Photo: Ursa Major (background) and Ursa Minor before this week’s round of haircuts. We actually decided to leave Ursa Minor’s hair alone because, frankly, we don’t know what the heck to do with it. It’s weird and it won’t do what it is supposed to. So we’re gonna let it grow out and see if it will find itself and its shape. Ursa Major’s hair, though, had to go.
I don’t even know where to begin with this post. Because these vignettes are random and not necessarily in chronological order, I’ll just separate them. This keeps some sort of structure and organization in the madness that is my life.
First and foremost: WHAT THE WHAT? Peggy invites me to her house for a birthday party????
Um, surely ya’ll remember Peggy. Peggy, the one who was drunk at the Potluck in October and told me that I should not enroll Ursa Major in his preschool next year because it would be “better for him to go to school with kids in his own town”? Ya’ll remember that fool, right? Yeah, well, her daughter (who has a crush on my son) is having a birthday party next month. And Peggy casually invited us to it! “I can’t do it on the Saturday or the Sunday. I can only do it on the Friday from, like, 3-5. That’s cool with you, right? That’s a good time?”
I’m like, “I mean, I think so? I’d need to look at my calendar when I get home…”
“Yeah yeah yeah,” She says dismissively. “I’m gonna send everyone an evite! Just decide what you want to do!”
I’m kinda confused. And I’m only a little bit torn.
Here are the scenarios:
1) That woman was drunk and is only racist and ridiculous when she is drunk and then she woke up the next morning having no recollection of what she said to me (plausible) (not an excuse for racist behavior)
2) That woman was drunk, knew what she said, feels embarrassed about it, thinks this will make up for it. (less plausible because it’s so many months later and she has never felt abashed around me otherwise) (still not an excuse for racist behavior)
3) That woman was drunk, knew that what she said was racist, observed my non-reaction to her racistness and has decided that a) I’m stupid or b) cool with racist behavior so she has decided to invite me to her place so that she can just…you know… be racist at home? (Augh, please let this be far fetched… why does this read as not that far fetched??)
Sooooooooo here’s the rub: We’re getting invited to stuff because that’s just what you do. Ursa Major is invited to another birthday party the next day, and one of the girls in his class is having an Easter egg hunt the following weekend. I’m not particularly excited about any of these events for reasons I’ve stated in various forms in various posts. But, I don’t feel like Ursa Major should have to suffer because of my own misgivings, judgments, introversion, and all around displeasure with social occasions… especially mommy social occasions…
But if we skipped the crazy at her house, just went to the one that we were formally invited to the next day, and are super apologetic about not being able to attend (with a pretty plausible excuse that I’m sure I can cook up) then…you know… that’ll be cool…. right? Right??
Because, seriously, why would I want to go to that woman’s house and partake in her bread and salt? I wouldn’t invite that woman to my house, offering her my bread and salt… where I come from, inviting a person into your home and hosting them for a time means something and it is an invitation reserved for those who you genuinely enjoy sharing company with. It’s an intimate sort of thing. Yes, there are times when people are in your home who you don’t know/like/care about, but that isn’t what I’m talking about. I’m talking about the conscious act of inviting a person into your home and hosting them.
…. Lordy… To be continued…
Whooooo is that?
My sleep is usually disrupted by the occasional call from the nursery from either baby, the abrupt and violent roll-over by my husband (or his need to go to the bathroom a million billion times in the night), and now, the clanking of the radiators. I’m getting used to these things, and it’s really par for the course (and I usually get the pleasure of kicking The Husband after a particularly disruptive turn). So imagine my surprise when I was woken up twice last night because of activities outside of my window.
The first time was a sincerely scary moment. I should premise this by saying that The Husband is currently playing The Last of Us which is a zombie video game and I’ve been watching. Usually, zombies aren’t really my thing and frankly, this kind of stuff doesn’t usually scary me. (The only “scary” movie that actually scared me was Poltergeist back in the day, but that’s because I watched it when I was 10ish.)** But there is something about the game that is really getting to me…and I keep telling myself that I’m NOT going to watch The Husband play anymore… but then I end up taking my ass downstairs with the knitting needles and my blankey and watching like a moron.
So when one of my pet foxes or some other animal that I could not see starting running around my house screaming at about 2 in the morning, I was a special kind of scared. This thing, whatever it was, I’m pretty sure it was my pet fox, ran around my house screeching a weird kind of screech that I’ve never ever heard before. It only circled the house once and then went on its way. It was absolutely not human, but it was certainly something and it was unpleasant….
And it took me a while to get back to sleep…
So when the owls started up their karaoke party at about 3:30, I was in a mood.
I’ve seen owls. I’ve heard their little “whooo whooo” on the Discovery Channel… but no one told me that they do that whoot thing loudly and consistently. Seriously. There must have been two or three of them, and they were so loud that I thought they were in my attic.
Most of the discoveries around living in this house have been wonderful… magical, even… and I really need Spring to get here (“I need you like water, like breath, like rain…” Seriously. Please. Spring. Get here.), but I’m going to have to have a sit-down with the animal kingdom and negotiate some quiet hours.
Revenge of the Tender Scalp
Ursa Major got a hair cut on Tuesday night because I couldn’t take it any more. We don’t do a lot of hair maintenance for the boys because their curls are so lovely, and, frankly, we don’t know what to do with them. The boys don’t care how they look, and since their hair has been covered with hats and hoods anyway, I haven’t cared either.
Until the hair gets too long. Then we’ve got a problem, because it gets all matted and tangled and gross looking. Suddenly, he isn’t my little baby bear with the cute curls, he’s the kid whose hair never gets combed and looks like he just fell out of bed (read: every guy I knew in undergrad). So, at least on school days, I’ve gotta wrestle this child with a pick and some hair stuff to get his hair into fluffy nice afro mode. This is a pain. He cries, he flinches, he screams as though I’m killing him…
and I remember being a little girl doing the same thing between my mother’s knees.
My mother would sit me down on a pillow on the floor, she would sit on the couch, she’d break out that blue magic gel, a comb and a brush, and she would instruct me not to move. As soon as she put her hand on the comb, I would start crying. Pigtails, cornrows, pretty little spirals… whatever… beauty was pain and I hated it. As soon as we thought I was old enough to get the chemical straighteners, I went for it… and burned my hair to oblivion from about age 12 to 24.
Ursa Major’s hair is not as course as mine is, but it is thick and it is unruly, and he has a tender little scalp. My aunts think I should cornrow it to make it grow out and become this glorious thing, but… I’m going to make a confession:
I’m a Black Woman who doesn’t know how to cornrow.
(I also really hate cornbread, but that’s something else entirely.)
You can’t have my black card! Don’t take it from me! I never learned how to do it! Nobody taught me! And I hated wearing them when I was a kid!
So, we’ll just cut that child’s hair until he decides that he can take care of it himself. He looks amazing when it is close cropped to his head anyway. You know who he looks like? Lester Holt. Seriously. Lester Holt with a lighter complexion. I’m sure that once he figures out that afros are a chick-magnet, he’ll grow his out and keep it nice. His brother’s hair doesn’t seem to have the same structure and shape, so it’ll be that extra little thing to make him stand apart from his brother. Until he can keep it going himself (or he will sit and let me comb it out for him), the curls are getting cut!
Such a random post, I know. That’s my life right now.. just a big ball of crazy random.
I’ll see you Friday with quiet thoughts. If the owls don’t break in and scratch my face off.
*** The movie that scared Kyra the most ever: Children of Men.
It was NOT supposed to be a scary movie, but it scared the hell out of me. The Husband had to put on a Disney movie (Cars) to peel me off the ceiling. I had nightmares for months after watching it.