Last week, the kids watched a movie with me. It detailed the life of a child who lived in an abusive home with a drug addicted parent who made him stay in his room all of the time. There was never any food on hand.
Lacy told me soon after watching it that she felt equally as victimized.
Since she has a beautiful room, a bathroom, a full wardrobe PLUS a wardrobe of dress up clothes, three meals a day, quality family time, several pets (shall I go on?) I sort of threw up my hands.
You guys, according to my oldest, I am the meanest and worst mom EVER. Except when I’m the BEST and GREATEST mom ever. There’s no half-way ground with this girl. There’s just not.
I’m either a blithering failure or a raging success.
This morning, I was -according to my daughter -a blithering failure. I’m going to tell you why because in 20 years, she’s going to read this and then call me an apologize. (Or visit my grave with flowers, since I sometimes believe I’m headed directly to the cemetery. Okay, I’m joking.)
I made oatmeal with blueberries.
And curled. her. hair.
There were wails and tears and coughing… there were excuses and pleadings to her father. The bus was missed.
Life was DISMAL! AWFUL!
“I want to go to school HUNGRY!”
“I LOVE the cafeteria food!”
“This tastes so WEIRD!”
And while I believe that Anne Shirley and I really ARE kindred spirits, I also believe that Lacy and Fancy Nancy are the very same being.
Even as I combed through her long, ratted hair she wailed out, victim-style.
I’ve been telling her that her hair is a little too long to be managed and that it needs to be cut, but she hates the whole idea.
This morning her tears (of which there have been MANY over her long locks) reminded me and I said again, “We need to cut your hair if you’re not going to brush it every night.”
She mustered up a frail, tear-ridden, “A trim!”
It’s all she’ll put up with. She loves her crazy ratted hair, and I kind of love that she loves it.
Eventually she’ll realize she loves me too. You know… in 20 years when she’s making her own breakfast and curling her own hair.
And not sleeping next to Barbies (and headbands and books).
(Meet ROCK BARBIE on the left who sings with Lacy all of the time, but most especially right before bed. Lacy sings herself to sleep almost every night, and I never want to forget the sweet sound of singing I hear nightly through the wall.)
And making my grocery lists in neon green gel pens… milk, embelopes, crayons (or something like it)
After going through all of that this morning, my son popped out of bed and came sleepy-eyed into the kitchen.
“Can I have some oatmeal wiff blueberries?” he asked.
The heavens parted. So willing, so sweet… I made him a big bowl and he POLISHED it off.
Boys are sometimes just SO easy. Maybe it’s because they don’t have tons of hair?
Alice is so happy, so loving, and always ready to giggle. Until you touch her hair. She’s my very own batch of “Round 2.”
And thanks to her, I’ve got a sore nose from where she threw her cute little head back into it. And yes, I cried. A one year old beat me up last night.
Beaten in my own home, and somehow I’m still the bad guy. Cry-key.