Pig Tails and Sparkles

When I thought about having a little girl, I kind of pictured her with long hair, french braiding it and putting it in pony-tails, with pretty hair ribbons and sparkly shit all over it. Or maybe that's my rosy/sparkly glasses. Anyway, I when I dreamed of having a girl, it was always a little angel who hung on my every thought and listened to me when I talked, treating every word out of my mouth as a revelation of Biblical proportions.

In reality, she barely lets me touch her hair, which was tragically cut short by a toddler whose name I won't mention, but it starts with a "Di" and ends with an "ana." She screams bloody murder when I go to brush it, while dogs howl in sympathy for blocks. Every time I try to put a hair ribbon in, she takes it off and ties it around one of her dolls' neck, so that's out, unless, 'blue-face' is the new 'peach-face,' and I kind of want her not to suffocate herself, thank-you-very-much! What can I say, I'm traditional like that. And given access to sparkly shit she'd probably feed it to her baby sister, so no sparkles unless I want sparkled-poopy diapers to change. Yay! It's not a party without sparkles, right? We could do confetti for dessert. As for the bonding, well, let's just say that she doesn't believe a single word that Mommy says, unless it's, "Yes, you can have that cookie / cupcake / dessert / candy."

So, the last time I picked the girls up from Grandma's house, I was shocked to my core. I first got a text from my mother in law: If you're not busy, maybe you can go ahead and pick up girls. Daph is beyond tired and throwing herself around but doesn't want to give in. Thanks. and knew something was up, since we usually don't pick them up until around bedtime. And the text was a little terse, which was unusual in so many ways.

Now, usually she is overly polite to me, both when speaking and texting, but this one sounded more like a text I would write, not my super-polite-extremely-careful-not-to-offend MIL. You tell one little story about getting pissed off at your mom, telling her to go fuck herself and drive the distance herself if she wants to see her grandkids, then refuse to talk to your mother for two months, and suddenly my mother-in-law is overly polite. I mean, jeesh, it would take a lot more than that to make me cut his mother off, because although I am a true bitch, coming from a proud family line of bitches, their family is ... normal, and ...nice. If I didn't like them so much, I'd really hate them for being so nice! I mean, how crazy is that? (The 'being nice' part, not the 'hating nice' part. Anyway...)

When I arrived at their house, I noticed right away that my MIL looked exhausted, and was slowly following the baby at a much slower pace than normal. Now, I have never understood her need to have eyes on the littlest munchkin 24/7, and I probably never will, because in my home 'childproof' is the word, and 'child gates' is the sentence, the alpha and omega of the home, so-to-speak. And anyway, I wasn't sure if she realized it or not but she was never going to catch up to that baby, because they were moving at different speeds - the baby was on fast forward x4, zipping around and around, because that's what they do, and Nana was on pause-slash-play, draggin' serious ass if you know what I mean. But still Grandma faithfully followed her Speedy Gonzales ass as she ran around and around the house (their house is one big circle) while I watched in disbelief. The baby was "lapping" her, for Christ's sake, and she didn't even notice! I know my kids can be exhausting (and I've come to rely on these days without dingleberries on my ass constantly) so I snag the baby, hand her off to the convenient teenager I had asked to come along, and go to find the 4-year-old. I've got to get these kids out of here before she refuses to keep them again! (Child, so help me God, if you have broken your grandparents we will have words!)

I find Diana in the family room playing with Barbies, with her hair in pig tails. Dear God, child, what is in your hair? Well, 5 hairclips, 2 hairties, and 1..2..3..4..5..6 hair barrettes, the tiny, sparkly clippy kind. Oh, and a curler for perms. Wow! I can barely wash her hair, let alone comb it, and Nana has her in pig tails?! Well, no wonder she's tired, that probably took hours and hours all by itself. My mother in law rocks! She's turning my daughter into a girl.

Ok, snag the kids again, ("No, I'll change the baby's diaper when I get home, she'll be fine for ten minutes, but thank you!") get shoes, remove excess hair accessories ("Ow, Mommy, that hurts!" she tells me. "Pumpkin, I haven't even touched you yet! Pipe down so I can get these out!") find her favorite puppy purse, kisses to Grandma and Grandpa ("Tell, Nana and Poppa thanks for keeping you!") buckled everyone in, and we're on our way in less than 10 minutes. A new personal best, even if I do say so myself. And after staring fascinated for a time at the pig tails and girly attitude, I kind of put it out of my mind, chalking it up to 'things Grandma can get away with that Mommy never will.' Yes, there's short novel of things she gets to do that I don't!

That was three days ago, and here's the kicker: Every single day since, sometimes twice a day, Diana has asked me to put her hair in pigtails. I pull out the brush, brush it, part it, and wrap the clumps of hair in a hairtie; however, every single time I get, "You're not doing it like Nana does it, Mommy!"

"Oh, for Christ's sake, it's pig tails, not rocket science! They're in straight I'm telling you, go check the mirror!" I whine back. This fixing hair shit is definitely not my bag. I'm actually getting better at it though, since until this point, I hadn't really had any practice. Three boys, and short hair myself will really make the ol' 'pig tail skills' rusty! My oldest son does have hair almost to his ass, but he won't let me play with it, the butthead! He's so ungrateful. I took his side against his father when he wanted to grow it out, and this is the thanks I get! I know he's got his reasons, and I can respect them, but seriously? Just let me braid it once, it's all the rage in Europe for a man to have his hair braided. Yes, I know why he won't let me play with his hair. Let's just say that if you ever have a son with hair to his ass, he will probably not let you touch it ever again if you french braid it one night while he's sleeping as a joke, and he doesn't notice until after his brothers have seen it. Well, I thought it was funny! Unfortunately, so did his brothers. Man, does he hold a grudge!

Today, with nearly perfect pigtails, I finally get the story. She has not suddenly developed a harder head, nor has she realized how absolutely-fucking-adorable she looks with her hair in pig tails. There has also been no great epiphany of adult-like responsiblities and hygiene, nor has she suddenly decided that she wants "bonding time" with Mommy. No, it's much, much worse. She has a role model, and it isn't me!

She's sitting at the breakfast table, and I ask her if she wants me to put her hair in pig tails while she's eating, and she agrees. After it's done, I remark that her pig tails look like adorable puppy ears, and she tells me, "No, Mommy, I'm not a puppy (she tells me with totally inappropriate sarcasm, I might add!) I'm Millie!"

"From Umi Zoomie?" I ask. Is there nothing sacred? I've got to get a new babysitter, she's suppose to want to be like me, dammit!

"Yes, Mommy! Pattern power! Umi-zoomie-umi-zoomie!"

"That's right, Millie has long pig tails," I say with a sinking feeling. There goes my hope this is a semi-permanent activity, a cry for bonding time, and that I could actually take her somewhere and no one would think she was homeless because her hair hadn't been combed. Dammit, I had hopes and dreams, child-of-mine, that as soon as your hair was long enough I could show you a fishbone braid....and some new hair clips with sparkles on them!