Yesterday was Mooter’s first day of first grade. I tried my best to be Suzy GoodParent and take photos of my child leaving the house. But Murphy’s Law was in full affect. So pictures were not in the cards. What replaced this ambition was a sense of hurried chaos between bites of cereal, hair combing, getting dressed and feeding/walking the dog. If you’ve ever experienced such a morning and was still able to wear a photographer hat, I hate you. Oh, and you’re not human. Yeah, just want to throw that in there.
In the midst of the screaming, running and yelling, I managed to pin Booger down for her ritual morning hair brushing. In the summer, I like to keep it basic with what I like to call the Queen Onion Blossom ponytail. Observe:
See how easy that looks? You’d have no idea that any screaming and kicking was involved in its creation just by looking. Oh, but banshees of the East and Westward winds were summoned. Every time. No exceptions. For no God forsaken reason except to punish the person brushing - NOT COMBING - her hair. Me.
Hair brushing typically commences in the bottom bunk of her sister’s bed. And poor Mooter has to sit next to her crying, whining, she-devil of a sister the entire time the process takes place. Why? Because her sister is in this phase that I’m sure all little sisters go through. The phase of imitation. She must be near her sister at all times. Following her every footstep down to the heel. Playing with her hair. Blowing in her face. Putting her finger in her nose (her sister’s, not her own, because where’s the fun in THAT?!). Standing thisclose to her face and calling her name. Repeatedly. And there’s no other way I can show you how much I love you and want to be just like you than to torture you within an inch of your life. For motivation, I tell Mooter she can have any cookie she wants. Because enduring hell requires a certain type of initiative when it’s for the duration. And sitting next to your sister watching only the television shows she likes listening to her cry and squeal in imagined agony is a special kind of hell and, dammit, Mooter is a special kind of sister.
Until Booger catches a glimpse of her sister, who she wanted so desperately to sit beside her during this time, not crying. And looking at her. In perfect calm. And whatthehellareyoulookingat becomes yet another excuse for Booger to turn on her little sister charm. What is this charm? Well. Mooter has lead in her butt. Born with it. She can’t help it. Ask her to put on her shoes or any article of clothing first thing in the morning and you’re asking her fifty million times. Or you have to endure the diatribe about why shoes have to hurt and oh, you can’t put them on because you need help but you’ve never needed help before but now you need the help because how is anyone expected to put on shoes and watch television at the same time, Mother?! So “please put on your shoes” turns into SHUT YOUR MOUTH AND PUT ON YOUR SHOES! Booger, never one to miss an opportunity, echoes HUSH YOO MOUF AN’ PUT YOO SHOOS! to which I reply AND YOU HUSH YOUR MOUTH, TOO! which is met with okay.
Imitation is not reserved for her sister and can be used against her at any time. All I want to know is when the I hate you stay out of my closet and out of my life-phase begins.
