My 18 month old has very little hair.
I can just now get a little clip in there. Only for her to pull it right back out a few minutes later.
I’m not really sure why this bothers me.
She is stinkin cute.
But at least once a week someone stops me, at church or at the store and asks how old my son is. Or tells me how cute he is.
Even if HE has on a pink dress. I pierced her ears about a year ago to fend off some of these mistakes but it hasn’t seemed to help. One onlooker even bothered to ask me why I pierced my son’s ears.
I have stopped trying to correct them and just smile and give her age at the time. While cursing them loudly in my head.
My son of course was born with a big thick dark mop of hair and I’m pretty sure had a hair cut before he was even a year old. And olive toned skin and long thick eyelashes that a girl would kill for.
And then there is my bald ivory skinned little girl who you need a magnifying class to find an eyelash on.
And she is beautiful.
Really. People stop me all the time to tell me, and these people get it right.
But it bothers me.
And so I rub her sweet little head and wish that her strawberry blond curl (yes just the one) will grow a little faster.
And it is growing. But ever so slowly. Not at all on my time table. And she doesn’t seem to care the slightest that she is often mistaken for a boy. And I am being grown a bit in the process. Because I often want things to happen quick and immediately. Like to suddenly get hundreds of hits on my blog. Or to lose 10 pounds over night. Or to be able run 5 miles. Things that only happen slowly. On their own time. With patience and work and discipline.
And it might be months or even a year before I sweep up her hair in the cute little pig tails like all the other girls in her class. And maybe longer for some of my own hopes to be revealed.
So in the mean time I will keep painting little bitty toenails, putting my little girl in dresses and cussing quietly oblivious strangers. And the husband is oh so thankful for one less head to have to brush in the mornings.
And we wait for growth that will eventually come.
On it’s own time.
(and yes, that is her hand in a tub of chocolate frosting...don't judge.)
I can just now get a little clip in there. Only for her to pull it right back out a few minutes later.
I’m not really sure why this bothers me.
She is stinkin cute.
But at least once a week someone stops me, at church or at the store and asks how old my son is. Or tells me how cute he is.
Even if HE has on a pink dress. I pierced her ears about a year ago to fend off some of these mistakes but it hasn’t seemed to help. One onlooker even bothered to ask me why I pierced my son’s ears.
I have stopped trying to correct them and just smile and give her age at the time. While cursing them loudly in my head.
My son of course was born with a big thick dark mop of hair and I’m pretty sure had a hair cut before he was even a year old. And olive toned skin and long thick eyelashes that a girl would kill for.
And then there is my bald ivory skinned little girl who you need a magnifying class to find an eyelash on.
And she is beautiful.
Really. People stop me all the time to tell me, and these people get it right.
But it bothers me.
And so I rub her sweet little head and wish that her strawberry blond curl (yes just the one) will grow a little faster.
And it is growing. But ever so slowly. Not at all on my time table. And she doesn’t seem to care the slightest that she is often mistaken for a boy. And I am being grown a bit in the process. Because I often want things to happen quick and immediately. Like to suddenly get hundreds of hits on my blog. Or to lose 10 pounds over night. Or to be able run 5 miles. Things that only happen slowly. On their own time. With patience and work and discipline.
And it might be months or even a year before I sweep up her hair in the cute little pig tails like all the other girls in her class. And maybe longer for some of my own hopes to be revealed.
So in the mean time I will keep painting little bitty toenails, putting my little girl in dresses and cussing quietly oblivious strangers. And the husband is oh so thankful for one less head to have to brush in the mornings.
And we wait for growth that will eventually come.
On it’s own time.
(and yes, that is her hand in a tub of chocolate frosting...don't judge.)
Comments
You're right... this and everything else... patience.