Dem's some gooooood genes!

We were recently gifted with some previously undiscovered pictures of my dad as a little. It was a treasure trove of things to tease him about. Love that. But, when we found these little gems, it was the inspiration I needed to let the Jebbarber win the war of the haircuts.

If you couldn't see those awesome classic cars in the background, and if my dad's barber was as cute as our Kortni, I bet you couldn't tell these two boys apart! It looks like the Fluffy is more like his Papa than I thought! I see a tiny motorcycle in my baby's future.

It's too bad my dad already has a twin brother. I think Holden could give that guy a run for his money. Right? Tell me you see it, too!

My Fluffy looks cuter like this, I think. Although he does work a mean pigtails. Hey! Another thing he and Johnny Baby have in common! I'll have to work on getting a picture of grandpa in those to compare and contrast.

And more oldies but goodies. These two. The new trouble twins. Now I see why Fluffy is such a handful. He's full of Johnny Baby!

Strength of Samson

For some strange reason I have yet to figure out, I don't like to have the boys get their hair cut. I know. Weird. Usually we cut it really short, and then I let it grow until it gets unruly, and then let it grow some more. And then it goes past that awkward "growing out" phase, and then I start to wonder what we should do with it. And, as I wonder, it continues to grow.

I start thinking about Samson, and wondering what incredible strength these boys will lose if we cut their hair.

And then I realize that the boys don't have strength in their hair. I am the one who gets a super power from it. The power to drive their father crazy. (Here is where I begin to rub my hands together and laugh an evil laugh.)

Look at Fluffy. He's got the evil laugh, too! Why would I ever cut their hair and lose that? This is too much fun.

The fluffy tagger

I caught Fluffy engaged in his very favorite pastime again - coloring the walls of the house. On a side note, why is it that the 3 children who were born after we moved into this house are so bent on tagging it like little saggy bottom, diapered gangstas? Do they feel the need to let everybody else who lives here know that this is their territory? I wonder.

Anyway, after the requisite "No way, Jose. That is not okay" chastisements, accompanied by the mean mom mugging, it was time for a nap. Once he was all ready and given one more furrowed brow, I got the "I'm sorry" pout and cuddle. Which made me think, is there anything better than a little head snuggled into your neck, chubby arms wrapped around your shoulders, and dimpled hands patting your back? Not on this earth, there isn't. It makes graffiti removal so worth it. But don't tell that to him.