Sawyer wants a mohawk.
No. Really. I'm serious. A for real mohawk. Not a faux-hawk. Or a spiky something-or-other that we can pretend is a mohawk. Um...no....he's thinking Mr. T worthy.
And his dingity dangity daddy thought it would be hysterical to tell him he could have one just to torture me.
A mohawk? Really?
And when begged to change his mind and asked why in the world would he want to make his mother so crazy?
"Because Dusty gots one."
Well, Dusty's mama is way cooler than me. Obviously.
My precious soon-to-be-sporting-a-hawk son also has become the catcher for his traveling/tournament baseball team.
He loves it. Even though it gives me a heart attack every time I see the ball whizzing at his precious face. But I'm coping.
He has discovered a new piece of "equipment" that he is especially proud of. And is very quick to discuss with anyone who will listen.
New glove? Nope.
Pads? Oh no. Too easy.
Sawyer has a new found fascination with this:
So if you're out and about and need to find Sawyer, just look for the red-headed kid sporting a mohawk and waving his jock strap.
That's my boy.