My own personal Red Ranger

Have you ever read the book by Berkely Breathed, The Red Ranger Came Calling?  I was first introduced to it by some EFY counselor friends of mine back in the day.  I ADORE this book, partially because the language used is delicious.  (And very advanced.  Don't try to get your 1st grader to read it.  I think it's essentially a picture book for adults.)  And partially because the artwork is delicious.

It's a Christmas book, and it's really, really funny.  It's about this prickly pear of a boy who doesn't believe in Santa Claus.  My children demolished my copy long ago, something I still mourn.  I so wish I could find this one picture from the book on the internet.  This kid is sooooo mad all the time, and in this one illustration, his face is purpley red and all twisted up and just...amazingly gross and funny.  Alas, the only two pictures I could find online that kind of convey this kid's constant moodiness and anger are these two:

Why do I bring this up?  Because of Ben's recent attempt to give Micah a haircut and its hilarious results. 

We've talked about this, right?  About how Micah fa-reaks out when it's time to trim his fingernails or hair?  He swears that both kinds of trimmings hurt.  He screams.  Fights.  Cries.  Screams some more.  In fact, he started biting his nails on purpose to avoid getting them trimmed by fingernail clippers.  And it's not like we cut it to the quick or whatever it's called in humans.  We leave some white there.  It's nuts.  Some kind of sensory perception thing, I suppose.  My kids have sensory issues like CRAZY.  (They get it from their mom.)

So Micah's hair looked like...a baby chick who has survived a tornado.  That's the best way I can think to describe what it looked like.  And Ben was like, "Mike, we really have to cut your hair."  Micah immediately started screaming and crying.  I was busy cleaning the kitchen and happily let Ben have at it.  I don't have the muscles to wrestle that kid.  I'm horrifyingly weak.  It's awful.  I don't know if my muscles atrophied while I was so sedate for four months, or if this is one of the lingering effects of chemo.  But it's annoying as hell.

Anywho, I heard random snippets of the brawl upstairs.  

"Micah, it's just a haircut!  This is no big deal!"  

"I HATE YOU!  I'M GOING TO KILL YOU!!  I HATE THIS WORLD!  I HATE THIS LIFE!"  

"If you'd just hold still, we could get this over with sooner."  

"YOU ARE THE WORST DADDY I HAVE EVER MET!  I'M GOING TO TELL GRANDPA!!  THIS HURTS SO MUCH!"

And so on.

The screaming stopped curiously soon, and I heard Micah pounding down the stairs.  He emerged, buck nekked, hysterically crying.

"MOMDADCUTMYHAIRANDILOOKLIKEANIDIOTANDIHATEHIMSOMUCHANDIHATE

OREGONANDIHATETHISLIFEANDWHYDIDHEHAVETOCUTMYHAIR???"

I hugged him and said, "Babe, your hair was looking really, really weird.  And you wouldn't let us comb it, so we had to trim it.  But, um, it looks like Dad's not quite finished...."

"I AM FINISHED!  DADDY CAN'T CUT MY HAIR ANYMORE!"

"Um, okay, but it looks kind of dumb..."

Let me show you.

Yeah.

He's the Red Ranger's (the prickly little boy's) doppelganger, no??  (In looks and in personality, wink, wink.  I mean, I luuuuuurve him.  But he's a prickly pear.  No two ways about it.)

The next night, Ben coerced Micah into letting him trim the top up so that he didn't look so...fountainey.  Micah quickly decided this would be a bad idea, and the screaming commenced once again.

I just shook my head and folded the clothes.

And the fountain is gone, thank goodness.