I know one mom whose scrapbook page for her daughter’s first haircut is a technicolor wonderment that honors the first trip to the salon. I am not that mom. Not that she’s wrong, but that’s not me.

I picked up Baba O’Riley, who has long curly hair now that he’s nearly a year old, and was asked very kindly by the assistant director of his school if I wouldn’t mind trimming his hair out of his eyes, because he’s trying to walk and it obstructs his vision. No problem. Just don’t tell my mother in law, I said.

My MIL didn’t cut Hubby’s hair until he was 3 years old. It’s a Jewish tradition, and Orthodox families still do so, because the first haircut produces the long temple forelocks that you see on observant Jewish boys. While Hubby didn’t have the curly forelocks, he had a lotta hair at age 3. For a more contemporary version of what this looks like, look for an older picture of Ryder, Kate Hudson’s son. Hudson didn’t cut his hair until he was past 3, in deference to her Jewish heritage.

We were going to wait with Freebird, but when he started being mistaken for a girl shortly after he turned 1, we got his hair cut. It wasn’t worth it for people to wonder if he was a girl, especially because we weren’t going to cut the forelocks (aka peyes).

I was going to wait until after a year to cut Baba’s hair, but since the school asked me and had a valid reason, I grabbed the kitchen shears and trimmed his curly bangs so they’re out of his eyes. I think we’re going to take Baba to get a formal haircut this weekend, because with the short bangs and long curly back, he’s rocking quite a mullet.

(Yes, I saved the trimmings. In a Ziploc with his name and the date in Sharpie. SCRAPBOOK THIS!)

A new sports bra can change your outlook on damn near everything. I have big boobs. Big ‘uns. I had a breast reduction over 13 years ago, and since then have gained and lost weight, and had two children in the space of three years. So while they’re smaller than they were when I was a teenager, they’re still big.

And running with big boobs that aren’t properly restrained is like trying to keep yourself upright while someone performs CPR on your chest with a backhoe. It’s difficult.

The new sports bra is a revelation. Not only does it do a majestic job of The Great Boob Squash, but those suddenly smaller boobs do not move. A-freakin-mazing.

I’d like to nominate for the Nobel Prize for science whomever invented Lycra and Spandex, because, wow, y’all. Nice job.

Hello Self:

This morning I read an entire magazine devoted to examining workplace health and happiness, and of course there was the obligatory, “Our jobs were stressful so we both up and quit and now we’re successful consultants with too much business and lots of time and money!” article. Blow me.

But the part that hit me right between my sleepy eyes was the section that talked about managing time (dedicate a time to answer your email so that your entire day doesn’t become auto-reply) and managing your balance (when you disconnect from work, disconnect ENTIRELY). This weekend we had friends over, and I was saying that in effect right now I have two jobs. Two nearly full-time jobs, all because in 4 or 5 years I want 1 part time job so I can be home at 2:30 when Freebird and Baba O’Riley get out of school. Really. All this work, all the writing and the development and the business plan? I don’t want to take over the world. I just want to earn enough that I can work from home on writing and speaking engagements and be home at 2:30. That’s my grand plan: home at 2:30. I know. Aim high? No. Aim for 2:30.

So while I’m running around in triage-mode trying to do everything, I’m neglecting the very things that I want to be home for at 2:30. That doesn’t make sense. So I need to come up with a better schedule and a better system to manage my time.

1. I need a set of times during which I will answer email and field questions.
2. I need to give myself a short task list at the end of each day so I can know what it is I need to do, and do it.
3. I need to prioritize the major projects and break them down into little steps.
4. I need to build a giant More Hours In The Day machine to build hours into my day (duh) enough that I can get more done and still do my other job(s).

Mostly, I need to keep breathing.

1. Best LOLcaption this week, possibly for whole Olympics.

2. I am tired. Bored now? Let’s move on.

3. Hubby said something wise last night while we grunted at each other over dinner (which was good, too. Hubby makes good burgers). Our whole life right now is triage. Deal with what’s most urgent, move on to next urgent thing, with many, many things piling up in the background. So, so fucking true like holy shit.

4. Freebird: “Baba is loooking at me! Stop looking at me!”
Morag: “It is way, way too early for that. No way.”

5. In a small matter of great personal triumph, I have managed to carve out 20 minutes for myself three times a week after work. I am so, so proud of myself for this. It’s ridiculous. But those 20 minutes I guard with the ferocity of a really cranky overtired overworked bear. With big teeth.

Once again, Hubby and I stayed up till 11pm watching SWIMMING until 11pm. WE WATCHED PEOPLE SWIM. Ordinarily, that’s one above “watching paint dry” and “watching someone vacuum” in terms of visual stimulation.

But Olympic Swimming? I love the Olympics. I love every strange event. I could watch table tennis with a side order of judo.

Only on mute, however. The insipid schmaltz of the announcers makes me want to pound my head with the DVR box. 

H: I just could not give less of a crap about gymnastics.
M: Yup.
H: And the floor exercise is particularly boring.
M: Yup. Especially the ones where they have the ribbon and the ball and the whatnot.
H: You mean Floor Exercises with Cat Toys?
M: *chokes*

Announcer: And then, by the power of Olympic gold, she was healed from her sorrow!
M: Oh, my God, if you don’t hit mute, I’ll commit a felony right now.
H: *HITS MUTE*
M: Thank God. Those people are awful.

Poolside interview to Kirsty Coventry: “How did you break the world record?”
M: “She swam that way really, really fast.”

I have the feeling that I have taken on too much. I can’t keep up with the silliest things, like email, and it’s frustrating. More than frustrating. I’m dumbfounded at myself. And it’s not because I’m slacking off. I just have too much to do, and I can’t always easily remind myself why I have all this stuff to do and what goal I’m working toward.

Sometimes I think about chucking it all and going back to the times when I could watch tv and not worry about anything else. Now my anything else needs more hours than I have in a day.