I’m continuing to share some of the posts previously written in the years I was blessed – and sometimes stressed, as I navigated the bumpyroads of motherhood. This looking back and remembering is somehow keeping me during this time following my daughter’s death. How it pains me to write those words. Yet, I continue to be kept by the One who keeps all things, who knows all things, who all things have been made by, through, and for…and who will somehow keep keeping me. It is all beyond my knowing.
Today, I share a lighthearted moment. One that we did laugh about, and one that still makes me smile. I am so grateful God gave me the wherewithall to write these things…as well as a supportive Christian blogging communty at the time who cheered me on through the ups and downs of parenting. God has graced me with amazing friendships near and far, some I have met in person and many I have not! Some of you will remember when I shared this story back in 2012. Either way, I hope it brings you a smile and kindles a memory of your own either of your childhood or parenting and navigating the haircare years. God bless you, friends. Thanks for being here.
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. But… 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.” No.
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. Sigh.