September, 2013

When The Kids Are Quiet—It's Too Late To Worry

Even before Lexi was able to hold a crayon—let alone use one—Ducky took a leaf from Chanda and Jerry's book: he extended the garage into the backyard and created an art studio for Lexi. It even had a sink with both hot and cold water—and the hot water had an instant-on tank with a locked thermostat, so even if Lexi turned on straight hot water she couldn't get burned. His theory was an art room away from the house would control the mess. Hopefully.

And he was right. If she wasn't at school or with me at the store or hanging with Grandma, she was either squirreled away somewhere with her nose in a book or in her Paris Loft (as Charlie christened the room, even going so far as to paint Mlle. Alexandra Mallard's Paris Loft on the door). And between the sealed concrete floor and the set-in sink—the mess in the house was kept to a minimum. (Don't ask about when she helped me cook.) We even borrowed the art room to make Christmas ornaments—the room is a must for any parent. Totally worth the expense.

And it's not like she was out of sight/out of mind. I was frequently out there joining in the fun; if I was in the house, I was summoned every five or ten minutes for admiration or input. Victoria is often out there as well (I don't know which of them is the bigger concern, but Suzy is content to sit out with them so it's safe no matter what). And she wasn't left alone until she proved that she could use everything in that room properly and safely (and just about every kids' art supply is non-toxic).

Kindergarten. The school year had just started. Lexi had a dozen new friends. I had a dozen new responsibilities (some I volunteered for, some I was coaxed or coerced into, some… some I don't know what happened, they just appeared in my universe). Miss Westerna was a wonderful teacher, enthusiastic, creative and able to control a room full of five-year-olds without resorting to a cattle prod. She amazed me.

At the end of the first week, we got the school picture announcement. Next Wednesday, 9 a.m., please avoid pale blue clothing to prevent your child from disappearing into the background. For those who missed the day, makeup session Friday, same time. Even though she had worn the most god-awful collection of clothing on her first day of school, Lexi was conscious of what would and wouldn't look good for a formal picture. That Saturday morning we went through every nice outfit in her closet—and I do mean every nice outfit. Many of them were discarded because they were too small—pretty holiday outfits she had outgrown and I didn't have the heart to give them away just yet. The ones that did fit were too formal. Remembering that the pictures would just be head and shoulders for the most part, we concentrated on tops and she settled on a shirt she had tie-dyed her last year in preschool.

Crisis averted, Lexi ran off to her art room and I ran off to do laundry. Ducky had been called in to a crime scene and Mother was in bed with the tail end of a short but nasty cold so things were pretty quiet.

Too quiet.

If my life were a movie, that would be the sign for the soft, slightly ominous music to cue up. A mysterious shadow or a shark fin circling around would be a perfect touch. But, no, I was Olivia Oblivious, running back and forth between the kitchen and the basement for the next couple of hours. (One of these days we'll build the laundry room we keep talking about. Things keep getting in the way.)

Hours?

I glanced at the clock. Good grief, it was almost lunchtime. Lexi hadn't popped in for a replacement snack; she must really be into what she was doing. I checked on Mother; sleeping like a log and sounding like she was sawing through one or two. I popped out to Lexi's Loft and stuck my head inside the door. "Hey, monster child, you have a choice of ham and grilled cheese sand—"

My words cut off before my mind fully registered the sight. I stared at her for a full two minutes, then finally managed: "What. Happened." It took another minute to get out the rest. "To. Your. HAIR?"

They probably heard me in Toledo.

Lexi looked frantic. "I—I dunno…"

"You don't know? How can you not know! This is your hair! There is a three-inch hole in your hair! In the middle of your forehead!" I grabbed my own hair in frustration.

"Um…"

"Did your head leave your body for an hour? Were you trying to look like an ad for male pattern baldness? Why in the name of—" I cut myself off with an inarticulate noise before I said something I'd really regret. In the back of my mind I heard my mother laughing as I realized I was channeling Bill Cosby at the moment. "Why?" I finally said, almost whimpering.

"I—I wanted bangs. And they kept not being even. So I kept…" She held up her kiddie scissors.

Yeah, rounded tip scissors can't hurt. Wanna bet? I sighed in defeat. After all, I had never told her "don't cut your own hair." Great; now I was channeling Jean Kerr and Bill Cosby. "Okay… we'll think of something to get you through class pictures next week." Headband, scarf, burka, something… I put my hand on her shoulder and propelled her toward the door. "And in case I forget later on—don't cut your hair again. And please don't eat the daisies!"