7 years.

Seven years. It has gone so quickly. Seven years from now we'll be thirty-six (yikes). Jack will be eleven. And Micah will be--quick, do the math!--seven.

Hmmm, what do you think we're talking about? Our upcoming departure to D.C. for an exciting and glamorous honeymoon?

And from now on, we will be able to include Chelsea Clinton and Marc Mezvinsky in our celebration. Maybe they'll hit Ruth's Chris with us next year.

Probably not honeymooning in D.C.

The hair cut that brought my mother to tears.

For those who have not seen my older son in person at any time during the past two years, you must know that he has the thickest most beautiful brown hair you have ever seen on a four year old boy.

Or at least he did.

I asked him to look handsome, and this is what he gave me.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

The story is not really all that dramatic. However, it is typically me.

He had been needing a hair cut for a few weeks. Normally I would make a forty-five minute drive on a Saturday morning to get his and Allan's hair cut at the salon we frequent (That's right. A salon. For my four year old). However, I'm tired of making that drive, I have a new baby, and I was beginning to see the absurdity of taking my son into a place with faux Roman busts and zebra-striped divans hoping that it would maximize his handsomeness. He would rather get his hair cut sitting in a replica of Lightning McQueen while watching Spongebob. Let your kid be a kid, I thought.

So I planned on a trip to the local Supercuts.

Then I saw our budget. We'd hit In-n-Out one too many times. I went to the ridiculously priced, albeit more aesthetically pleasing, grocery store two weeks in a row. Add that to an upcoming trip to Lego Land next week (SHHHH, DON'T TELL JACK!!!), mix it with my type-A-when-it-comes-to-finances personality and you'll understand why I did not want to pay $10 for someone to give my child a bad hair cut (Go ahead, make fun of me for ten measly dollars--I DARE YOU).

So I borrowed a friend's clippers and went to town. And now he looks like every other boy on the planet.

I realize that some of you like it. That is good to hear. It doesn't change my dislike, however.

My friend commented that she was surprised I did it, because, in her words, "you are a family full of great hair."

We were a family full of great hair.

Inserting this photo serves two purposes: 1) It illustrates that Micah has a lot of catching up to do in the hair department. 2) It also shows what happens when Jack hears Mom and Dad repeatedly asking Micah to give them that highly-anticipated first smile--"Mom! If I hold his cheeks, he smiles!!!"

Laundry.

A few days ago Jack came into my room wearing a hooded sweatshirt and lined cargo pants.

"Jack, the high is 105 today. Put on shorts and a t-shirt."

"B-but, Mom!!! I don't have any shorts or t-shirts left in my drawer."

I had just spent over an hour folding clean clothes just the other night. So I went to the closet to make sense of the dirty laundry situation, and sure enough both baskets were overflowing onto the floor.

Then I checked Jack's drawers. No summer clothes.

I was so happy. And not because of any strange postpartum hormonal madness.

Immediately I thought of a talk President Monson gave in Conference nearly two years ago: "Finding Joy in the Journey". There was one line that struck me, and I've remembered it since:

"If you are still in the process of raising children, be aware that the tiny fingerprints that show up on almost every newly cleaned surface, the toys scattered about the house, the piles and piles of laundry to be tackled will disappear all too soon and that you will—to your surprise—miss them profoundly."

In October of 2008 these words left me wistful--and not in the way that President Monson had intended. While I recognized the message of enjoying every phase in life, I couldn't help but feel sorry for myself. "Children" is plural. I had one child--and I was having difficulties finding joy in my journey at that particular time. We had toys, but they weren't scattered around the house because I could control the mess. I had three piles of laundry--whites, lights, and darks. Wash was always started and completed on Mondays. Very predictable. And manageable. I was bored. I had a lot of time on my hands, and not many ways to fill it having just moved to a small town. I longed for some chaos. I wanted major fingerprints on my back door, because that would mean Jack had a little playmate.

I wanted piles and piles of laundry to replace the vast amounts of time I spent crying and agonizing over why I couldn't have more children.

Now I have more piles. And hopefully a few years from now Micah will come in wearing his Halloween costume because all of his summer AND winter clothes are piled up in the hamper due to even more Bailey children having been born, thus causing the laundry situation to spiral completely out of control.

Heck, I will designate a second room to piles of laundry because of what those piles represent.

You'd think they're brothers or something...

Jack at 6 weeks

Micah at 7 weeks

Today: Same expression. Similar features.

Let's not discuss Jack's hair. It's a sensitive subject. Sniff.

Seriously sober.

No matter how hard we try, and how much we make fools of ourselves, we just cannot get Son #2 to crack a smile.



Maybe he's depressed about the baby acne.