Letting my hair down

I've been threatening to do it for months. Every morning I get sick of the power struggle. I've tried everything: bribes, threats, gentle persuasion, reverse psychology. Nothing works.

So I did it.

I chopped Goosie's hair.

Pixie short.

I'm still in shock.

Goose is overjoyed.

She's been begging me for months to cut her hair short. "I want hair like Daddy's and Little E's!" she'd plead. "You are a girl," I'd reply, "You have girl hair - like Mommy."

Now, I've never been a girly-girl myself. I don't wear much make-up. I live in blue jeans. I'm more excited about going hiking than a trip to the mall. But, I must admit, I have long had imagined a cute little girl in brown braids skipping along side me on those hikes. Doing up my daughter's hair was my one girly indulgence. Goose hated every second of it. Usually, I could only manage to get a brush half-way through her tangles. When she did allow me to put in pony-tails or braids it was only so she could imitate a favorite cartoon character's do (Uniqua, I told her, wore two curly pony tails, and Tasha wore two "knots"). As soon as the desire to make-believe passed, the pony was ripped out and the hair looked worse than when we started.

All logic told me I need to chop the hair; she wanted it, it looked terrible most of the time anyway. Still, I told myself, I wasn't ready to relinquish control. And then I knew I had to do it. This wasn't about her hair. This was about what kind of mother I was going to be. Was I going to spend my life imposing my own preferences (on trivial matters) on Goose, or was I going to give her control over her own life, respecting her choices? A hair cut isn't permanent; a bad decision in this arena only lasts a month or two. I realize she is only three, but isn't that old enough to know she'd rather not go through the torture of hair-brushing every day? Could I be big enough to let go of my little girl with braids fantasy?

I took a deep breath and weilded the scissors.





I almost cried several times during the process, but I reminded myself of all those perms I endured as a child, an imposition of my mother's will for my hair, how torturous there were: they burned my scalp, pulled my hair, and smelled to high heaven. I knew I did the right thing.

When Goose saw herself in the mirror for the first time, she grinned from ear to ear. "Now I'm LITTLE E!!!" The role she's been dying to play forever. Finally, she's got the right "do" for the part.

Insomnia: an epidemic.

The rain fell lightly. It was a peaceful and warm evening. The theater performance had been well done, although as often is true, it did not do justice to the book it was interpreting. I leaned on the railing of the complex's central fountain mulling over the conversation I had just had with an old friend and contemplating the machinery propelling the fountain's giant wooden sculptures - two rustic canoes - in large arcing paths.

"Sarah!" I heard from across the courtyard, "Come on, we're staying."

The rest of my party had been sent as envoy into the complex's overpriced eatery to assess its worthiness. Either it had met whatever expectations the selected body had or they were just to lazy and hungry to initiate a search for a better landing spot. I sat down to find my mother had already ordered for me.

"I got you the slice of pizza."

Terrific. An ethnic restaurant, a menu filled with exciting culinary adventure and you order me the pizza. Thanks Mom.

I blink. I sit up. It is dark. I'm in bed. The phone is ringing. A thousand relatives are critically injured or dead in the next ten seconds as I fumble to the phone.

"Hello?"

No answer.

"Hello? Hello?"

No Answer.

I wait a moment, straining to hear any commotion or sobbing on the other end. Nothing. I hang up.

Check the clock: 3:30.

I return to bed my mind still imagining the news I almost received: We just found your sister murdered. Your sister and her entire family were killed in an auto accident. Your sister is in a coma. (I have a lot of sisters to worry about). Your brother is missing. Your father had a heart attack.

My imagination for morbidity seems to be unfettered. I remember the story I had just told my husband hours before: As a child I had feared to wear a particular t-shirt of my mother's to bed. It was a church youth camp shirt which had been silk-screened to read "Heaven Can't Wait". I feared the kidnapper that lurked outside my window every night would strike the night I wore that shirt and interpret the text as an invitation to "off" me. I laugh at myself.

Still, I lay blinking in my bed. Perhaps my inability to sleep now is related to my falling asleep at 7pm while "helping" my 3 year old to sleep. I feel little pang of guilt as I remember that last night was Valentine's Day and I snoozed while my husband watched something as enthralling as "Legend of the Seeker" on TV. My guilt quells as I also remember the night before this one I spent mostly awake catching vomit from aforementioned 3 year old.

My 3 year old cries out and starts down the stairs. She has lost her baby. Her baby is laying on her pillow. I crawl into bed with her until I hear the deep breaths and feel the involuntary muscle twitches that signal her sleep state. I slide out of bed and head to the computer. Ever since I introduced my children to YouTube and Starfall, I have been competing for screen time with them. I promise myself I will take the uninterrupted time to write in my blog and not check my email or facebook.

I check my email. I look up flights to Hawaii. My husband is going to Honolulu in April for a conference. Two of my best friends are going the week before for fun. I feel like I should not be left out. My anxiety over knowing I probably will be grows as I think about arguing my case in front of my one-man jury. I curse our tendency toward financial prudence and lack of independent wealth.

I hear a squeak from my other child. It is now 5 am. He needs to go back to sleep. I need to blog. I ignore him. He quiets down. I write. He starts calling for mama. I write. He calls, ever faithful. I write. 5:15. Mama. I write. 5:30. Mama. I write. Coughing from the daughter. Mama. My daughter's door opens. "Go lay down with Daddy." "But I'm hungry." Mama, poo-poo, Mama. I sigh. I post. 5:45.

Author's Note: I apologize for using the dream devise. It felt a little cliche. But, it was really the way it happened. And I wanted to practice describing the vivid scene I had just dreamt. The only thing that didn't happen just as described was the last comment by Little E (Poo-poo, Mama.) That happened last week. Also at 5 am.
P.S. The youtube link is one of the kids' favorites.