Yesterday, you came home and complained about your hair. Saying that some kid named Morgan has been "rubbing it in my face." Not figuratively, but literally, tossing your bangs into your eyes. You say you want your hair like another kid named Christian's, which I think means shaven off in a military-do. We argue a little about this. I guess I'm not ready for you to want some other kid's hair. But ultimately, you won, since Daddy gave you a haircut last night. Here are a few pictures of you this morning, showing off.

You there staring casually through those strands of luminescent hair. No need to tell me that you're growing up; I'm well aware. You remind me a bit of a miniature version of this girl here.

Sometimes don't we all just need a good bucket to take refuge under?