My kid crushes.

Mateo and I visited my mom for Mom's day. I gave her her much anticipated Mom's day card (I had to redeem myself after the "no cards given at birthday time" fiasco of 2008). For some reason, ever since I bought the card, I thought it was some goofy card about finding a childhood lunchbox on eBay. When I signed the card, I realized I decided (when I must have been asleep at the Hallmark store), to buy the card about searching for "sweet mommas" on the internet and finding porn sites.

So I told my mom about how all this time I thought I had bought the lunchbox one. Then I said I had a Beegees lunchbox.

"You did?" she said. She didn't remember.

And yes, yes I did. I was in love with Barry Gibb, if you must know. I said Andy Gibb during our conversation, but I was incorrect; apparently I don't remember my Gibbs by name.

As a child, I had this weird obsession with men who had facial hair. Not only did I love the lug of a lion maned Barry Gibb, but I was also in love with John Oats, the hirsute of the two men from Hall and Oats. (I must mention that while Barry Gibb doesn't look too horrible now, John Oats got hit by the really big "did not age well" stick.

You might be thinking, did your dad, by chance, have facial hair? Oh yes. He certainly did and still does. And I'm fairly certain that's where my childhood obsession of men's facial hair began.

At some point, though, my obsession of liking men with facial hair turned into NOT liking men with facial hair (except for my dad) or chest hair or back hair or any weird tuffs of hair.

My husband, I must mention, has weird tuffs of hair. On his inner wrist. I call it his gorilla tuffs. They make no sense, and while he does want to wax his chest hair and back hair (the small amount he has), he is very possessive over his wrist tuffs. And he gets mad when I suggest we shave them off.