All Hail!

I sincerely hope it is a rite of passage for all Jewish parents to periodically make their children inadvertently look like Hitler.  If not, my husband and I are terrible people.  Mind you, my son is only seventeen-months-old, and the first instance was surrounding his first haircut not provided by the Almighty who has an affinity for male patterned baldness.

More specifically, my son was born with a full head of hair worthy for Favio.  Much to my husband’s delight, in addition to thick locks on his head, my son’s dark hair coated healthy chunks of his arms and back much like the sweaters I imagine can be seen on the Jersey Shore.  People warned us that at three months it would fall out in unflattering ways.  I didn’t want to believe it, yet some creation entity has a sense of humor.  He lost just enough hair on the sides of his head to have a naturally hideous comb-over.  Some parents hold off on the first hair-cut until their children are eating it and inconvenience wins out over sentimentality; then the task begrudgedly is accomplished.  For us it wasn’t a very difficult decision; the hair had to go.

One evening my husband takes scissors and cuts across the spike that fell onto my son’s forehead.  I didn’t want to say anything at the time because I thought I would sound like a jerk, and let’s face it, I can be a bit snarky at times.  It wasn’t until my in-laws spent the day with us the following weekend that I mentioned anything aloud.  My father-in-law walks up to me with a chuckle and says in the unconvincing whisper of someone who can’t hear well, “I didn’t want to say anything, but he kind of looks like Hitler.”  So, there it was.  My husband missed his calling as a 1940s barber when I’m sure all young men wanted to look like Hitler…you know, before his killing half our people and a bunch of others made it passé…

Then there was tonight, which is all on me.  I’m feeding Little Man his nightly ice-cream…because we absolutely rock as the cool parents…  The last spoonful misses my son’s mouth, so he is left with a chocolate goatee.  My cat-like, yet imprecise reflexes managed to wipe off a good amount.  But, to my horror my son is left with a legitimate Hitler mustache.  Now is when the fun begins.  I get up and try to wipe off the rest, but Mr. Man thinks I’m playing a game, so he’s running away from me.  Several days ago I managed to pull a tushie muscle; I’m not sure how, but it’s quite painful nonetheless.  I’m awkwardly walking as quickly after my son as I can while he is giggling and running around the room.  We have a pit sofa that consumes most of the area, so really I look ridiculous that a seventeen-month-old with tiny appendages is outpacing me, but I have no choice with little room for clever maneuvering.

At this point my husband (also known as Captain Obvious) looks over and says, “Oh, that’s terrible.  You have to get that off; he looks like Hitler.”  My son is still laughing as he laps the sofa a final time before my husband and I sandwich him between us.  I’d like to say that it was a thorough and tidy wipe, but at least we were finished hailing the Fuhrer…for now anyway…