If Only It Were Actually Crazy Hair Day

Every morning he comes downstairs for breakfast at the last minute hoping I will forget to tell him to back upstairs to wet down and comb his hair.  Every morning I tell him to go back upstairs to comb his hair, and brush his teeth while he’s at it.  He scowls and tromps back up, grumbling that I won’t let him go to school as is.  It’s actually a little amazing to me how his hair can sculpt itself into such artistic creations while he’s sleeping.  It helps that he sleeps under two big fleece blankets, his head completely buried under the bedding, and sweats profusely all night long.  Consider yourself lucky that you don’t have to smell his room when I open the door in the morning.