Run for the border

Little Guy is closing in on two years old in two months time.

Right now he is a constant blur of mischief and mayhem. He bites and kicks and squirms and shrieks. He kisses me and then just as quickly clobbers me over the head with a toy. He runs up to me, all smiles, and then spits a mouth full of juice onto my leg. He rips my Anthropolgie catalogs to shreds before I have had a chance to peruse them.

My ANTHROPOLOGIE catalogs.

I know this is the beginning of the worst of it, the terrible two's (and three's). When Girlie was the same age, I almost resigned my post as mother, wife, the whole enchilada. I hatched a secret plan to escape to Mexico with a new identity and as much cash as I could take from our joint account without leaving my husband and only child penniless.

I was going to alter my appearance and go by the name Shelly.

Back then I lived in Georgia. There would have been plane tickets, receipts, things to trace my departure. It didn't seem feasible, so I stuck it out. Now I find myself in Arizona where the only thing between me and Mexico is enough gas in the minivan to make the border.

So, how do you think I would look as a redhead?