(I wish I knew if one “colors” their hair these days or “dyes” it. It really doesn’t matter, in the whole scheme of things, it’s just that I don’t want to sound like a mid-century housewife if I can help. Not that I mind mid-century housewives with their full skirts, aprons and a cocktail waiting for their husbands. No, I rather envy that. Really. But I also really dig my microwave, laptop and jeans whenever I want. And the 50’s/60’s weren’t good to people with curly hair. Anyway, the point is I don’t want to date myself but the very fact that I don’t know the proper terminology for changing one’s color of hair has done that for me.)
Somehow, in God’s marvelous wisdom, I have been blessed with children that are nothing like me. While I prefer to keep myself clean while I follow the rules and take people’s word for it, my children do nothing of the sort.
MY children are the kind of people who, upon fleeing the shackles of the bathtub, do not even wait for shoes (or socks for that matter. . . ) to run straight out to the sand box. Where they dump sand. In each others freshly washed hair.
Don’t get me wrong, I am all for being messy, as long as it’s not on ME and there is a reason for it. You are elbow deep in an art/craft/decorating project and you have paint all over your hands/arms/feet? Fine! Of course! I made mud pies with the best of them, I just made sure the mud stayed on my hands and not spread over every inch of my body and on anyone in my circle of acquaintances. Really, MY children can be outside and the dog inside and yet, somehow, the dog ends up with sand in her coat and mud caked ears. It really is a wonder how they can do it.
MY children are the kind of children who cannot take someone at their word. First hand exploration and experimentation is needed in nearly ALL situations. Max, upon carrying a metal bowl full of freshly popped popcorn, announced that the bowl was burning hot and held up his red hands to prove it. Without removing her eyes from her brother’s palms, Tess reached out and touched the bottom of bowl. You know, just to see.
MY children are the ones who make messes for no particular reason. Who empty drawers because they can and eat using their whole bodies. They are in the style of, 40 minutes before Mass starts, climbing on the table to reach the newly filled butter dish so they can throw hand fulls of the delicious stuff to the dog. And massage it into their hair and skin.
Those are my children.
My children say things like:
“Mom! Is it really, really dangerous to parachute from the tip-tip-top of the climbing structure?”
“Uh . . . yeah!”
“I know! I’m gonna do it after Max . . . ”
Yes, they belong to me. Wanna trade?