I woke up yesterday morning and noticed that the dog had a bar code on the bottom of her paw. Fitting, considering how much merchandise has made its way into our house, the last week. I’ve now learned my lesson about how important it is to take careful inventory….
We were all a little bleary-eyed yesterday morning, two mornings after Christmas, and Annabelle had a friend sleep over. She’s never slept at a friend’s (just grandparents’) but has had the occasional guest, and O. is a very old friend in her world — dating back to kindergarten. I spread quilts and blankets on Annabelle’s floor, and the two lined up their pillows and stuffed animals and the lights were finally out sometime after 10.
But Annabelle — I love that kid — got hysterical. She emerged from her room, tears smeared everywhere, to announce that when she doesn’t sleep in her own bed, she misses me.
“Um, Annabelle, your bed is a few inches away. Grab your pillow and hop in.”
“Are you sure?” (More exhausted sobs. Bad mom. Should have made bedtime earlier.)
And so she did. I was up for a few more hours, trying to make a dent in the laundry. (That flow finally stopped last night, when the washer gave up in the middle of a load of Ray’s.)
All that to say that none of us were on the top of the game, Saturday morning. Except for Sophie. (And Ray, who had fallen asleep early, but he took off early for a mountain bike ride.) Annabelle and O. insisted on immediately going back to the sewing project they’d started the night before, with the sewing kit Annabelle had received from Santa. I had insisted they sit at the kitchen table, then gave in when they wanted to move to the coffee table to watch Project Runway (more bad mom, another Xmas gift, have you seen Season One? pretty bawdy!) and stayed there in the morning.
At least all the materials are on the table together, I thought, as I left all three girls in the living room to go to the kitchen to make breakfast. (You can see where this is headed.)
And now I’ll pause to acknowledge that I know the self-haircut is a rite of passage for all kids. Not me, I was too wimpy, but when she was 3 or so my sister did put her hair in pink sponge curlers — then cut them all out. Trish reminded me that Abbie cut her own hair around the same age. Ms. X (when I called to tell her) insisted that all kindergarteners do it at least once. (Not Annabelle, I grumped to myself.)
I’d considered it a point of pride, that I’d never let scissors get into Sophie’s hands. But there she was, yesterday morning, standing no more than 2 feet away from Annabelle and O., watching Oswald and wacking away at her hair with the incredibly sharp scissors from Annabelle’s new sewing kit. I grabbed the scissors, stared hard at Annabelle (it wasn’t her fault, so I then apologized but still confiscated the scissors; she didn’t complain) and had a talk with Sophie.
It was a lot of hair, in big hunks I swept off the floor and considered saving, then trashed. And here’s the crazy part. Last night, when we were sitting at the coffee table (sewing stuff safely away) eating dinner, I looked over at Sophie and noticed she’d done a damn fine job. Her hair falls around her face in soft layers, and somehow, even interrupted in mid-cut, she got it fairly even. She looked great.
I wanted to tell her, but of course, I didn’t say a word.