So I was told by my daughter (several times this week, in fact), that I am “the worst mom EVER!’. I know you guys are all surprised and shocked because none of you have ever been called that by your darling dears (or the worst dad ever…). She was even kind enough to write me a lovely note with this information spelled out, in case I thought she was screaming, “You’re the burst bomb ever!”. Whatever that would me…I’m assuming it’d be like, “You’re the Bomb, Mom!”.

Anyway, I bet you can’t guess what infraction send my emotional, hormonal pre, pre-teen (no, that’s not a typo) over the edge this time. Did I forget to sign her homework folder? Were her vegetables too close to her meat on her dinner plate? (oh, the horror!) Did I insist she wear a coat to play in the snow?
Nope, nope, and a resounding no…I’ve given up on getting any of those right. What I had the nerve to do was ask her to please comb her hair so it didn’t look like a family of pigeons was nesting in her head. I know, crazy, right? What’s even more crazy of me is that I expect her to do this EVERYDAY! Wacko mother!
So any of you that have girls can probably relate to our typical morning. My daughter gets up, stumbles into the kitchen looking like a dirty stay out doing the walk of shame. Her pajamas are askew, her breath is seriously offensive, and her hair is disheveled in a manner I didn’t even think was possible.
I smile at her and kiss her on the cheek (refusing to go anywhere near her cat litter breath mouth) and then tell her to shower. She pouts for a second and then stomps up the stairs because she probably can’t even stand to smell herself.
All is right with the world until she emerges from the bathroom, water dripping off her hair and down her face, pooling around her ankles as she stands naked in her room contemplating her clothing choices for the day. I’ll give you a hint…it’s gonna be sweatpants because that’s all she ever wears nowadays. $5,000 worth of Justice clothes and all she ever wears is the sweats and tee shirts with “gymnast” written on them. But that’s a rant for another day.
Eventually she chooses her “Gymnast” outfit of the day (occasionally wearing a “Softball” tee shirt to shake things up a bit…if she’s feeling fancy) and comes downstairs. That’s when the $hit hits the fan every morning.
Me: “Did you comb you hair? (from my vantage point in appears matted and tangled)
Her: Yup.
LIAR.
But I let it go.
Me: (as sweetly as humanly possible) Ok, well I think you missed a few spots. Can you bring me the comb and I’ll do it?
Her: (venom in her voice) No!!!!! I did it already!
Me: (losing my patience rapidly): Well, you have tangles there, and there, and there…
Her: (clutching her head) Don’t touch my hair!
Me: (getting comb anyway) Here, I’ll be gentle. Hold still…
Her: (running screaming from the room) Ahhhhh!!!!! No!!!!!!
Me: If you don’t get over here RIGHT now, I swear to GOD I am taking you to the beauty parlor this afternoon and having Kim chop all your hair off!
Her: I’m gonna tell Grandma on you!
Me: To heck with the beauty parlor…I’m taking you to the barber and he can shave your head!
Her: I’ll run away if you do that!
Me: Go ahead! I’ll help you pack!
Her: You’re the meanest mom EVER!

And so on and so forth. EVERY SINGLE MORNING. When I do get close enough to get a few swipes at her head, she screams like she is being chased by an axe wielding murder. I’m seriously waiting for the neighbor to call the police. And forget blow drying or braiding or anything that would make her look like a human.
Now, I’m trying not to make her self conscious about her looks, nor do I want her to obsess over them. But come on…can she not look like a homeless person when she leaves the house?
I thought there was going to be no end to this morning drama until we stumbled upon….

This, my friends, is “The Wet Brush”, the greatest invention that mothers of girls with long hair have ever known. I am not kidding. I love this thing. There are no more tears in the morning (over hair, that is), no,screaming, no tangles…no need for Bailey’s in the coffee. Until, of course, I tell her she needs to change out of the sweatpants…