Dining with Squirrels

Happy Valentine’s Day.  We’re celebrating early because tomorrow church starts at 8:30am and, no offense, but that is a serious downer.  I channeled my mother and set the table beautifully with darling cards at each place and tiny boxes of chocolate for each.  Then I struck out on my own by not making a breakfast of pancakes and sausages and fresh fruit and instead served a slab of cinnamon rolls from the bakery.  I can only take this so far.  It’s been a lovely morning.

It hasn’t all been commercial expressions of corporate-manipulated materialism.  Yesterday, Ben made a real sacrifice in the name of love.  Locks of Love.  That’s right, the Hair is gone.  Cut off at school yesterday so that some kid could have hair too.

We mentioned this possibility to Ben many months ago and he enthusiastically agreed to do it.  In the intervening time, he changed his mind but we’ve held him to it.  It wasn’t just that he never brushed it — ever — or that I had to wash it — yes, wash my 9-year old son’s hair — but that it seemed to have become a disguise, an odd security blanket, a curtain of hair that he hid behind. Granted, it was a glorious curtain, yellow blonde and silky, absolutely shiny and Cinderella once a week, but the rest of the week, a real squirrel’s nest.  Karl and I told Ben that he was welcome to grow it back and perhaps by then he’d be able to care for it properly, but for now, off with your head!  I mean your hair.

An Oakdale mom — Mimi, who has the raven, laquered, luxurious hair of a queen and seems able to grow headfuls by the year — organizes a Locks of Love event at school every year.  Another Oakdale mom and the Awesome Tammy Otte, playground supervisor, do the haircuts and kids get to leave class and have their hair cut at school — a mini drama that all the kids love.

Ben brought his friend Helen to the copy room/hair salon and Tammy started with a prayer, thanking God for every good gift, even the gift of our hair, which so many of us take for granted, like blood that replenishes every day or skin that regenerates and heals without a thought from us.  We prayed for kids who do think about their hair, because they’ve lost it.  We prayed for the wig makers who would take the gift of our kids and bless other kids.  I gripped Ben’s hand much harder than he liked.  Then Mimi’s daughter Naomi, similarly endowed with the hair of fairytale royalty, and Ben climbed up on stools and got haircuts.

A small crowd of teachers and miscellaneous kids gathered in the copy room, Ben’s classmates, struck with sudden, urgent needs to use the bathroom, peeked in the door.  And the Amazing Tammy gave Ben the best haircut he ever had in his life.

When it was over, Ben ran to the bathroom to take a look.  I waited at the top of the stairs by his classroom door and I will never forget the sight of my son at the bottom of the stairs, whispering up to me urgently, “I look horrible.”  Oh, Lord, my heart sank.  And then, Ben’s class swarmed out for recess and came tumbling down those stairs, surrounding him and exclaiming “wow!  it looks great!”  “holy cow, Ben!  awesome!”  One girl, who now has a special place in my heart forever and may take my son to the prom, said “I think you look good both ways, Ben!”  And suddenly, Ben looked gigantic.  His arms slid off his head, where they had been wrapped, and he started to take in the compliments and I swear he almost started to swagger.  His teacher joined the crowd and started to applaud and all the kids joined her.  Can you hear the music swelling?  The after-school special is almost over.

Karl and I spent the evening staring at Ben.  He did look huge.  Like a fifth grader.  He seemed to be standing taller.  And he was incredibly animated.  His face was shiny.  His face was visible.  And it was heartbreakingly like the face of my baby boy from so many years ago. He is still actually quite lovely.  One of his classmates did say “you still look like a girl!” and I suppressed the urge to cuff him because it’s actually true.  Long, dark, swoopy lashes and red, beestung lips and the palest most lovely skin.  He’s gorgeous.  But he looks like a boy, a boy who keep his word, and did a good deed and grew a lot in one day.

It took me a minute to figure out what was going on.  Ben, Lucy, and Zoe were in the den playing — took me a minute to realize it was a game of charades.  I present to you Overheard In The Den This Evening:

Lucy:  “Someone on a toilet?”
Lucy:  “Oprah on a toilet?!”
Zoe:  “NO!!”
Lucy:  “Auntie Tash?”  [Auntie Tash is Zoe’s mom]
Zoe:  “Yes!”

Fall fell this week.  After a week of  balmy, skin-kissing weather so glorious that one almost feels global warming is worth it, we got two days of nonstop wind and rain.  It took all the leaves off the trees and left a crunchy, brown carpet for trick or treaters.  Very festive.  Except while our neighbors spent their Sunday diligently blowing and raking and bagging, I took the kids to a play and Karl worked a book deadline. We just wanted to pretend we lived in a condo, or on a lovely estate with gardening staff.

Oh, I was so sorry this morning.  Turns out we’re expecting snow flurries on Wednesday.  Removing the carpet suddenly became very urgent.  If you live somewhere snowless — and bless me, I’m full of envy, a big, ugly ball of it — you’ve never tried to snow-blow your driveway with a carpet of leaves under it.  It’s a job that ranges from back-breaking to impossible.  During the summer, we are grateful for our neighbors’ giant trees on either side.  They keep our house and yard cool and lovely.  This time of year I start contemplating a midnight chainsaw massacre.

These are not neighborly feelings.  So this morning, I put on my ear protection and fired up the leaf blower.  Blowing leaves is a little like moving books.  I’ve never thought we had too many books until I was forced to box them all up and carry them to a UHaul.  After an hour this morning, I had made what appears to be Very Little Progress.  I also realized I had been cursing out loud.  I thought I was muttering under my breath, but that was just my ear muffs.  I’m not sure anyone was outside to hear me, but if they did I imagine they crept back in their house and quietly locked the door. I was sailorly.

I felt a little like Martha.  You know the story of Mary and Martha in the Bible?  They’re sisters who find themselves hosting Jesus and big group of disciples. While Mary sits at Jesus’ feet and offers him her full attention, Martha is in the kitchen, slamming pots and pans and grousing  something about “oh sure,  he’s our Lord and Savior, but I’m the one trying to figure out how to feed all those people and a good thing I’m on top of it since no one else seems to care.”  She’s so busy being martyr-ish that she entirely misses the point of the evening.

I have a thriving inner Martha.  Outrage is a default for me.  I have rutted dirt road called Put-Upon Lane in my brain.   I think Martha needed to take a powder this morning.  Because she and I don’t actually live on an estate with gardening staff.   I had a leaf blower for heaven’s sake. I wasn’t clawing them up with my toes.  And the smell of rotten leaves and dirt was really quite delicious.  And it was drizzling, not raining. And I emailed my husband in despair and he told me to go inside  and  he’d finish it when he got home.   And I called a guy who is going to come and vacuum up the giant pile of leaves at my curb so I don’t have to stuff them into bags.  Martha should have just spent a few shekels and had a neighbor girl make dinner.