You Can’t Hide Yer Lyin’ Eyes (Or Hair Color): Tales of Tween Years Gone Awry

I prayed for my baby girl to have curls. I don’t know why I did, but I did. You know the prayers you pray that are a little out there and then God decides to remind you how He really is listening… to everything? Check. She had a head of hair from birth. Actually a long tail at the nape of her neck. Her curls were and are the kind that inspire poems. My hub and I used to recite one in particular that you’ve probably heard: “There once was a girl who had a curl right in the middle of her forehead-
when she was good she was very, very good, but when she was bad she was horrid.”
Hmm…fast forward 12 years.
I am not a slave to fashion by a long shot. I rarely wear make- up. OK, I confess. I never wear makeup. She wanted to wear makeup in elementary school. I do not fuss to get ready to go anywhere. I’m a shower, dress and go, girl. She takes 45 minutes to get in her pajamas. Longer to dress for the day. Longer still to pick and find shoes.
She went through years of wanting straight hair. Her much more patient Dad, painstakingly straightened that head of hair. It was beautiful still, this thick, glorious mane. 
Currently she is fine with her hair, curls and all.
not the color.
The perfectly fine, beautiful shade of brown, that I love.
God’s perfect choice for her.
I barely go to the hair dresser either. 
I cover the grey periodically. 

How is this my child?
1st grade: “Mom, I want to color my hair green.”
5th grade: “Mom I want to dye my hair pink.”
No. No.
7th grade: “Mom, I want to bleach my hair blonde.”
No. No. No.
We are heading out of the house to her Chorus program. Yesterday.
“Mom, can we stop at the store so I can get some gum?”
“Can I go in by myself while you are in the Post Office?
“No, I will let you go in by yourself after the Post Office since it’s on the way, if you want to run in then and I will wait in the car.”
We arrive at the local Drugstore “Let me give you some money, Honey. I want you to get a drink for Chorus, too.”
“I brought my own money.”
“Oh, are you sure you have enough?”
“I have enough.”
I am sitting in the car feeling, quite good about this progress. She carries a Navy Blue Bag with white stars over her shoulder and I sit in the car thinking that my girl is doing so well. Here she is going into the store on her own for a pack of gum. Something she hardly does. She rarely, no, never, carries a bag but thought she should TODAY to to carry her gum, money, chorus folder etc. I am suspicious of nothing and enjoying a blissful mom moment that will go up in a puff of delusional smoke soon. 
We arrive home from Chorus, my sweet Tween wants to shower. Sure, no problem. It’s early but I like this pro-active approach she’s sporting. She had a shower yesterday morning but she sometimes pushes the shower frequency limit so this is another sign of progress, right? She’s getting it, I think to myself. Perfect. Personal Hygiene victory!
Into the bathroom she goes.
Enter the theme from Gilligan’s Island here…
It was like a three hour tour. I mean shower. 
Repeatedly we knock on the door and inquire. Dinner is ready.
She finally comes out and slips quickly down the hall to her bedroom. 
“Mom, can you come here?”
I stand outside her door, “Yes?”
“Mom, promise you won’t be mad.”
“What are you talking about? Open the door.”
To which she replies, “Promise me, you won’t be mad.”
“Open the door, now.” I say in an increasingly impatient tone.
I am looking at my daughter, who has wet hair and and wears on her face the look of fear intermingled with victory.
Her hair is now a shade of orangey, blonde.
I decide to let her live.
At least long enough to hear her defense and the details of this latest scheme. 
There are only two questions going through my head.
What would the amazing Recovering Church Lady do in this situation?
What would my hero in motherhood and life Sharon Linder do if this was one of her girls? 
What would you do if it was your Tween? 
(Mean or derogatory comments will be deleted!)
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On Brave -Because I’m Not (5 Minute Friday)

I think of myself and know the truth. God knows I’m not brave. 
When I hear the word brave, I think of my husband. Spot on.It takes courage to take on a family. To step out in faith and say the words, marry me. And trust me I was fearful, because I saw so much ugliness in marriage as a child that I dared not hope. Pressed down that little girl dream that is dormant within every little girl’s heart. Yes, I said every little girl. We all long for the kind of faithfulness that comes from above in a man. And that is the loftiest of all dreams…dangerous, risky. But this precious, man. Long time friend has shown me his courage, again and again. In the way he gets up and goes to that job. Loves this sinner graciously. Models gentleness to this fresh chick and loves me just the way I am. Even likes me in my yuck, but sees past it. Sees something in me beautiful that I can’t see.  Models, patience and true bravery while living amongst the land of drama. We two girls have our moments, and he so sweetly holds us together in love that reflects a love I feel unworthy of but oh, so grateful for. How this man loves us. And in this love I see him brave. And in this love I see Him. 
I’m rambling, exhausted, but made it to my first late night FMF Party! Yippee! 
See you all in the morning. 
That was really fun. And awkward.

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