Last evening, I promised to highlight my eldest daughter's hair. Not that I'd ever done such a thing, but she was determined to have it, without the cost of a salon, and I couldn't imagine painting strands of hair could be difficult. Right?
Actually, painting hair is not difficult. Not at all. Still, my evening was yet another clusterfuck—and the highlighting was no highlight, for me (hours into the event).
How this common household chore between mothers and daughters (or friends) became yet another Life Crisis Mind-Bending Cluster in my house is illustrative of many similar life moments, leading to: Why I No Longer Post to My Blog; Where My Creativity Gets Stifled; How Mamí Lost Her Groove; What Happened to My Websites (and My Juju); and When the Hell I Ended Up in The Bible Belt Region of the US of A.
So, I'll start with the not so highlight of the hair highlighting. Just as an example. Bear with me, gente.
My eldest daughter, pictured below, had declared Saturday a Family Beauty Day. This was a sly bit of chicanery (hey now: that word is not etymologically related to Chicano, 'k? Do your research *s), as the eldest daughter wanted the youngest daughter occupied, while mamí was performing the, yes, hair highlighting.
Here is eldest daughter, though the photo was taken a year or so ago:
Okay, so this lovely chestnut brown hair, with blonde highlights. Sure. In she comes, with a box—like people do, when avoiding a salon. What I did not expect was the cap therein contained: at the appointed hour, my eldest daughter (I must say "eldest daughter," because my eldest child is my son) comes out of my private bath, head encased in somewhat opaquely grey plastic, bound by what appears to be white cotton, ending in white cotton strings. Nice look.
To make the look more appealing, she's been tugging strands of her hair through tiny holes in this odd cap I can't even see, from where I'm standing. I blink.
"The aliens are coming," she whisper-giggles.
"I believe they've arrived," I deadpan.
The youngest, who is seven, comes dashing around the hallway corner, and slides into the huge kitchen. This is a child who never simply walks; she is a grand proponent of large and fleet activities. Staring at the cap with wisps of hair on the eldest, the youngest says, "You look like an alien."
"Don't be unkind. If she ever has cancer, and needs chemotherapy, she'll look like this all the time," I deadpan again.
The eldest protests, "Maaaaaammmííííí! How you gonna say that to her?"
The youngest looks confused, then laughs, when she realizes I'm joking (but takes to heart the message about not name-calling people's hair, mm hmm).
Eldest daughter then says she wants me to finish pulling strands through holes in cap. Tiny holes. The look of grievance on my face tells her that is not my most beloved way to spend the evening. "You get to stab me in the head with a plastic hook!" she persuades, hoping to sweeten the offer.
I roll my eyes, and remind her I can do that any time.
She relents, and trots off to my private bath, to continue her mission of pulling thin strands of hair through tiny plastic holes, with a plastic hook.
Meanwhile, this whole Hair Ordeal is taking far more time than either of us had planned. She's already painted the youngest's fingernails and toenails, and added flowers and stars. The youngest is marching about, sporting grey fingernails with flowers, and black toenails, with stars. I'm trying to be grateful the child at least didn't go for purple fingernails. Yes, I could nix that, but why: the dress code for her first grade is so strict as to be mock worthy. Let her have some creativity.
So I cook for the little one, though it's not my turn. After forty years of Obligatory Cooking, I do expect the older children to know their ways around the kitchen, the laundry room, and the cleaning supplies. Eventually they'll live on their own, riiight? Well, my son does, and he's an excellent cook *s
Naturally, the girl enters the kitchen, to inform me sadly she cannot get to the back or sides of her head.
Dinner on the table for the little one. Milk or juice? Milk. Chocolate or vanilla? Mixed. Have you washed your hands and face? Yes. For dinner? No? Please do that now. Hijole.
Put on a Netflix film for the little one. She considers this both a treat and a cheat: rarely does she watch anything at all on television; typically, she eats dinner with family. So she knows this is a copout move, being babysat by a film. She'll only take it, because it's animated. And I feel terribly guilty.
Then I'm looking at this hook to holes to hair gig, and finding myself completely agitated by the design strategy: it's more of the Tyranny of Useless Products for Idiotic Simplification. I repeatedly ask my eldest daughter why her hair needs be pulled through these hundreds of damned holes. She repeatedly tells me the device will make it easier for me.
At the point I'm about to have an absolute meltdown, the girl says, "Fine, Mamí. I'll just take off the whole cap." Okay. Life is good, again.
The Debate Over Simple brought us to bedtime for the youngest. Sorry, gotta go. Find the babe. Instruct her to clean teeth. Ready for bed routine: make a lunch; check next day weather; have her select and set out weather-appropriate clothing. We're almost up to reading a book, when the child reminds me she has no sheets on her bed. Joder.
The eldest and I scramble to understand which sheets and pillowcases does the little one want, so we can get the bed made. Read book. Okay. Love you. Good night.
Begin highlighting hair, which is really very simple, minus stupid cap.
Dryer buzzes. Break. Turn over laundry; add new clothing to washer.
Return to highlighting hair.
Enter little one, who says she can't sleep. My hands are gloved; the eldest has bleach in her hair. Kinda stuck here, amor; why can't you sleep? She says she's afraid she'll have bad dreams. This is uncommon, so I take it seriously. Break to figure whether her lullaby playlist on her iTunes will help. She's not certain. She'll think about it.
Back to highlighting hair. Still simple. Going well.
Enter little one, who says she feels like she's going to cry. Okay, this is serious. Eldest is straddling my closed toilet, facing the wooden étagère; I'm still gloved. I ask the little one whether she's comfortable sitting there, on the carpet outside my bath, talking to me. She nods in assent.
We review her recent loss and grief, the anger she feels she ought not feel or display. I talk her through it. She determines to take action, by finally speaking to the person who hurt her. After she's done this, she feels "slightly better," but more confused. It's now very late for her, on a school night, so she pinky swears me to talk with her more about it, when she returns from school. Of course I will. Of course.
I offer her several additional remedies. She brings in her special rabbit, as I am known to hear All That Is Said Amongst the Animal Friends in her room. Mr. Rabbit has something to tell me. Stop highlighting hair. Listen faithfully. Pass along pertinent information to child. She is somewhat relieved, and thinks she can now sleep.
Short break for la mamí, because I've been standing for over an hour, and I just started walking/standing again last July. Let's not overwork the feet. Email from best friend, reminding me we have a movie date. All I can tell her is I'm in the midst of highlighting eldest daughter's hair, and will be back to her as soon as possible.
Complete highlighting hair. It is now after 9 p.m., and I'm exhausted. The day before, on this Beauty Weekend, I trimmed hair for the youngest, then cut and restyled the eldest daughter's hair.
Go to living room. Light six or so Root candles. This is the official sign la mamí is relaxing. Watch the last half of The Killing. Call best friend; choose a film. Remember food still needs to happen, today. Make some sort of meal. Grab a water. Call best friend. Cue film. Try not to fall asleep on the living room floor.
So.
This is a typical day, now.
Previously, I lived in the silence of a forest, with only my youngest. I was 2.5 hours away from NYC; a couple hours away from Philly; few hours from Baltimore. My son came down from Williamsburg; my best friend was able to spend entire weeks with me; my teen daughter flew in from Colorado; models and participants either came to me, or I did location work. I could see whom I wanted, when I wanted—except during that one year with the whole wheelchair debacle, when I really wasn't up for seeing anyone or doing much of anything. The other four years were splendid *s
Then, my eldest daughter—who is a U.S. Marine—was deployed to Afghanistan. Upon her return, she wanted her family closer to her. Meaning me. I struggled with the notion of moving near a military base—I came up in San Diego, and have had my fill of military presence in my life. Even more of a struggle was this base, located in Southern U.S., smack in the ever-lovin' bible belt.
In the end, we made the move. My eldest daughter, like all my children, is one of my great loves in life. She went through a tremendous amount of trouble, to find a house not too close to base; not too suburban; somewhat rural; close to beaches; with plenty of land (oh, we have plenty of land); with a huge kitchen; and with excellent natural light. I said she'd have to walk through it, to ensure good energy, because she's the only other person I know who can intuit this. She did.
How else could my youngest make a smooth transition from the only home she's ever known, deep in the most rural of forests, to a location where she could have the one thing she wanted: friends?
And here we are: just off the Crystal Coast of North Carolina, where the natural setting is stunningly beautiful, and the house suits us fine.
What I don't have is much more than a moment to myself. Ever. As Ángela, my close friend to whom I refer as my hermanita (little sister) warned: You'll be back to raising both of them, meeting both their needs. Yup. One never stops being a mamí.
So.
I've been in the midst of a thousand different projects—but I haven't completed even one.
From the moment I awaken, I'm timing how long I have to become fully conscious (i.e.: caffeinated), so I can run through the daily household duties; then maybe begin working on my own things, before—shoot, look at the time: I need to shower, dress, and go meet the bus for my little one.
Once she's home, it's about homework; checking her folder for whatever the teacher sent home; nudging her to do her chore; keeping her hydrated (why do children forget to drink water?); reminding her to change into play clothes; please don't leave your dirty laundry on the floor; of course you may have something to eat; please brush your teeth; yes, you may go outdoors; please stay where I can see you.
Then I have maybe another hour—while watching my child through my office window—before it's time for dinner, shower, bed, and that whole routine.
My eldest daughter does help, but that comes with a million questions as to what needs to be done, or how. Suspira.
Exactly one day, since the move here, have I been alone in this house. That's another thing: in the forest, I had entire weekends to myself. Oh, yesss.
What happened to my website?
All of the above.
I was in the midst of a major redesign
but
yeah.
Actually, painting hair is not difficult. Not at all. Still, my evening was yet another clusterfuck—and the highlighting was no highlight, for me (hours into the event).
How this common household chore between mothers and daughters (or friends) became yet another Life Crisis Mind-Bending Cluster in my house is illustrative of many similar life moments, leading to: Why I No Longer Post to My Blog; Where My Creativity Gets Stifled; How Mamí Lost Her Groove; What Happened to My Websites (and My Juju); and When the Hell I Ended Up in The Bible Belt Region of the US of A.
So, I'll start with the not so highlight of the hair highlighting. Just as an example. Bear with me, gente.
My eldest daughter, pictured below, had declared Saturday a Family Beauty Day. This was a sly bit of chicanery (hey now: that word is not etymologically related to Chicano, 'k? Do your research *s), as the eldest daughter wanted the youngest daughter occupied, while mamí was performing the, yes, hair highlighting.
Here is eldest daughter, though the photo was taken a year or so ago:
Okay, so this lovely chestnut brown hair, with blonde highlights. Sure. In she comes, with a box—like people do, when avoiding a salon. What I did not expect was the cap therein contained: at the appointed hour, my eldest daughter (I must say "eldest daughter," because my eldest child is my son) comes out of my private bath, head encased in somewhat opaquely grey plastic, bound by what appears to be white cotton, ending in white cotton strings. Nice look.
To make the look more appealing, she's been tugging strands of her hair through tiny holes in this odd cap I can't even see, from where I'm standing. I blink.
"The aliens are coming," she whisper-giggles.
"I believe they've arrived," I deadpan.
The youngest, who is seven, comes dashing around the hallway corner, and slides into the huge kitchen. This is a child who never simply walks; she is a grand proponent of large and fleet activities. Staring at the cap with wisps of hair on the eldest, the youngest says, "You look like an alien."
"Don't be unkind. If she ever has cancer, and needs chemotherapy, she'll look like this all the time," I deadpan again.
The eldest protests, "Maaaaaammmííííí! How you gonna say that to her?"
The youngest looks confused, then laughs, when she realizes I'm joking (but takes to heart the message about not name-calling people's hair, mm hmm).
Eldest daughter then says she wants me to finish pulling strands through holes in cap. Tiny holes. The look of grievance on my face tells her that is not my most beloved way to spend the evening. "You get to stab me in the head with a plastic hook!" she persuades, hoping to sweeten the offer.
I roll my eyes, and remind her I can do that any time.
She relents, and trots off to my private bath, to continue her mission of pulling thin strands of hair through tiny plastic holes, with a plastic hook.
Meanwhile, this whole Hair Ordeal is taking far more time than either of us had planned. She's already painted the youngest's fingernails and toenails, and added flowers and stars. The youngest is marching about, sporting grey fingernails with flowers, and black toenails, with stars. I'm trying to be grateful the child at least didn't go for purple fingernails. Yes, I could nix that, but why: the dress code for her first grade is so strict as to be mock worthy. Let her have some creativity.
So I cook for the little one, though it's not my turn. After forty years of Obligatory Cooking, I do expect the older children to know their ways around the kitchen, the laundry room, and the cleaning supplies. Eventually they'll live on their own, riiight? Well, my son does, and he's an excellent cook *s
Naturally, the girl enters the kitchen, to inform me sadly she cannot get to the back or sides of her head.
Dinner on the table for the little one. Milk or juice? Milk. Chocolate or vanilla? Mixed. Have you washed your hands and face? Yes. For dinner? No? Please do that now. Hijole.
Put on a Netflix film for the little one. She considers this both a treat and a cheat: rarely does she watch anything at all on television; typically, she eats dinner with family. So she knows this is a copout move, being babysat by a film. She'll only take it, because it's animated. And I feel terribly guilty.
Then I'm looking at this hook to holes to hair gig, and finding myself completely agitated by the design strategy: it's more of the Tyranny of Useless Products for Idiotic Simplification. I repeatedly ask my eldest daughter why her hair needs be pulled through these hundreds of damned holes. She repeatedly tells me the device will make it easier for me.
At the point I'm about to have an absolute meltdown, the girl says, "Fine, Mamí. I'll just take off the whole cap." Okay. Life is good, again.
The Debate Over Simple brought us to bedtime for the youngest. Sorry, gotta go. Find the babe. Instruct her to clean teeth. Ready for bed routine: make a lunch; check next day weather; have her select and set out weather-appropriate clothing. We're almost up to reading a book, when the child reminds me she has no sheets on her bed. Joder.
The eldest and I scramble to understand which sheets and pillowcases does the little one want, so we can get the bed made. Read book. Okay. Love you. Good night.
Begin highlighting hair, which is really very simple, minus stupid cap.
Dryer buzzes. Break. Turn over laundry; add new clothing to washer.
Return to highlighting hair.
Enter little one, who says she can't sleep. My hands are gloved; the eldest has bleach in her hair. Kinda stuck here, amor; why can't you sleep? She says she's afraid she'll have bad dreams. This is uncommon, so I take it seriously. Break to figure whether her lullaby playlist on her iTunes will help. She's not certain. She'll think about it.
Back to highlighting hair. Still simple. Going well.
Enter little one, who says she feels like she's going to cry. Okay, this is serious. Eldest is straddling my closed toilet, facing the wooden étagère; I'm still gloved. I ask the little one whether she's comfortable sitting there, on the carpet outside my bath, talking to me. She nods in assent.
We review her recent loss and grief, the anger she feels she ought not feel or display. I talk her through it. She determines to take action, by finally speaking to the person who hurt her. After she's done this, she feels "slightly better," but more confused. It's now very late for her, on a school night, so she pinky swears me to talk with her more about it, when she returns from school. Of course I will. Of course.
I offer her several additional remedies. She brings in her special rabbit, as I am known to hear All That Is Said Amongst the Animal Friends in her room. Mr. Rabbit has something to tell me. Stop highlighting hair. Listen faithfully. Pass along pertinent information to child. She is somewhat relieved, and thinks she can now sleep.
Short break for la mamí, because I've been standing for over an hour, and I just started walking/standing again last July. Let's not overwork the feet. Email from best friend, reminding me we have a movie date. All I can tell her is I'm in the midst of highlighting eldest daughter's hair, and will be back to her as soon as possible.
Complete highlighting hair. It is now after 9 p.m., and I'm exhausted. The day before, on this Beauty Weekend, I trimmed hair for the youngest, then cut and restyled the eldest daughter's hair.
Go to living room. Light six or so Root candles. This is the official sign la mamí is relaxing. Watch the last half of The Killing. Call best friend; choose a film. Remember food still needs to happen, today. Make some sort of meal. Grab a water. Call best friend. Cue film. Try not to fall asleep on the living room floor.
So.
This is a typical day, now.
Previously, I lived in the silence of a forest, with only my youngest. I was 2.5 hours away from NYC; a couple hours away from Philly; few hours from Baltimore. My son came down from Williamsburg; my best friend was able to spend entire weeks with me; my teen daughter flew in from Colorado; models and participants either came to me, or I did location work. I could see whom I wanted, when I wanted—except during that one year with the whole wheelchair debacle, when I really wasn't up for seeing anyone or doing much of anything. The other four years were splendid *s
Then, my eldest daughter—who is a U.S. Marine—was deployed to Afghanistan. Upon her return, she wanted her family closer to her. Meaning me. I struggled with the notion of moving near a military base—I came up in San Diego, and have had my fill of military presence in my life. Even more of a struggle was this base, located in Southern U.S., smack in the ever-lovin' bible belt.
In the end, we made the move. My eldest daughter, like all my children, is one of my great loves in life. She went through a tremendous amount of trouble, to find a house not too close to base; not too suburban; somewhat rural; close to beaches; with plenty of land (oh, we have plenty of land); with a huge kitchen; and with excellent natural light. I said she'd have to walk through it, to ensure good energy, because she's the only other person I know who can intuit this. She did.
How else could my youngest make a smooth transition from the only home she's ever known, deep in the most rural of forests, to a location where she could have the one thing she wanted: friends?
And here we are: just off the Crystal Coast of North Carolina, where the natural setting is stunningly beautiful, and the house suits us fine.
What I don't have is much more than a moment to myself. Ever. As Ángela, my close friend to whom I refer as my hermanita (little sister) warned: You'll be back to raising both of them, meeting both their needs. Yup. One never stops being a mamí.
So.
I've been in the midst of a thousand different projects—but I haven't completed even one.
From the moment I awaken, I'm timing how long I have to become fully conscious (i.e.: caffeinated), so I can run through the daily household duties; then maybe begin working on my own things, before—shoot, look at the time: I need to shower, dress, and go meet the bus for my little one.
Once she's home, it's about homework; checking her folder for whatever the teacher sent home; nudging her to do her chore; keeping her hydrated (why do children forget to drink water?); reminding her to change into play clothes; please don't leave your dirty laundry on the floor; of course you may have something to eat; please brush your teeth; yes, you may go outdoors; please stay where I can see you.
Then I have maybe another hour—while watching my child through my office window—before it's time for dinner, shower, bed, and that whole routine.
My eldest daughter does help, but that comes with a million questions as to what needs to be done, or how. Suspira.
Exactly one day, since the move here, have I been alone in this house. That's another thing: in the forest, I had entire weekends to myself. Oh, yesss.
What happened to my website?
All of the above.
I was in the midst of a major redesign
but
yeah.
Somehow, I thought I could just put the site on dark, until I finished the new build. Who knew viewers would complain. I hope that's love, cuz I don't need any more stress, mi gente *s
For the moment, the old site is standing, with just a few tweaks.
If I ever Get a Damned Minute (hours would be fab), I'll finish the redesign I actually want. Thing is: I code myself.
And: my office has no door.
You try living with two daughters, working in an office with no door *s
Viewshock is live, as am I.
Shout out,
~Emmanuela
♥
