So this morning I was brushing Olivia’s hair, as I do every morning because and she was telling me that I was killing her, killing her DEAD with all the brushing.
Tom admonished her, “Stop whining!”
I told him, “She can’t. The poor child has three strikes against her. One, she’s a girl. Two, she’s eight years old and three, she’s my child. Whining is just part of her DNA.”
Then I gave him an apologetic smile and continued to kill my child dead with a hairbrush. Then, when her hair was as dead as I could make it, I braided it in the hopes of stalling future killer tangles. I braid it almost every day, though, and so far we haven’t really managed to figure out just the right braid to keep the tangles at bay. Poor kid.
I’ve offered to cut her hair off but she never takes me up on it. Honestly, if she did, I’d hesitate to do it anyway because, well, girls in our family have long hair until they’re old enough to actually take care of their hair themselves, at which point they get to decide what style they want. And that’s that.
So for now, we deal with whining and ‘killing’ each and every morning. You’d think Tom would be used it after all these years. Alas, he’s not and I’m beginning to think he’ll never build up a higher threshold for the whining. I think sometimes it must suck to be him.