Abigail has a mullet. Poor thing just has the thinnest hair ever. She rips out anything I pin on, and if she doesn’t, Luke does. That’s right, Luke. I call them all sorts of things: Abby, Abigail, Abs of Steel. Lucas, Luke Face, Leukerbad.Despite what I call them, they respond with a smile or with the "Bert is Evil" face.
Abigail’s eyebrows slant, her little nose scrunches up, and she huffs. And I LOVE IT LIKE I LOVE COFFEE TABLE COOKBOOKS. I love that she gives me ‘tude and has begun to nest. I’ll set out a bunch of toys all over the living room, and Kind Sir explores, mostly chasing after a ball (he’s obsessed with any type of ball), while Little Miss collects the toys, as many as she can carry, and deposits them in the toy bin. She’s at the point where she needs a purse. I can tell. She wants to collect and carry things. It makes her feel responsible, or older. It’s interesting how of all the toys, she grabs the dolls and calls them baby, while Lucas goes after books and balls. He examines the safety gate, in particular the nails keeping the latch mounted on the wall, then grips the bars, rocking them with the fervor of a chimp in heat, stopping to see if the nails have come free. And they have. He smiles and realizes exactly what it takes to open the gates. I have two words for you little man: wood glue.
I’m taking the mullet into my own hands, and to make up for snipping off all her long curls, I’ll buy her a purse.