Have you met my Olivia?

I originally planned on directing this post to those of you that think you have the naughtiest three-year-old this side of the Mississippi. I thought it would be nice to offer you reassurance that no, you do not, in fact, have the naughtiest three year old this side of the Mississippi- I DO.

But bless my heart today I am choosing to look at life with a "glass half full" kind of attitude (more or less the 'laugh so you don't cry' perspective). I am choosing to discuss my beautiful, energetic, inquisitive, funny, smart, sassy, cute-as-a-button three year old Olivia Grace.

She keeps things real around here. And by real, I mean REALLY disastrous. Her imagination is above and beyond levels I can even comprehend. She kind of lives on her own planetoid. She plays so cute with her little toys. But then the next minute she is playing not-so-cute in my make-up, "making recipes" (aka: stuffing all food from her plate into her cup of milk and stirring as best she can), the Vaseline, the fridge, the car, the dirt, with the scissors...

How do I survive? It's a dern mystery. Dave and I were wondering the other day about St. Patrick and what made him a Saint. I got to thinking- crap, I should be labeled a Saint. Saint Mother of Livvy. I figure I can label myself as a Saint seeing as how this same sweet, inquisitive child took a tube of lipstick (did I mention that it was red?) to my wedding dress (and every other white article of clothing she could get the tube of lipstick on, not touching even one item of clothing with color) last week and is still alive. I didn't harm her- I just picked her up by both arms and removed her from my presence. Clearly labeling myself as a Saint does not even do this situation justice.

It appears that trouble usually finds its way into our house while Dave and I are catching up on lost time with the DVR. The other night we were catching up on two weeks of LOST. Bad news, my friends, bad news. That is way too much time to assume that your not-so-obedient three-year-old is sleeping in her bed.

Sara yelled from upstairs, "Livvy is in your make-up mom!"

So I instructed Dave that he better hurry on up there because if I were to go, she may not be alive. Seriously. I can only handle so many make-up catastrophes before my head may explode. Or my child may explode just at the sight of my evil eye. It is true.

He came downstairs saying that she had rubbed a bunch of junk in her hair and put some make-up on her face but he put her to bed.

Fast forward to me going upstairs later.

I checked on Livvy and Sara. All was well.

I walked into my bathroom and found brown hair, Livvy hair, all over the bathroom floor.

She had brought a two-step stool into my bathroom from her room and had her way with my bathroom counter, including the hair-cutting scissors.

I went back into her room to make an assessment. All that gunk (I still don't know all of what she put in her hair- skinny hair serum, maybe vaseline, maybe lotion?) she put in her hair had masked the hair cut. Upon closer inspection I could see the damage. Sigh.

Morning brought this bouncy little one into my room. What a sight to behold! I asked her why she cut her hair and she said, "Mommy, I had to get out the gooby." And then when I asked her why she got into the make-up and the "gooby" she replied, "Mommy, I just wanted to be pretty (pause), I just wanted to be pretty like you." What is this three-year-old doing trying to work over her mother? My word. There is no water in her hair yet in this picture- pure grease, er um, I mean "gooby".

This is the hair I pulled out while I was trying to wash her hair. It doesn't include all the hair I cleaned off the floor the night before. And that bottle baby, that vintage bottle of degreaser that looks like it was purchased in 1956 but was really purchased at Smith's Marketplace last year, that is the key to my sanity. I had to wash her hair with that at least 10 times but eventually we got things workable.

She doesn't look too upset by this situation does she? This picture was taken after her bath and after I had tried to blow-dry her hair only to realize she needed to go back into the bath for another 5-6 hair washings.

I love it when they go for the most reachable hair up front. It will be a good look for her for the next few months.

And let's not forget the side. Who needs hair there anyway?

I guess the positive thing is that her last self-inflicted hair cut was on the other side of her head and is growing out nicely. She has quite the layering going on now.

I figure, it could be worse, right? And I'm sure she will prove me right on some later date. For now I'm glad all fingers were spared and the rest of the hair on her head. I will just have to master my combover skills. I'm going to be a professional by the time Livvy reaches adulthood, assuming she makes it there! Stinker!