of music into the program and the songs all have good messages for kids.  Songs about brushing your teeth, being nice to others and always tipping your crack dealer. OK, so I made that last one up.  But if they had a song about it, it would be very nice. They also have a character named Brobee whose superlative in the title song is that he’s “the little green one”. Brobee is either clinically depressed or possibly bipolar; I’m not sure because I’m not a psychiatrist.  Either way, it’s a pretty cool show and it’s on like 17 times a day.

When he’s ready, I’ll introduce BC to the wonderful world of Curb Your Enthusiasm, Parks & Recreation and Louie. I imagine that will be at least a few weeks from now, though. In the meantime I’ll look forward to those shows and several other good sitcoms returning over the next few weeks to populate my Tivo, where they will reside comfortably next to episodes of Sesame Street, Dinosaur Train and Yo Gabba Gabba. 

--JJ aka The Dude of the House

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9/11: A New Hope

As we commemorate the 10^th anniversary of the 9/11 tragedy, I must admit that September 11, 2001 affected me in a way unlike most others. Let me be clear, what happened to our east coast brethren was a horrible atrocity and I solemnly remember those who lost their lives that day and those who have fought for our country since then.  For me, however, it was one of the most powerful days I’ve had in my 12 years in Los Angeles and possibly my nearly three-dozen years on Earth.

During 2001 I was working an awful job in human resources at a big movie studio.  If you know me at all, you know that I am definitely not an HR kind of guy. The job probably wasn’t awful if you are into TPS Reports and that kind of thing but I absolutely was not.

When I woke up that morning and flipped on the TV, my jaw dropped while watching the visuals taking place in New York City.  I immediately called a couple people on the east coast to make sure they were safe and thankfully they were.  Then my aunt called to tell me that my cousin who worked in one of the Twin Towers had stayed home that day. As I watched Good Day LA, I was also thankful that Steve Edwards was working that day because one of the last people you would want reporting a story like the one that was unfolding is Jillian Barberie. 

My parents were visiting from Ohio and staying at a hotel up the street from my apartment. I called to make sure they were aware of the situation and they were also captivated by the TV. As I was getting dressed, I received a phone call from my boss saying that due to the attacks, work was canceled for the day.  At that point, I was thrilled to have a day away from the misery of I-9 Forms and endless interviews.  So I got dressed and met my parents at Dupar's for a late breakfast. Over the next couple of hours we watched the events unfold and life as we knew it evolve.  There would be no more taking safety for granted. None of us knew if any further terrorist activity was subsequently headed our direction given that we were in the 2^nd largest city in the US and #1 had just been hit. 

Not knowing what to do with ourselves that day and quickly realizing that most of Los Angeles was shut down due to the attacks, we drove west down a desolate Santa Monica Boulevard until it ended. We parked and walked around the deserted Third Street Promenade. A few vendors were open but the great majority were not.  Even on holidays like Thanksgiving and Christmas, when the stores are closed the movies and restaurants are thriving. This was like nothing  any of us had seen before.

Eventually we wandered over to the Santa Monica Pier. It was empty. No vendors, no tourists, no nothing. Ironically, the terrorist activity back east had turned what is normally a tourist filled madhouse into the most peaceful place on earth. For me the beach has always been a place of tranquility.  As I looked over the great Pacific, I had no idea where my life was headed or if there would even be a tomorrow. But somehow I felt comfort in that situation being surrounded by the beautiful blue abyss. Needless to say, I was very fortunate to be able to share that day with my parents. 

That evening my parents and I met my brother and sister-in-law and her parents for dinner at one of the few places that was open in the area, the wonderful Trattoria Amici.  As we nibbled on focaccia and talked about what had happened that day, how it affected us and what was to come, we received a major life-changing revelation. It was at that meal when I learned that my sister-in-law was pregnant and 6 months later I was blessed with my first nephew.  The joy of that spectacular news helped brighten what had already been a very emotionally charged day.

Obviously my son, BC, is too young to learn about the tragedy that hit our nation that fateful day a decade ago.  So today, what my wife and I did with our son is what I did with my parents exactly 10 years ago. We went to the beach. It had been overcast in LA yesterday, so the beach was nearly deserted when we arrived, very much like that day in Santa Monica.  For a few hours we sat and talked, played and ate. Interestingly, BC seems to be as enamored by the ocean as I am.  Someday I will have to tell him about the catastrophe that befell our nation on 9/11/01 and I am lucky that I’ll be able to share some good stories with the bad. Because for me 9/11 was not only a tragedy but also a life-changing day filled with peace, serenity and family.   

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Here's a link to a beautiful song that always reminds me of 9/11/01:

"Brokedown Palace"- Grateful Dead, 6/21/89 Shoreline Amphitheater

Can I see some ID?

From the time I was born, I’ve always looked older than my actual age. I weighed 10 pounds & 15 ounces at birth, bless my mother’s heart.  While in the hospital, the doctors and nurses all wanted to come see the 11 pound baby.  Seriously doctors?  I was a big baby, not the Elephant Man. 

I went to a very small elementary school and I was always forced to stand in the back row of the class pictures among the teachers and other faculty. One year, people thought I was the janitor. I was 9.

My brother is almost 8 years older than I am. Ever since I turned 12 or so, people who’ve met us together often ask who is older. I guess you could say that he is fortunate to look younger than he is or I am just unlucky to be mixed up with an old geezer like him.  Since my brother was in college when I was in 6^th grade, when I would go visit him he’d take me to do college activities. No, we didn’t go to pep rallies or to make homecoming floats. I was able to waltz right in to fraternity parties, bars, etc. A couple times I got carded and was lucky to have the fake ID that one of his friends had found and let me borrow. In case you were wondering, my alias was George Boll.  

I reached my current height of 6’ when I was 12 years old.  Sadly, my only growth since then has been horizontal.  At my Bar Mitzvah I was taller than the Rabbi though that’s not really a huge accomplishment. For a while, I was the starting center on my junior high’s basketball team.  It’s too bad I was as graceful as a giraffe on ice skates or I could have gone pro. 

During my senior year in high school, I wanted to see how long I could go without shaving. It wasn’t purely a scientific experiment, however. It also spawned out of a combination of laziness and convenience as I’ve always hated shaving and I lived somewhere with brutally cold winters. This was also during the Grunge era when flannel was all the rage, so I will admit that on numerous occasions I was confused for a lumberjack or a member of Pearl Jam.  Since it is obviously very likely that either one of those people would be hanging out at a high school in Ohio. In case you are wondering, I managed to last four months with my built-in neck scarf. 

So when my son was born, beyond my natural curiosity about what he would look like I also wondered if he would have the same older look that I have. Based on those creepy 3D ultrasound pictures you get toward the end of pregnancy, I had a feeling he was going to come out looking like an old Chinese kung fu instructor. Fortunately, he did not. He looked like a handsome little stud. Oh, did I mention that everyone says he looks like me? 

And while my wife’s doctor was concerned that he was going to be a giant, as I was at birth, he weighed in at just under 9 pounds. That’s nothing to sneeze at, but not gigantic either. In fact when measured against my brother's & sister’s kids BC ranks 4^th out of 6 in birth weight. It seemed he was destined to be a Three Little Bears kid, not too small and not too big but just right.

Of course that all changed the day after he was born, while still in the hospital. Obviously we were new to diapering, but my wife and I couldn’t figure out why we couldn’t get the diapers to fit properly on our little man. We called the ultra-patient maternity nurse who couldn’t quite get the diaper on right either. On Day 2 of his life, BC had already outgrown the Newborn sized diapers and was upgraded to Size 1.  I could see right then that this was going to be a long road.

Over the next few months, my wife and I watched in amazement as BC was always one clothing size ahead of his age. When he was 3 months old, he was wearing 6 month size. When he was 9 months, he was wearing 12. BC has always been near the top of the growth chart at his pediatrician’s office.  He’s been consistently at or above the 90^th percentile in height. Guess what? I was 99^th percentile in height until I was 12. I see a trend starting. Fortunately it’s not a bad one.  

Speaking of growth, when BC turned one we tried for weeks to find him shoes that fit. Every time he’d try them on, they never came close to fitting. We figured that size 4 was too small for him so we tried size 5. It wasn’t until a few weeks after his birthday when we took him to the shoe store I went to growing up when we learned what the problem was. We were looking for size 5 shoes for him, but his feet measured size 6 ½ EXTRA WIDE. Guess what, I’ve worn size 13 wide shoes since I was 13. Lucky me. 

When BC was 6 months old, we took him to the LA Zoo for the first time. He loved it so much that we bought a membership and have been regulars there ever since. Ironically, the giraffes are his favorite animals by far. Maybe he feels a kinship? Whatever the reason, he loves those tall ruminants and squeals with delight when he sees them from afar. They are much more exciting than the meerkats and Golden-backed Weavers, after all.  

Zoo policy lets kids under 2 years old in for free and we have a family membership that covers two adults, so our little family is covered for admission. However the last few times we’ve visited the zoo, instead of the normal wave-through at the front gate, there’s been a more thorough inspection of our group. The Bouncer (aka pimple-faced teen hired to greet the members) has started a line of questioning about our 20 month old son.  

Teen: Um, how old is the kid?

Me:   20 months

Teen: Are you sure?

Me: Yes, I’m pretty sure I remember when my wife was sliced open and he was cut out of her stomach.

Teen: Um, oh, OK. Sorry. Have a nice day.

With that, the teen returned to texting his dopey friends and we entered the animal kingdom. I can’t help but wonder how long until this type of inquisition becomes a normal part of life for my child.  There is nothing wrong with being big, or small for that matter. I just hope he learns to embrace it a little better than I did. That’s why on his second birthday I’m going to start teaching him some interior post moves, just in case he is also the tallest kid in his 7^th grade class.


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What a Long Strange Trip It's Been

“Sure don’t know what I’m going for, but I’m gonna go for it for sure.” — John Perry Barlow

Twelve years ago this week I arrived in sunny Los Angeles after a nearly month-long journey across America.  When I left my native state, the Heartland of it All, I didn’t have a job, an apartment, a spouse, a kid or a pet. I was a free agent and planning to maximize that freedom. After all, my clearly well thought out plan was to crash on my brother’s futon for a while, get a job writing jokes for a late night talk show and improvise the rest from there. 

Keep in mind that when I say my plan was “well thought out”, it was actually wild speculation from a somewhat presumptuous 23 year old.  I figured that since I had just received my degree in broadcast journalism, worked as a producer at the local PBS station while in college and, most importantly, took two years of Media Production classes in high school. I really believed that qualified me for a gig on a network show.  Seriously.  I had no clue.

Don’t worry, reality kicked in before long. And when I say reality, I mean that I was able to get a job on one of the very first reality television shows, “Blind Date”.  If you don’t remember it, Blind Date was a show that sent two unassuming strangers on a date filled with bizarre activities and tried to see if they could find their perfect match. Another way of looking at it was that it took two wannabe actors or models or oddballs and sent them all around LA, hoping that they would ultimately get drunk and end up in a hot tub. As the date played out on screen, jokes making fun of the two suckers, I mean daters, would pop-up around them.  That was the best part of the show.  And I got to watch that magic happen every day.  

Working on Blind Date was a great experience. I got to work on a relatively big scale production, I met some good friends that I am still close with to this day and got my creative juices flowing to help me with my writing career. Turns out, you need a little more experience than I had to get a job on one of the shows I wanted to work on. I figured that within 6 months or a year I’d be on my way.  Boy, was I wrong!

As a 23 year old living in L.A., I quickly discovered that there was a lot more to do in my free time than there had been in Ohio. My focus shifted and my creativity dried up.  After more than a year on Blind Date, I left the wonderful world of TV to “get a real job”. By normal, I mean one that offered weird things that Blind Date didn’t such as health insurance, vacation time and other staples of normal jobs. 


I got a job in Human Resources at a major movie studio which was only palatable because of a couple hilarious co-workers and the free movie screenings.  As part of my HR duties, I got to lead the new hire orientation every week and as a result, I got to meet all the new ladies on their first day of work. I suppose there was a few guys, too, but I didn’t really pay attention.  After more than a year, that job ended and I was thankful. It had been miserable. HR was clearly not my calling. The lack of creativity involved was both surprising and not surprising at all.  I knew it within the first couple of hours working there. At least I collected lots of free VHS tapes of movies. Those must be worth a lot now…  

Since that gig, I’ve worked in sales and marketing in a variety of capacities, mostly as an independent contractor. I’ve sold successful lines of clothing into some of the biggest chains in the country and I’ve struck out while trying to sell video services to people who didn’t want them, and those are just a couple. I’ve learned something from all of these jobs: the good, the bad and the ugly.  I’ve learned what I like: independence, and what I don’t like: not making money. I guess there are trade-offs everywhere.

I’ve also started a couple of my own small businesses and run with those through the ups and downs of our crazy economy the last few years. Then something changed for me just about two years ago. My wife got pregnant. A whole new feeling of responsibility hit me.  I had to find a job and fast! We needed better health insurance that didn’t cost more than John Goodman’s weekly McDonald’s allowance. I tried reaching out to the people I knew, but that was tough as I didn’t really know anyone anymore. Sure, I had friends but they were mostly professionals and I didn’t think I could score a gig as a doctor or lawyer without at least a couple weeks of training.  Most of my jobs had been pretty independent, so there was no one to reach out to there, either. Basically, I was screwed.  

I kept pressing with the biz my wife and I started together but unless we wanted to rely on Top Ramen for every meal
something had to give.  In the meantime, my wife had another side business of her own that took off and so after the baby arrived, I became responsible for him for big chunks of the day while she was gone. After a while I figured that maybe I should start using my creative brain again. I had used it intermittently over the last decade, but nothing too serious had come out of it.  So I started jotting down notes, thoughts and ideas about parenting. In case you don’t know, being a father is quite different from being a mother and not just because of the biological differences. They have inherent skills that men will never have. Like trying to change a kid’s diaper on one of those little fold-down tables they have in public bathrooms. Ever try to wrangle 35 pounds on one of those? Let me tell you, it ain’t pretty.  

And all of that writing, pondering and diaper changing is how I became The Dude of the House. Writing has been cathartic for me in many ways and I’ve got a slew of creative projects I’m working on right now. Ironically, I’m trying to get back into the television world now—just a dozen years later than I expected. If you know anyone who wants to help, let me know…

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--JJ aka The Dude of the House

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A Little Off the Top

There were two things that surprised me upon seeing my son BC for the first time after his birth.  The first was how small he was. Well, he wasn’t small per se. He actually weighed 8 pounds & 15 ounces. But we were expecting him to be much bigger based on how big he measured in utero and because I weighed a hair under 11 pounds at birth. 

(Not BC, but rather a Slimy Stunt Baby)

The bigger surprise to me was how much hair he had.  Thick dark hair. And not just patches, he had full coverage.  In retrospect it probably looked thicker than it actually was due to the styling gel-like properties of placenta. 

After a couple months, BC’s hair began to recede and thin out.  I figured it had been a fun ride, but he would soon be just like all the other bald babies out there.  Once his hair started dropping it didn’t stop until it was a mere memory.  It had only been a few months so hopefully he wasn’t too attached to it.

Naturally I was surprised during the second half of his first year of life that when BC’s body grew, so did his hair.  He’s always been near the top of the growth charts in both height and weight (and head size, but that’s a story for another day).  Similar to his birth hair, his “new” hair was unique for its waves and twists.  It was cute, so we let it keep growing. And growing.  And growing…

Shortly after his 1^st birthday, BC’s hair did something interesting. His slightly wavy hair turned into tight ringlets.  Think “Annie”, but not red.  And without the weird bald guy and mangy dog hanging around.  BC had always been a hit with the ladies, but this new hair made him a chick magnet.  I was happy to see he inherited several of my best traits. 

As his hair grew, it didn’t look as long as it was since the curls tightened it up. But some of the curls still fell into his face.  He spent a lot of time pushing it out of his eyes, until my wife convinced me that he NEEDED a haircut.  I was apprehensive but she showed me the websites for a couple of hair salons that specialize in kids and I finally acquiesced. I knew he needed the cut, but didn’t want to see him butchered.

On the following Saturday morning, we headed to one of those kid-friendly hair joints. The place had balloons out front, so how bad could it be?  I’d soon find out…

We stepped inside and saw all of these cool mini sports cars that were barber chairs. There were a slew of 

TVs on the wall to divert the little ones’ attention from the task at hand and colorful murals on all of the walls to distract the bored parents.  There was also the sound of a pediatricians’ office mixed with a haunted house.  Shrieks and wails filled the air of this brightly colored haven of hair.  

A woman with a thick accent and a Sideshow Bob-esque mop on her head greeted us at the front and led us toward one of the Cars of Doom. Or at least that’s what BC must have thought it was. It all seemed innocent enough to me, but then again I’ve been getting haircuts for decades. 

As we approached the chair we heard a kid screaming his brains out, as though the hairs had just been removed one-by-one from his scalp with rusty tweezers.  My wife said to me “Oh, that poor mother. Her kid is acting like a putz!” As the mother led her freshly-shorn kid toward the door, we recognized them as people we’d recently met at a mutual friend’s party. At that party her kids were terrors and made a huge mess all over the friend’s house, writing on the furniture, etc. I figured this was just her payback.  

So I lifted BC into the red sports car chair and said to my wife “see, piece of cake”. Famous last words. Within one one-hundredth of a second of the cape being put around his neck, before the barber-lady even had the scissors in her hand, BC was screaming like Angela from "The Office" at Burning Man. I’d never heard noises like this before. I put the camera down as my wife started to comfort our little man. Sadly, nothing helped. He was miserable, crying and nearly hysterical. The “stylist” looked at us and in her thick accent said “What iz de pro’lem?”.  Um, isn’t it obvious?  The kid isn’t happy. Let’s get this over with, um-kay? 

We tried soothing BC to the best of our ability. Nothing helped. Not even the super-sticky lollipop or the stale animal crackers the place offers as consolation to the miserable kids. If they were smart, they’d also offer earplugs and shots of Cuervo to the parents. 

After 15 minutes of this torture, it was finally over. I’m not sure how the woman knew she was finished, as there was just a curly mess in and around her hands and on the floor, but that was it.  We were released from the torture chamber. Hair samples noting the happy occasion of the First Haircut were slipped into an envelope. We were also handed a “Certifucate of Commemeration” [sic] where BC’s name and the date were filled in by the receptionist.  The certificate was most noteworthy to me because it contained at least six typos. Now I know why the place currently boasts a 2-star rating (out of 5) on Yelp.  

What I learned from this experience is that I hope my son doesn’t mind his hair growing into his eyes in the future, because I can’t imagine going through this traumatic experience again anytime soon. And I do mean traumatic for me and my wife. I’ve brought BC with me to watch me get my hair cut a couple times since then.  He sees that the crying during the actual cut is minimal and once I get my lollipop I’m good to go.  Here’s hoping he feels the same next time. 

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--JJ aka The Dude of the House

Please check out my previous blog posts: http://dudeofthehouse.blogspot.com/

@DudeOfTheHouse