Zoe vs. Self-Sufficiency: Hair-Washing Edition

I heard somewhere---or maybe I read it---that the main idea behind parenting is to raise functional, independent, contributing members of society. This is my goal for Zoe someday. But before she can get a job, vote, pay her bills, etc., she probably needs to learn how to wash Her Own Damn Hair.

Teri tries a new shampoo with jojoba oil, coconut essence, and LSD.

Zoe was born with an impressive mane of hair, and so from day one I had my work cut out for me. As she grew, coincidentally, so did her hair. Along with that, she developed an astounding ability to acquire knots, leading to extreme anguish on a daily basis when I tried to get a comb through her hair.

She would cry, and I would threaten to cut her hair short, and she would cry harder, until I got a pair of scissors---not to cut her hair, but to excise the most recalcitrant knots.

I believe there should be a direct correlation between a child complaining about how they look and taking care of it themselves.

So this was a New Year's resolution. I forget if it was mine or hers. She would learn to wash Her Own Damn Hair.

For those unfamiliar with calendars, January first was a few months ago, and she's still trying to weasel her way out of it, putting the same mental energy for excuses and avoidance that she applies to other things. For instance, for Lent she announced she was giving up Airheads, a candy she had just finished from her Halloween haul and so there were none left. And they were not her favorite, something she told me every time she ate another one.

Excuses for why she can't wash Her Own Damn Hair:

Her arms are too tired.

She's too tired.

She needs to sit.

She'll do it tomorrow night.

Can't I wash her hair? I do it better.

Well, of course I do, but that's not the point. So I force the issue. And it is an ordeal for both of us.

SETTING:

A woman stands outside a shower curtain, glasses fogging up, trying not to get wet, getting wet, exhorting her child to actually put her head back so that the top of her head gets wet and not just the ends of her hair. It's like she thinks her hairline begins way in the back of her head like the beverage-refusing Gestapo agent from Raiders of the Lost Ark.

Bet we're thirsty now.

TRANSCRIPT:

Mother: Put your head back. Farther back. Farther. Your hair's not wet yet. Tilt your head, tilt it, get the hair by your ears wet. Put all your hair back. Behind your shoulders; you still have some in front of your body. Pick it up IN YOUR HANDS and place it behind your bodeeeee. Oh my god. The hair above your ears is completely dry!

Child: After this can I have candy?

And this is before we even get to the shampoo, which, when I pour it into her hand, she proceeds to place it, carefully and precisely, on top of her head, like she's balancing an egg.

Mother: Rub it in. Work it IN to your hair. Lather up. Move your hands. More. Gather your hair on top of your head. Do it!

I'm yelling, I'm wiping my glasses on my damp pajama shirt. I might as well just get in there with her. 

Maybe 35 percent of her hair gets sudsy before I give up and tell her to rinse it out.  (Put your head back. Back!) Then there's the conditioner.

Two roads diverge, if you would. Down one: present yelling and crying to get the knots out of her hair. Down the other: still yelling and crying, but it comes farther down the road after she's dry and in her pajamas and I have to comb the knots out. So actually it's more like two roads converge or there's a wormhole or a wrinkle in time but instead of a wrinkle it's a snarl of blond hair.

And something else. This is a child who, with one minute before she has to leave for school in the morning, asks me to style two symmetrical mini buns in her hair so she can look like an individual named "Dove" from Roblox YouTube video, as if she's ever known her own mother's hair to vary from one of two styles: a) in a ponytail holder and b) just released from a ponytail holder so there's a semi-permanent bend in her hair from where the ponytail holder was.

So I censor my first few responses (my curses have more range than my hair styles) and ask her, "Did you at least brush your hair first?" Because I'm trying to get her to do that too.

"Yes?" she says.

I run my hand through her hair only for it to get caught halfway by an enormous knot.

Time for the scissors.

Zoe: 193; Universe: 0

If you enjoyed this post, you may enjoy Zoe vs. Picture Day.

For more of Zoe's hijinks, follow me on Facebook and on Twitter at @zoevsuniverse. 

I need a win here, people. 

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Zoe vs. Mommy Land (formerly known as Candy Land)

Candy Land from Hasbro is the board game most children cut their teeth on. Or maybe it's the first game board children bite? Or maybe it's that they bite you in frustration when they lose.

No matter. The point is someone gave Candy Land to Zoe for her birthday so we started playing it the other day.

This is a good first game for children. It says so right on the box. Candy Land tests a child's aptitude for the three C's: counting, colors, and candy. Zoe rates high on the last two, and if what she's counting is candy, it's a clean sweep.

Our Candy Land has a spinner. When I was a kid I think it was a deck of cards with colors on them, not a spinner, but time marches on. (Note: unless you're playing a board game with a small child.)

A golden era, when I played, unaware of the
suffering of others.

The spinner has two sides: one with colored squares and one with characters and their locales, from Princess Frostine's Ice Palace (shades of Elsa from Frozen) to Lord Licorice's Lagoon (aka, where my game piece was to spend an eternity) to King Kandy's Castle itself. This is the side we used.

Zoe chose her game piece, a red blob with the face of an angry hemorrhoid. (Research revealed this was one Giggly Gumdrop.) Then she chose mine: Mally Mallo, which I tried not to see as slander since I am, after all, white and cushy.

Then Zoe "spun," by which I mean moved the arrow to where she wanted to go. According to Hoyle, be damned.

She "spun" for my game piece too, thus my status as squatter in Lord Licorice's Lagoon.

Candy Land, the movie.
(Go back and read that sentence
until it makes sense. It's ok; I'll wait.)

So Zoe and I played. Over and over. For what seemed like hours. (Interesting fact: the woman who invented the game in 1945 had polio. Hardly surprising since the game is clearly born of suffering.)

And as I sat, a prisoner, on the rug next to Zoe, while Mally Mallo malingered, my mind growing as numb as my butt, I hallucinated a new version of Candy Land, just for tired mommies like me. . . .

Mommy Land (from Hasbroken) 

Choose your game piece: a) an empty coffee mug, b) a jogging stroller, c) a stained shirt in what-was-she-thinking white, or d) a desiccated French fry (may be actual desiccated French fry found under your couch; your child will most likely lose one of the game pieces anyway).

Spin the wheel and commence moving along squares in muted colors more appropriate for your aging palate, or is it palette? Anyway, lots of gray. Because that's soothing. 

First stop: Sleep-Deprived Swamp, the domain of Princess Lollygag. You're so tired you can barely move and yet you're still faster than a four-year-old who stops to look at every rock she passes, interrogate you as to its properties, then disagree.

Grab another cup of tepid coffee and move on to Forgetful Forest, where Baroness Von Talks-Too-Much just won't stop talking until you can barely think. What did you come here looking for? Was it your glasses?

When you finally figure out they're on top of your head, you may stumble on to Kale Canyon, roamed by Lady Licks-Some-Stuff. Gone are the days when you can eat anything, so you best get your daily dose of roughage. Then feel those leafy greens turn as your child eschews her water bottle, preferring to lick the rainwater off a dirty handrail instead.

Queasy, eyes at half-mast, press on to Heartburn Hill, where Countess Kicks-Your-Crotch jumps about, heedless of personal space, kicking and punching until she lands one smack in your baby maker. Ugh, is that your Kale making a return appearance?

On your knees now, you crawl to Mashed-Potato Marsh. Keep serving up them taters mashed with butter and mozzarella cheese. It's all she will eat!

Here, Miss Mayhem greets you with energy to spare. As well as poop, the latter of which arrives with dismaying frequency and equally startling announcements---"Mommy, poop"---belying the amount of starch she's consumed.

Next, ease gingerly around the Bay of Unreasoning Fury, but if you can’t get past unscathed, attempt to mollify Fraulein Frenzy with a tasty treat. (Beware of giving her too much sugar though!)

At the end of the day, try to hang on as you navigate through Lego Archipelago, where the Queen of Complaints whines behind you to let you know you're not done yet. She's not tired! And besides, she can't sleep because her foot hurts. She's making that up! She got the idea seconds ago when you screamed after stepping on that Lego. She is not to be outdone!

Better wrap up that aching foot and slide those orthopedic inserts in your Toms because guess what's ahead? Why, it's Sleep-Deprived Swamp.

Again? Yes, because unlike Candy Land, where the game ends at King Kandy's Castle, Mommy Land's board is a circle. There's no end to the fun! 

Now how's that for a sweet surprise?

Dear Fam: By the time you read this I'll be
"resting" comfortably at St. Barnabus' Sanatorium.
I burned Junior's board game. Cheers!
P.S. You'll need to buy more Scotch.

Zoe: 69; Universe: 0

 For more of Zoe's hijinks, follow me on Facebook and on Twitter at @zoevsuniverse. 

I need a win here, people.