You may have counted each of the hairs on my head but I’m the one who has to try and put them in some sort of order and this week I just haven’t been up to the task. And last night when I went into Zo’s room before bed, she gently patted my lion’s mane, with a sweet “awwwww.” I took this to mean she either appreciated the softness or pitied my situation. Whatever the case it felt wholly validating.
The love I feel for this girl is so unreal that I have to trust when she’s older and says things like “Mom, why is your hair so weird?” or suggests pony tails for days I’m chaperoning her class trip, this crazy love will win over the direct hit hurt that urges me to break down in endless tears or banish her to a far away isle. Maybe both.
I can only imagine how many times my mom appealed to you for the strength and courage to not send me to live in the woods. Because with where I am now, I can see how you may fall on the parents’ side of things; we, feeling so stupidly powerless in almost all circumstances. You probably reminded mom to be patient, trust that love actually could be bigger than an eight year old’s opinion, and wait for the day when I call in tears having just banished my own child to her room for suggesting something about the humidity and frizz.
Grant us enough patience that we have some for ourselves and others. Give us enough courage to not banish everyone who crosses us to far away places. And provide us with plenty of headbands for the journey. Amen.