My voice has gone through the many stages of aggravated cold status, arriving today at Just Sort Of Husky And If You Didn’t Know It Was Due to Phlegm Maybe Sort Of Sexy. (Previous states include: Raspy, Squeaky, Gone, and Coughing Too Much To Really Talk Anyway.) This stage is my favorite so far. Now when I answer the phone, people seem mildly taken aback and/or confused, as opposed to other stages when my attempt at “Hello?” was greeted with “Oh my GOD you sound AWFUL!”
I was just thinking how much better I felt, this morning, when Chickadee said, “My throat hurts a little.” Hmph.
No matter. I had important things to do today. Like play beauty consultant.
Some friends of mine were having a family photo done today. About a week ago, the daughter—who has gorgeous, wavy hair, and lots of it—got a new haircut with long bangs and the stylist flat ironed her hair and she looked AMAZING. Unfortunately, she’s about 13 and the stylist didn’t show her how to do it herself. And she doesn’t have a flat iron. And her hair dryer is a hand-me-down from the Carter era. And and and and.
Last night I got a panicked call from the mom. Could they please come over this morning and would I do E’s hair for her? Of course I would.
So they showed up this morning with coffee and donuts (mmmm… donuts) and I was ready with all my products and tools and set about both straightening her hair and teaching her how she can do it herself.
[Digression: I decided the best way to make sure that Monkey doesn’t have celiac would be to buy a few cases of Gluten-Free Pantry stuff from Amazon. Guess what! It worked. We didn’t see an appreciable change in him after a month of being gluten-free, so he is now back to eating whatever he wants. Which will be relevant in a minute, here.]
So I’m in the downstairs bathroom with E, fixing her hair, chatting away, having a somewhat surreal time as I realize that I met this young woman when she was the same age Monkey is now, and yet here we are talking hair and bras and I’m complimenting her on her highlights. (Obligatory “Lord I am OLD” comment goes here.) I tell the kids they can have some donuts (see, the celiac thing needed to be mentioned), and the next thing I know, my children are playing ball inside the house.
I’m sure it comes as a complete shock that I do not allow the hurling of objects, spherical or not, inside my home.
After a protracted debate, I managed to lay down the law. I returned to E’s hair while the kids chased each other around in their donut-addled euphoria. I marvelled at the difference between the teenager under my hands and the wild little sugarhounds destroying my kitchen.
We finished up and E’s hair was judged satisfactory. Her mom had been ironing outfits and now came to ask if I could fix her hair, too. I did, while E got dressed and put on some make-up.
“Not too much!” her mother cautioned.
“I don’t,” E said.
“I mean it, just a little!”
I chuckled and poked my friend with the brush I was using. “She’s fine, she never wears a lot. Leave her be.” (Easy for me to say, because MY daughter thinks she’s decked out when I let her wear chapstick.)
Everyone was dressed and coiffed and I fetched my make-up bag to get some blush for my friend. I applied it for her in the kitchen (we were down to the wire, now, and they were getting ready to leave) and then sent her to go look in the mirror to see if she was happy with it. While she was gone I winked at E. “Close your eyes a sec, honey.” She grinned and obeyed and I put a little bit of eyeshadow on her.
Maybe it won’t be so bad when my babies are bigger. Maybe.
Speaking of, today was a landmark day for MY little girl. I keep saying what a great year she’s having, how well she’s doing, and what a change it’s all been. Well, she’s been going to therapy intermittently for a while now. Today was her last session.
Oh, we’ll take her back if things change, of course. But for right now? She’s a perfectly normal, happy kid.
I just want to say that again: She’s a perfectly normal, happy kid.
Today is a day that I didn’t know if I’d ever see. Things have been good for a while, now, and I’ve spent a lot of it waiting for the other shoe to drop. It hasn’t. Heck, I’m not even sure there’s a shoe. (And that’s saying a lot, during NoBloShoeMo!) Chickadee is good. She mouths off sometimes, she baits her brother sometimes, and sometimes she eats donuts and starts bowling in the living room. Just like every other kid.
Which is pretty cool.
(Let’s not talk about Monkey right now. Let’s just bask in the glow. Ahhhhhh.)