A Hair Raising Revelation

A and I leave the park early and unexpectedly.

Our afternoon certainly begins like a normal trip to the park. Thirty seconds on the swing. Thirty seconds off the swing. Thirty seconds back on the swing. Off to the slide mom!

I chase behind A to the platforms leading up to the toddler slide and watch her gingerly climb from one level to the next, refusing my hand but stopping every few seconds, looking over her shoulder just to make sure that mom is still within reach. She is an adorable mixture of certainty and insecurity. A finally reaches the top, stands proudly, sits back down then scoots to the edge, just where the platform meets the slide.

“Go on,” I say. “It’s okay.”

A reaches for my hand. “Do you want mommy to hold your hand?” I ask.

“Yesh,” she says. I hold her hand, just barely, as she gleefully allows gravity to pull her forward. Spotting a loose pacifier, albeit attached to the shirt a little boy awkwardly toddling toward the swings, A jumps down in pursuit. She takes the boy’s pacy and shoves it into his mouth. For some reason she can’t stand to see an unattended pacifier. He looks on in shock as A rushes back to the slide.

“She is so cute,” the boy’s mother says. “How old is she?”

“Thank you, she’s eighteen months” I reply, while thinking smugly, I know, she really is the cutest thing ever.

I chat briefly with the mom and look over to find A running up to a little red-headed girl about her age. I chase after her, admonishing her not to grab the little girl’s pacifier, secretly hoping she has found a new friend thus a new mommy friend for me. To my horror “the cutest thing ever” has just grabbed a handful of red hair. My first impulse is to walk in the other direction. “Whose baby is that?” I’d ask the other moms. Instead, I rush to A, shouting, “No,” “Stop,” anything that I think might capture her attention.

I plead with A to let go of the girl’s hair, but some demonic force has overtaken her body. I half expect her head to start spinning. By now the little girl is beginning to wail, which means every other mother in the park is looking in our direction, nodding their heads, with that look that says, “my, my, some women just can’t control their kids.” Others, though not as many, cast reassuring glances of pity, a fellowship of “I’ve been there.”

I look to the mother and say “I am so sorry,” while A’s grip just tightens. The harder we try to pry her fingers, the harder she pulls, and the louder little red yells. Suddenly, I swat my little girl’s hand. I don’t swat flies, much less children, but in my desperation I pop her. A, stunned, releases the hair. Actually, I think the hair just gave up and fell out into A’s hand. I scoop up my daughter, yelling over my shoulder how sorry I am to the girl’s mother. Somehow I don’t think this is the right time to ask if she’d like to get coffee or exchange numbers. I really don’t know what else to do or say, so I scold A loudly enough for all to hear on the way out, hoping my gesture makes me look like I have some capability as a mother.

When I get to the car, I strap A into her seat, apologizing for spatting her and asking her over and over, “What in the world got into you?” She just says, “Boo” and covers her face with both hands.

“This is no time to play,” I snap then I begin to cry. I crank the car and just sit there crying, watching the little red-headed girl do the same. A continues to play peek-a-boo, unaware that she has just mauled another child and made her mommy cry.

Why I am I crying? Perhaps I am crying because I know what that mother will never learn about my daughter, that despite A’s short-lived stint as the hair-pulling monster, she is the most loving child I’ve ever known. A knows exactly the right moment for puckering her lips, murmuring “mmmmm,” and leaning in for a kiss, eliciting a smile from her grumpy mommy. To that mom, though, she will always be the little girl that gave her daughter a permanent bald spot.

Perhaps I am crying because I am feeling guilty that all the parenting books I bought on discipline are being used to stabilize a wobbly table leg. If I had cracked open, just one, I am sure it would have fallen open to the chapter on hair pulling and demon-possession, or maybe the chapter on pride being the downfall of parents.

Or perhaps I am really crying because I learned today in a very public way that my little girl has a mind of her own, and despite my best efforts, I cannot control her. Sure, I can coerce her into following my will, but I want to teach her love and respect. A will periodically make poor decisions in life, and there is nothing I can really do to prevent that. The dog will fall victim to a bad hair cut. She will leave a ring of teeth marks on her cousin’s arms and a dent in the front bumper of her dad’s car. My job as her mother isn’t to control her; it is to shape her and help her grow into a woman of character. Recognizing that I have no idea how to do this makes me feel more vulnerable and inadequate as a mother than ever before.

I dry my tears, say a small prayer for wisdom, remove A from her car seat, and walk cautiously over to the red-haired girl’s mother. Fortunately, she doesn’t turn and run when being approached by the red-eyed, mascara stained loon with the manic daughter. “I am so sorry. I just want you to know that.” She does look a little skittish but manages to nod and smile. I smile and return to the car and call my husband to relay the story. He says he’ll notify the WWF about training camp.

That night, I watch A play in the tub, her toddler tummy bulging, her blue eyes sparkling. She is still everything a mom dreams of, and I know that she isn’t mean-spirited; she just wanted to see what would happen if she pulled the girl’s hair. At least that is what the parenting book I thumbed through during naptime said. I pull her from the tub, wrapping her in a towel. A wraps her arms around my neck and sighs, “Mama.” I hug her tightly and for the second time today, I cry.