Whose Hair Is This?!?!

Let me set the scene:

Late morning. Tuesday. Weather is drizzly. Room is messy. Culprit is seven and sassy.

The girls are at school and I'm putting some clothes away. MM's dresser has two long, narrow drawers at the top that are good for nothing. Especially when you're a kid and can't reach them without a step ladder. I wondered what she's put in them and as I slowly opened the drawer and peeked inside....

What?! Horror!! What is this?! WHOSE hair is this?!?!?!

Now, let me take a step back and tell you a story. Once upon a time, there were two little girls. These girls loved scissors. These girls loved their hair. But these girls never once in ten years cut their very own hair. They cut lots (and lots) of paper. But hair? No. Why? It's a mystery. A blessed Christmas miracle of a mystery.

One day (two months ago) the seven year old girl, who had long, thick blonde hair, decided she wanted bangs. She begged her mom and her mom, being the mean old thing that she is, said, "No."

Oh, the wailing. Oh, the frustration. Oh, the seven-year old's determination to be her own person. She decided to take matters into her own scissor-wielding hands. She found the sharpest, shiniest scissors around and.... snip! Now this girl wanted bangs, but she wasn't as bold as she thought (and feared her mother's wrath) so instead of cutting all of her hair, she cut one 1/4 inch wide piece, but only a half inch from her scalp. 

The effect? Ridiculous. The punishment? Ridicule. (Not really, but some definite sighing and exasperated, "What did you do, that's sticking straight out of your forehead now!!" comments.)

This is after two months of growing out...

Did she learn her lesson? Yes! 

The End.

Or was it....

Fast forward out of the story to Tuesday. The messy room, the drawer, the shock... The HAIR. You remember, right?

My heart started pounding and I started wondering. Did I see her, I mean really SEE her this morning? Was I paying attention to her head? What was she was wearing today? It was shoes with a hole in the toe, no socks and shorts when it's pouring down rain - I was looking at that instead of her head, wasn't I? Was it all a deliberate ploy by her so I wouldn't look at her head?!? Oh man. She's not that devious!

I started frantically searching around her room for some explanation. I opened the closet and... 

The After

AHHHHHH!!!!!

Wow! Well, hmmm. This Barbie Styling Head used to have enough hair to actually.... style. And there's another doll next to this, also with some very short hair pieces, which I think the ponytail have actually may have come from. Barbie's hair is so weirdly shiny and sleek, it doesn't quite match. But, wow! That IS a haircut she gave Barbie!

The Before

Well, I know we've been more lucky than some families in the child-haircutting department. And thank goodness that:

A. She's not devious!

B. I'm not so oblivious that I didn't notice that much hair missing from her head when she left for school!

And, you know, Babs doesn't look so bad. Maybe she's got a future as a stylist!

I Feel Like Breaking The World

I was in the store this afternoon and from an aisle somewhere behind me I heard a child in the throes of a tantrum. I'm very (very) familiar with these particular sounds. This wasn't your usual I-want-candy-and-mom-said-no kind of breakdown, though. Again, this sounded so familiar. 

I've always said that Monster Me has needed anger management classes since birth. She has had a fighting spirit since she was born. She gets SO frustrated which turns right into rage. I know this is pretty common with kids, but I feel like she's different, well she's different from Adventure Girl, anyway. I remember when she was about one, I suddenly heard bloody-murder-screaming from her room during nap time. I seriously jumped up and booked it in there, thinking someone had crawled through the window and was torturing her or something. What did I walk in on? Her in her crib with a sock on one hand, screaming in rage because she couldn't get the other sock on her other hand because well... she had a sock on the sock-putting-on hand.

I'm telling you, with MM I didn't say "no" or "don't touch that" over and over. The things I said the most were, "Take a deep breath. Use words. Breath with me. Ask for help. How can I help you?"

I could see frustration building in her with nowhere to go. She would say, through gritted teeth, "I just want to hurt something!! I just want to rip this apart! I just want to break this!!" 

Back to the store. This mama and her five or six year old girl got in line behind me. This sweet thing had long blonde braids, like my sweet thing. This girl wasn't screaming or kicking, just crying and angry and frustrated over whatever had happened. And she kept crying, "I feel like breaking this cart! I feel like breaking the world!"

I got out to my car and tears filled my eyes. I don't know why that struck my heart so much. It was like seeing my own child from an outsider's view. Seeing her frustration without my own frustrated, embarrassed, can't-control-my-own-child, emotions. And I heard her. I felt her need to do something physical to release the frustration. (Because, honestly, don't we ALL feel that way sometimes?)

And her mother. Oh, her mother. Yelling at her to STOP IT? No. Hissing at her to control herself? No. Outwardly expressing embarrassment over her girl's behavior? No. Making excuses to all the other people in line? No. She had her arm around her. She was silent. She was comforting. She may have been inwardly feeling those things. She may have gotten to her car and put her child in, then leaned against the door with tears streaming down her face while she did some deep breathing. (As I have done too many times to count.) But she was calm. She was showing love instead of annoyance. She let her child feel what she was feeling. I could have learned a lot from her. 

So many times MM has told me she feels like being violent when she's angry. I've tried giving her acceptable ways of physically expressing that, like screaming into a pillow, punching a pillow, throwing her pillows against her bed. Poor pillows. But better them than Adventure Girl, who's borne a lot of the brunt of Hurricane Monster Me.

We've made some progress, although even at seven years old we have had massive meltdown public tantrums. I, unlike this store-mama, am not calm, cool and collected. I do all of those things that she didn't do. I am embarrassed that I can't control my child. I'm frazzled and just want it to STOP. I've dragged her along the ground to the car at parks because she pulls the boneless body melt when I pick her up. I've wondered if the police are being called as she's screaming, "NO! NO! NO!" as I try to bolt her into the car.

But, there's progress. I'm assuming (praying) that as a teenager or adult she will have tools to manage her emotions. I don't know. I may be visiting her in jail, but I think she'll (we'll) make it.

All of this to say... these are little (and bigger and some really big) hearts with big emotions and feelings. They are learning. We, as parents, are learning. Our children need tools. Maybe beyond punching a pillow. It's ok to recognize that. 

It's also ok to cheer another mom on who is in the midst of the struggle. In fact, it should be something we strive to do. Whether it's something you've gone through with your own children or not. Moms need to feel like they're not alone. 

Interestingly enough, I said something to this mom, but in the end it was ME who felt like I wasn't alone. Maybe that's where the tears came from. 

Behind the facebook-"fabulous", instagram-"wonderful", pinterest-"perfect" world, there are real people who are struggling. Real women who feel like they don't measure up. Real marriages at the breaking point. Real children who feel like breaking the world. If we step out of hiding, we'll realize we're not alone. You are not alone! And I have lots of pillows if you need to punch one.

The Mug That Healed the World. Or Something Like That...

Fact:
I love hot drinks. I love big, fun mugs. 
Put them together? Bliss.

Fact:
I love mugs. I love my kids. 
I should love the mugs they make me. Should.

Monster Me made this adorable mug for me in Sunday School for Mother's Day. Oh my goodness! 
A: Hello, best teacher award! 
B: Could that little drawing of her holding a heart BE any cuter?!?!

She was so excited to give this to me. I had to cover my eyes while she brought it out and everything. I love this mug.

The problem is... I don't really like drinking out of this mug. It's not my style. It's tippy. It's small. I can.not. get enough coffee into this tiny receptacle to bring joy to my day. I'd much rather choose one of my big mugs that I consider an old friend, something sturdy and colorful with enough room that it takes half of the coffee pot to fill it up. (Because who wants to fill up a mug multiple times an hour. That could indicate...like...a problem...or something...)

Monster Me sometimes asks if I'm going to choose her mug to drink out of when I'm making coffee. Uh.... suuuuuure. Sometimes I hide it on the top shelf. Out of sight, out of mind and all that jazz. 

This makes me sound like a selfish mother. Choosing mug love over child love. I gotta be honest, some days are just like that. Some weeks are just like that.

This week has been rough for me and Monster Me. (By the way, her online nickname is Monster Me because she is the manifestation of the "monster" that lives in me and longs to get out - she just releases it all into the world. Haha!) We've been fighting and bickering and we don't like each other very much right now. That happens when you're confronted with yourself sometimes, and it's hard when yourself is in the form of a tiny strong-willed child.

I guess I'm the parent (ugh!) so it's my responsibility (double ugh!) to take control of the situation. I needed some warmth this afternoon so I decided to make some coffee and as I gazed into my mug cupboard I thought about a small way I could show her some love. I chose THE mug. She came home from school after a bad day (WHAT is in the air right now?!?!) and her face lit up when she saw the mug in my hand.

"You chose my mug!" (Read: you chose me.) That's right, kiddo. 

This afternoon had 85% less tears. 50% less dramatic sighing (from me.) 90% less yelling (from both of us.) And 100% more smiles than yesterday.

I'm thinking of dubbing this the Miracle Mug.

Now this is all just a shallow example of an attempt at mending a relationship. Does it take more than a mug? Yes. Does my mug choice accurately reflect my love for my child? No. Do I have a mug problem...? Maybe.

But... if you are in need of some relationship mending, sometimes it's the little things that start the ball rolling.