Welcome Back

I had one of those days yesterday. You ever experience one of those rare gift days when everything goes right, the world is in order, and faith in yourself as a competent - dare I even say pretty damn good - parent is restored?

Yeah. Well. I'm not talking about one of those days. No, yesterday was a just-back-from-vacation, all-hell-has-broken-loose day fueled by overtired, off schedule, mega-cranky kids...and parents.

It all began first thing in the morning. Something went horribly wrong with Emma's tights. And by "horribly wrong," I mean that apparently the toe reinforcement in the tights' feet were not hitting Em's little piggies at exactly the right angle. This catastrophe set off approximately 40 minutes of crying that culminated in me dropping her off at school and then shutting the car door in her face mid-wail.

After returning home, I got the brilliant idea that I should cut Sophie's hair. In hindsight, I am mystified as to why, of all things I could have chosen to calm my frazzled nerves, I opted to operate a pair of scissors near my skittish toddler's head. In my defense, I think at that moment I was vicariously likening the joy of cutting Sophie's tresses to the imagined euphoria at snipping Emma's vocal chords. Whatever my reasons, I quickly assembled the proper equipment, positioned Sophie in front of the TV, and began my work on the Dora-distracted child.

Well, she wasn't distracted for long. She sat very still at first, but about halfway through she began to protest. And maybe 30 seconds later, she was done. I, however, was not done. I had successfully hacked off approximately two inches from the back of her hair in a relatively straight line...but I was only 3/4 of the way done. So the cut started out great and then curved jaggedly into a weird-looking hair tail behind her left ear. Only a person with their head tilted permanently at a 45 degree angle would consider the cut even remotely straight. Basically, it looked like her hair had been styled by Raymond Babbitt.

Desperate to finish, I begged, pouted, cajoled, bribed, promised...anything to get her back in the chair. Nothing worked. She wouldn't let me come anywhere near her. I couldn't conceive of taking her out with her hair like that, so I refused to admit defeat. After all my best manipulative tricks did nothing to sway her, I resorted to the only card I had left: brute strength. I actually wrestled her to the ground, arms and legs wrapped around her in some type of bizarre stronghold, and screamed "Hold still! Hold still! I'm begging you, for one second just HOLD STILL!" while she shrieked and squirmed and clawed to get free. I can only imagine the sight we made: crazy scissor lady and the betailed two-year-old. Not my finest mothering moment.

I did finally come to my senses and give up the fight. We went to the gym, and the nursery workers laughed until they cried when they saw Sophie's hair. I ran the fastest mile I've ever done on the treadmill, muttering profanities to myself the entire time, until my anger was somewhat spent. Then I sat on a mat with my best friend and bitched for an hour while other people dealt with my children. After that, things began to look up.

Emma made up for her earlier hysterics by helping me play "Beauty Shop" when she got home from school, so I was able to correct the worst of Sophie's haircut by making it a game. Wow, a game...now why didn't I think of that from the very beginning? I don't think Sophie's in danger of being recruited for a hair commercial any time soon, but at least she no longer looks like she lost a fight with a drunk barber.

Vacations are great, but post-vacation insanity is not. I'm just gonna call yesterday a wash and consider today our first official day back.