I know there is humor in this story. I know it. Maybe someday I can come back and see it all from a different perspective. But right now, I am just angry. And a little heartbroken.
My daughter cut her hair last night.
Now just to remind you, she's not a toddler. Nor a teenager. She is seven-years-old. Definitely old enough to know better. And definitely young enough that it looks like someone took a weedwhacker to her head.
Today is yearbook picture day.
She cut a couple of chunks of bang right off to her scalp. She cut the sides higher than her earlobes. She cut random chunks out of the back.
Well, first I yelled. Then I sent her away from me. As far away from me as our house will allow. Then I went into the bathroom and cried.
I know it's just hair. I know it will grow back. But this is just the very tip of the ice burg of everything we went through with her this weekend.
I can't trust my daughter.
I was telling my husband about how I had learned from her violin experiences that I have to let her fail and succeed on her own. How I can't see everything she does as directly relating to a failure on my part. How I have to let her be responsible for her own actions.
And even as I was telling him that, a voice in my head was asking how I had failed her. How had I taught her to lie? How had I taught her to be sneaky and manipulative? How did I fail her this time?
Parenthood is a long, strange trip. It's day upon day of mundane boredom, valleys of untold self-hatred, and peaks of unspeakable joy.
If it weren't for the peaks, I'm not sure anyone would do it at all.