My morning started as it typically does…me running late, my baby girl in my bed warm and cozy and refusing to get up, my son hovering for some unknown reason and me not functioning very well at all. I shooed out the boy. Replaced baby girls too small top for a better option without offending hubby and sat down in my bathroom chair.
Enter my big girl. She’s beaming. Uh-oh. That typically means trouble for me. I grab the coffee sitting on the counter and take a chug hoping that a shot of coffee provides the same effects as a shot of oh…tequila…vodka…hard liquor. I have a feeling I am going to need it.
“I did it so I get to wear it!” she proclaims. My morning response is, “huh?” She speaks slower and louder as if she is speaking to a spooked horse or a rabid raccoon. Given the way I look and act in the mornings I suppose that is fair. “My. Hair.” Pause to allow me to catch up. “I slept on my side. So I didn’t mess up my hair. It’s FINE. That means I can wear my dress. You said!” I look at her hair. It’s not fine. I struggle to remember what dress and what I said about said dress. She’s wrapped up in a big, fluffy blanket. Hair plastered to her head. Bobby pins sticking out here and there. The dullness of too much hair spray makes everything look matted and icky. Stands stick, long sections falling at odd angles and overall hair-do chaos. Then I look at her. She’s BEAMING. Big brown eyes shining, smiling with her lopsided smile and almost hopping up and down in excitement. Oh s&%^. My brain isn’t equipped for THIS fight this early in the morning.
“What dress?” I ask, though I know the answer. I am stalling. Intentionally.
“I never said you could wear your silver party dress to school.” Midway through my sentence I am interrupted by WAHAHAHAHAHHAHAH but I refuse to be swayed. “It’s too fancy for school….”
“IT’S PICTURE DAY!” Oh %^&%. Picture day. The bane of my existence. Fall picture day we had this same fight as she came downstairs in sea foam organza with a rhinestone belt. Sleeveless. Tea length. All she needed was a runner and a basket of flowers and a bride and groom and she would have been in business. We had this same fight that day too.
“Just because it’s picture day doesn’t mean you can wear a party dress to school,” I put my hand up in the international gesture for STOP though it does no good. I plow ahead, “You can’t wear silver, tulle ruffled with satin straps to school. No. I never said you could. EVER. No.”
BAWGH….she is no longer beaming. “YOU DID SAY if I kept my hair good….”
“I did not!” this whole argument is rapidly deteriorating. I refrained from pointing out that her hair DIDN’T look good. “I never, ever said you could wear that dress to school. Ever.”
“But that is what I thought you meant. I told you I was going to sleep on my side or my stomach so my hair stayed perfect. You didn’t say that meant that I couldn’t wear my dress. IT’S PICTURE DAY!”
It is way too early to try and follow her logic. “No.” She must have been expecting the answer because before the O sound rolled off my tongue she was immediately wailing that she had NOTHING to wear, NOTHING on PICTURE day, oh the travesty. I made a few suggestions to which she promptly rejected, snarled at and literally turned up her nose. Insert 5 minutes of fighting here.
End of story? She’s at school in her matted down “up do” left over from the daddy/daughter dance last night. It was designed to be ‘messy bun’ and was made by a magenta haired woman we grabbed off the sidewalk during her smoke break at a ‘salon’ beside a grocery store. Yeah. Impulse decision that I immediately regretted. The messy part is because she didn’t know what the heck she was doing. I heard her tell Kinsley that no one would have hair like hers. I rolled my eyes certain that she was right. Luckily Kinsley, being Kinsley said, “That’s okay. That’s how I roll.” Literally. She loved the ‘do’. Hence keeping it for picture day. She’s wearing what could have been a cute little dress. It’s a leopard print skirt attached to a white sleeveless top. Under that she elected to wear a black sports bra. Luckily she placed a black, velour hoodie (she couldn’t find the cute shrug that went with the dress) over said top so that you couldn’t see her 80’s fashion blunder. The scrumptious ensemble is complete with knee high, beige suede boots that she bought with her own money.
We won’t be buying any spring pictures.