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One of my children has detention today. It’s a first for this child. Hopefully, it will be the last visit to room 319. There have been problems with this child completing classwork, so it’s hoped a serious consequence like detention will make his overhead lightbulb rival a solar flare.
I am not freaking out.
The first time a child of mine got detention, I was completely torn up, convinced I failed as a mom. I was raising someone who would someday stand in front of Judge Judy as the defendant. I internalized the detention, analyzed where I went wrong, and made that child feel pretty awful along the way. Detention was served, kid was contrite, I braced myself, and…it never happened again. Believe it or not, this child hasn’t dropped out of school and set a former roommate’s rental couch on fire. Banks haven’t been robbed. “Room 319” hasn’t been tattooed on a wrist. Our detention trailblazer was a great kid before and remains a great kid. Sometimes, our babies screw up.
Another kid got detention, twice, for a similar reason as today’s Detentionite. I wasn’t happy and the kiddo knew it, but I wasn’t measuring any ankles for shackles.
I will join the other parents who must sign out their boys and girls at 4:15 pm today. I’ll make eye contact with my schoolwork shirker and sign a paper. My signature is his bail. My hand won’t tremble.
Curse these bangs. Too long to leave hanging, too short to effectively pin back, and I have to leave in 20 minutes looking somewhat decent. Don’t think about it. No, don’t. Hand away from the drawer. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. FOURTH GRADE! FOURTH GRADE! Remember standing in front of mom and dad’s bathroom mirror with Amy trading a pair of dull scissors back and forth? Remember bangs that were crooked and long? Then crooked and a little shorter? Then slightly more crooked then more short and shorter until bangs were the length of Isaac from The Love Boat’s mustache? I looked surprised for three months and speaking of surprises, remember the look on mom’s face when she saw? Wanna see that look again? Go for it. Get those scissors. Hands are steadier now, right? It will be fine! Comb comb comb bangs forward. Pull them straight. Too short. Not short enough. Okay, looks good. Hold tight! Scissors, be sharp. Here goes nothing. What a great sound scissors + hair makes! Wow, there is more hair in my hand than I thought. Hmmm. Hmmmmm. Huh. Why did it all fly up? Why are they jutting out? Snip stragglers. More stragglers. More stragglers. Over here, more. Even it up. Just a little. More? Yes, more! More? Yes, more! Maybe the curling iron can help flatten them? Scary. Hot. Hottest setting. Huh. They look worse. Get them wet, then blow dry them down. What time is it? Must leave in 10 minutes? Sink water cold, makeup in danger! Makeup in danger! Set the hair dryer on hot and high. Ow ow ow ow, red forehead! Need concealer! Wait. Bangs will cover it. They’re flat now but look more crooked. Maybe a lot of eye makeup will help draw attention away? Mascara, where are you? Save me. So clumpy. Gaw, spider leg eyes. Okay, eyeliner. Thicker! Thicker! Eyeshadow, too! That lady at Sephora said deep-set eyes need white shadow. Swipe swipe swipey swipe. Huh. Whatever it takes. Lookin’ like a haggard cougar. Is there any hairspray, do we have any hairspray, maybe mess up the Great Wall of Bangs, spray them until they could hold a suspension bridge. Purposely messy! Yes! If they’re messy, nobody can tell they’re crooked and short, right? Spray here. Spray there. More over here! Just wave it around. make a cloud. Where’s my inhaler? Hair grows. It grows fast. It will be okay. Oh, it’s Archie. What did he say? I shouldn’t play with scissors.
 BANG NIGHTMARE
I think Archie best expressed all our feelings this morning when he did a trumpet fanfare in front of the toilet.
For the past two days, we haven’t had working plumbing. The clean water flowed abundantly. It’s just that nothing would drain. Somewhere between house and street was a clog. Memories of a flushed pair of size 4 Phineas and Ferb undies came flooding back. Was Doof making us pay for Archie’s mistake, which happened six months ago? It doesn’t matter now. My husband, along with an amazing friend, got everything working last night around 11pm.
So what does a huge family do when there is no way to flush or wash? We ate out a lot. After school yesterday, I took the kids to Target for potty breaks. Last night, after another restaurant dinner (and visit to those bathrooms) we went to my very-accomodating in-laws so the kids do homework and play while the guys worked. Before leaving, I told them to go potty, again. Make it count, I said.
We returned home because it was getting late and they needed to sleep. I wasn’t sure what today would bring. My husband popped upstairs to tell me they were trying one more attempt at snaking out the line. Please, God. Please.
It was a success. I cried. For real. I cried because flushing is beautiful and dishwashers are beautiful and washing machines are beautiful. But mostly? I cried because a friend dropped everything—including a special night his family had planned—to help our family out of a terrible situation. Sure, we could have called a plumber, but that would have made our belts even tighter. We’re talking going from a Scarlet O’Hara waist to a Barbie waist.
When Archie launched into his trumpet fanfare this morning, I understood. He ran around telling the rest of the kids the good news because good news demands to be shared.
Piles of laundry are often called mountains. I have the Himalayas to flatten today. I can’t wait.
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