Memories Monday

Mirthe, Anna and I are playing Barbies up in my room, on the big bed, this last afternoon of Spring Break. It's rainy and cold outside and my room gets the best light on days like this. It's cozy up there and because we ran errands all morning, we don't have to go back out for the rest of the day. I briefly consider getting back into pajamas, but decide against it, 'cause you never know when Playground Jannie (Mirthe's new best friend) will stop by. Playground Jannie is four and a giggler. I'm sure she would find pyjamas at 3 PM highly amusing.

I'm not really playing Barbies, just pretending to as I keep sorting through the baskets and baskets full of stuff I fished out of the girls' room this past weekend. We're spring cleaning, or I am at least. And as usual, whenever something gets cleaned up or sorted out, it instantly becomes the most loved toy of all time. That's what happened with the Barbs, as we call them here. They got bumped up from a medium to a big container in the Trofast chest, and since then they've been living it up. Today it's their teacher's birthday, so they all have to get super dressed up and scrounge around for presents, which invariably end up being a pair of shoes in a Barbie handbag. The only role I play in this elaborate (for a five year old and a three year old, yes, elaborate) storyline is that of hairdresser and, at the very end, teacher (who sleeps while the Barbs are getting ready. Oh, if only it were really so...)

So I'm struggling with the super long hair of this one Barb, hair that was once blond and silky and down to her ankles but has now frizzed into an afro the size of a dinner plate. And a little voice inside of me said:

"Dude, you are the mama now. Just cut the freakin' hair off already."

And another little voice (the voice of my own five year old self) said:

"NO! Mustn't cut the HAIR! You will be SO in trou-ou-ou-ble..."

Because as far as I can remember, I was the kind of kid that didn't cut off a doll's hair, or draw lipstick on them with ballpoint pen, or switch heads when the hands and feet had been all chewed up and the Barb in question was deemed no longer good -- all things that my own kids have done.

And that's why I had to sneak off the bathroom (and lock the door, I am NOT kidding you) before I could pick up the nail scissors and hack through her hair. The afro fell on the floor and I just stood there, Barb in one hand, scissors in the other. Waiting for the trouble...

...which never came, because I'm the mama now.




All italics courtesy of Mirthe.