So G has strong feelings about her hair.   Mostly those feelings go something like this:   DON’T TOUCH IT.   If you choose to touch her hair, god love you, you will be treated to an assortment of shrieks, screams, wails, kicks, and crys that could test any person’s dedication to good grooming.   Morning hair-brusing rituals generally look something like this:

Me (chasing G around the house while holding a brush):   Come here!   We’re late!

G:   No!

Me (catching G):   It’s the soft brush!   See? It doesnt hurt!

G (wailing, kicking, and squirming):   No! Don’t brush me!   it hurts!

G then squirms away and the chase resumes again until I decide we have both suffered enough and give up.

G has had one or two previous “haircuts” in her life, which have consisted of bang-trimming using a pair of clippers with the only goal of getting her hair out of her face and not stabbing her with a pair of scissors as she struggels.   Her protestations to even this modest attempt at a haircut have led to some very poor results.     ( See our CO pictures from August 2008, on her bangs trimming).

So upon hearing that Deb has successfully gotten Mac’s hair cut by a professional a couple of times and that could use a trim now, I jumped on the opportunity to let someone else take a crack at her.       I really wanted to see if the pros had any secret formula to getting her to behave.   Turns out they don’t.

We go to the salon, which is a kid-centric place with bright colors and cartoons playing in the waiting room.   Luckily, they were slow so we didnt have to wait.   G and I go to one chair, and Mac and Deb go to another.   We strap G in, and the fun begins.

The hairdresser begins to spray and comb and try and get 2 years of tangles and dreadlocks out of her hair.   As you might imagine, this does not go well.   There is crying.   There is screaming (“She’s hurting me!”).   There is much wriggling.   There is begging (“please mommy no!”)   It is sad…very sad.   The hairdresser handles it like a pro.   She turns on a video.   This slows G down a little.   She gives G a lollypop.   This works for awhile, but she has a lot of tangles to deal with.   The hairdresser pins down G’s legs with her own…. G is now immobilized.   We get a second lollypop out.   Finally, the actual cutting begins.

The hairdresser politely admonishes me about the dismal state of G’s hair.   She points out that it will grow faster if it’s in good condition.   It will tangle less if it is in good condition.   It will be curlier if it is in good condition.   II feel like a dirtbag for not getting it cut sooner.   Finally, she finishes.     G is exhausted from the struggle.   The hairdresser is victorious.     G and Mackenzie get a souvenier rubber duckie as their prizes for being good girls (G’s is much undeserved)

I notice the next day that G’s hair is, in fact, less tangled, curlier, and easier to brush since the haircut.   The hairdresser was right.

Somewhere along the line Genevieve became obsessed with umbrellas. Not sure how, not sure why, but there it is. A child of the desert with an obsession with a device that she rarely, if ever, will have the opportunity to use.

When I was a child, my grandmother would give me either an umbrella, a pair of gloves, a scarf, or an earmuff every Christmas; sometimes all three. I think my grandmother single-handedly kept the Totes company in business. Because of this, we always had an endless supply of those collapsible umbrellas around the house. Since her demise, I have bought precisely three umbrellas, and two of those three were bought with the primary purpose of keeping off the sun, not the rain. So needless to say, umbrellas are a bit of a novelty to G.

Anyway, one of my three adult umbrella purchases was an ultra-light collapsible we bought for hiking—to ward off rain and sun when G was in the backpack. It worked admirably for this purpose for a year or so, until G became old enough to realize it could also be a fun toy. After this, the poor umbrella was doomed. We made umbrella-chair (tie umbrella to a desk chair and sit at the desk watching Dora or eating breakfast). We had an umbrella-tent (hide under umbrella while sitting on the couch). We did umbrella dancing (run around house holding umbrella while parents pray nothing breaks). We even had umbrella bath. And yes, I think we may have used it once in a drizzle. Maybe.

After a spirited game of umbrella tent, the inevitable happened…one of the ribs broke on the umbrella. G was devastated. She told her Mom-mom that she needed a new umbrella. She told her mom. She told her Dad. We promised maybe for Christmas. We talked about getting her a bonafide kiddie umbrella, but of course, these aren’t easy to find in Arizona. Mom-mom promised to send one from slightly-wetter Florida. Crisis averted.

Then we went to Nashville. And it rained.

And she saw Granny’s umbrella collection. And she was impressed. Big ones, small ones, automatic ones, manual ones, collapsible ones, multicolored ones, ones with hooked handles, ones with sharp pointy tips. You name it, Granny had it. What gives? Is this the legacy of having a mother who gave her grandchildren umbrellas each year for Christmas or a little known genetic trait (psycho-umbrello-compulsion), or just the normal consequence of living for 6 or 7 decades in places where wet stuff falls from the sky regularly? Who knows, and who cares. All that matters was that G was in heaven. Did it matter that it was 30 degrees out? No! what was important was that when we did go outside, we would have our UMBRELLAS!!! YAAAY! But wait, there’s more! We could also wear….wait for it….yes…that’s right…A RAINCOAT!!! And not some modern-REI-faggy goretex windbreaker thing you might also wear on the slopes. No, a real, old-fashioned, no-other-use-but-wearing-in-the-rain RAINCOAT! Yellow, and everything. Does it get any cooler? G says no. What a happy girl.

So we went to see the grandparents.   We hadn’t been to Nashville in what seemed like a long time, and G needed to meet her cousin.   On previous trips, she was too young to relate to another child, and Mac, for her part, was going through a bit of a “me” phase as well, so interaction between the two was either nonexistent or unpleasant, or both.   Hopes were running high on this trip that both had matured enough that it might actually be fun, and maybe they might <gasp> play together.   Could it happen?   A milestone.   No one was sure.

We prepped our respective monsters. Deb told Mackenzie her cousin Genevieve was visiting.   I told G we were going on the plane to see Granny and Grandad and Aunt Deb and Uncle Andy and Mackenzie.   She seemed to get the Granny and Mackenzie part pretty well.   She knew from previous Granny visits that Granny lives in someplace called Nashville that requires a plane ride to get to.   So I think she got it that we were going there.   We arrived, after a blissfully empty plane trip on Southwest marred only by the fact that the DVD crapped out with about 45 minutes left in the flight.   She handled it pretty gracefully after the initial bout of depression.   We looked out the window and got excited about trees.   We read books.   We were impressed how fast we were going.   We let our neighbors know we were impressed by squealing loudly.   We ate cookies.   We took a potty break in the tiny bathroom that I didn’t think could fit a toddler and her preggo mom, but we managed.   We were impressed by the blue flushy stuff in the toilet.   We finally touched down.   Whew.

Granny and granddad met us at baggage check.   This did not go as smoothly as previous reunions.   Last time G saw Granny, she remembered her instantly and ran right to her and gave her a kiss.   This time, she was scared.   She shivered and wanted mommy to hold her.   Hard to say if the fear was due to Granny and Granddad or bears.   For some reason, she has lately decided that bears are outside the window fairly often, and this is scary.   Apparently, bears like to hang around arrivals at the Nashville airport, but thanks to G’s warnings, we got to the car safely.   Here’s how the bear warnings typically go:

G   (visibly trembling):     I’m scared!

Me:   scared of what, baby?

G:   Bears!

Me:   (Giving her a hug) Bears! Oh no!   Where?

G:   Outside the window!

Me:   Don’t worry!   Bears are scared of mommy…they can’t hurt you now.     Hugs!

G   (trembling slightly less and holding on for dear life):     I love you mommy.

So sweet.   I wish someone would scare away my demons this easily.

We get to the car without getting eaten by any bears.   So far, the trip is going well.   G starts chatting about Mackenzie.   We tell her she is in Mackenzie’s booster seat.   From this, she extrapolates that everything, including the car, is Mac’s.   I am sure Mac would be pleased to hear that she now owns a very nice travel pillow and a late model Honda Accord.   Eventually, G accepts that maybe the car is Granddad’s and the pillow is Granny’s.   She still wants to meet Mac though.   So we call…maybe we can visit Mac on the way home.   But it turns out that Mac is asleep.   Oh the disappointment.   So we go home to Granny’s in search of snacks and rest. The much awaited meeting will wait.

A few hours later, we take a stroll around the block with G bundled up in snowpants, two jackets, a hat, socks on her hands, and her blankey.   It was chilly, but we wanted to see the luminaries, a one-night-a year Christmas tradition in Brentwood.   They were beautiful, but the stroller and the dark night worked it’s magic on G and she dozed off.   So we went home and rolled her into a bedroom and let her sleep.   Of course, this is when Mackenzie shows up.   So now, we must explain to yet another child that this much-built-up mystery cousin is not yet available.   More disappointment.   Will the meeting ever happen?   We eat dinner.   Mackenzie gives us regular reports on G.   (“She’s still asleep.”   “She rolled over.”   “She’s making funny noises”)   We finish dinner in peace.   Yaay.   Then we get the inevitable report:   “She woke up”   and the crying starts.   G has not woken in a good mood.   She’s cranky and scared and can’t figure out who all the people are who are staring at her.   She clings to me and cries for a few minutes.   We snuggle on a chair while she sorts things out.   Finally, she ventures out on her own, and Mac surrounds her.   This is not going well.   G panics.   More crying.   Hmmmmm.   We go find some toys.   Progress ensues.   We find more toys.   We find Granny’s stuffed animal birds.   We carry them all downstairs.   We bring down all the Fisher Price toys (one at a time).   We are all buried in toys now but the girls are finally doing something that resembles playing together.   Maybe this will work out OK after all.   Whew.