Team Gray!

. . . when you water it profusely. Something I didn’t do today, because it has been very cloudy. I think I need Kipat.

For anyone who hasn’t read the book, or seen it on Between the Lions, in the story, Bringing the Rain to Kapiti Plain, there’s a big black could, heavy with rain that shadows the ground on Kapiti Plain. There’s a valiant young shepherd, named Kipat, who shoots the cloud and brings the rain to the brown grass, which feeds the skinny livestock, etc., etc.

Would that it were so easy. . . I’ll let you know when the rain finally falls.

I have my second story up at the soccer mom vote today. Go and check out a different side of this story.

I am tripping at the two sides of the spectrum I’m dealing with these days. Yanni is in Driver’s Ed, and Esteban is supposed to be potty training.

They may seem very different, but they fell eerily similar. Like, when Esteban doesn’t use the potty, I want to quit. And when Yanni scares me half to death in the car, I want to quit. She shouldn’t practice driving, it’s too scary. The roads are terrible. She can wait. He doesn’t need to use the potty–pull-ups are very absorbent, and it’s very inconvenient to constantly run a child back and forth to the potty.

But, they both must grow up. And I’m the designated homemaker to facilitate that growth. That means I have to screw my courage up and have Yanni practice driving a little bit every day. Even though the roads are a nightmare of construction in all directions. So she gets to learn how to drive in reality, not on paper. And I get closer to God from all the praying. And Esteban can’t be in diapers forever. You’d think even he would get tired of walking around leaking and stinking. Eventually.

I’m teaching Yanni the back way to get places–so she can avoid the confusing, scary construction zones. Then I can get my game plan together to show her how to navigate even construction zones. I am grateful that she is as compliant as she is. I think I would have had an accident by now, as hard-headed as I was with my mother. My mother would have quit practicing driving with me by now.

I am giving Esteban a few bare-bottomed hours in the morning to get used to going to the potty when he gets the urge. He tends to wait until he gets his pull-ups back before he has a stinky. I have an urge to restrict his fruit so he won’t hae as many stinkies, but if I don’t we may actually catch one in the potty.

It is nerve-wracking all around, and I want to go and bury my head somewhere. But, I can’t, and we will get through this summer trained all around. Pray for us.

Other bloggers I read are apologetic about talking about their hair. I say, talk about your hair! Finally, something interesting.

I was trying to write a book about hair. I got stalled. . . talking about something other than hair. So I guess I get being embarrassed to talk about hair. But it really is part of the whole package–you know, being a woman. And it really occupies an inordinate amount of time and energy if you want it to look like anything.

And it starts young.

So, Imani has had her little beads and cornrows for I don’t know how long. It’s starting to look a little fuzzy, but not enough to make me want to take it out. Joy has some almost fresh cornrows; her hair needs to be done much more often than Imani’s. It will probably look fuzzy enough to change before I change Imani’s hair. I gave Yanni the latch hook braids I had planned on putting in my hair, when Curtis gently suggested I get someone to do my hair. And funny thing, Yanni’s hair requires more latch hook than mine did. Who woulda thunk it?

I’ve been sick of my hair. It’s too gray. It’s too soft. It’s too blah! And now that we have hooked up with Fara again (my pool buddy!), we have regular dates with the pool. My little twists were no match for that pool! So, I called Abigail to find out who braided her hair. She told me it was Josephine,and she gave me her number. I called Josephine and worked out the particulars. I couldn’t wait until today!

The hair-do she had done for Abigail was french braids in the front and weave in the back. In my day, we didn’t talk about weave. I still cringe when I hear the word. But, there it is. I liked the ‘do. Had to have the ‘do.

Yanni’s first time driving me anywhere on the street was yesterday, when she drove me to the hair store after driver’s ed. That’s a hair-raising tale for another day. (I know the pun is bad, but I’m corny like that).

I didn’t know what I was looking at. “Those are tracts,” Yanni showed me. One tract looked like extensions, and ponytails, and wigs. . .my head was spinning. But girlfriend has been making too many stealth trips to the store, apparently, because she knew the whole stock and merchandise.

I had wanted to try human hair, but I only had $30 budgeted, and that needed to cover a package of hair for the french braids, and at least two packages of tract. I thought I needed three, because braiders always tell me I have a big head. So, I bought the kanakelon instead. 100% synthetic, baby!

I had a little crisis trying to match colors. I know my hair is something like a 2, but I could only find tracts in 4. (hair color is identified by number; the smaller the number, the darker the hair). The box of braiding hair was full of 2′s. I had Yanni hunt down a 4 in the bag so at least all the fake hair would match. When she found it, it was so much lighter than my own hair, that I almost rejected it. What the hell? I just went for it.

I am so the opposite of ghetto fabulous–and my daughter is all about ghetto fabulousness. So, I’m dying. It’s like buying maxi-pads, or a pregnancy test for me. She’s all twittering and giggling, and can’t wait until she can get a weave.

I quietly ask the nice black woman in the Asian store at the cash register if these were indeed tracts. Yes, she assures me.

So I met Josephine today. She has a beautiful lilting voice, which told me over the phone she was from Africa. When she mentioned ‘back home,’ I asked her where. She is from Sierra Leone. I knew some people from Sierra Leone, and she did too. Turns out, she knows just about all the African people I know, and she is close to some of my old friends that have moved away. Turns out, Josephine, the braider, has many ties to the university, and was even in the MSW program–my mother’s department–once upon a time. She didn’t know my mother, but knew her dear friend that passed away in ’98.

You get to know a person pretty well when they have their hands in your hair. Especially when the appointment lasts a few hours. I was surprised to get out in the noon hour. I had only been there since 9 AM. My old braider, who Josephine knew, of course, used to take a very long time to do my hair. I used to spend 11 hour days talking to K.

I was surprised at how hoarse I was leaving the salon. I thought I had passed most of the time reading.

I have already been swimming in my new hair. I had to–the weave is so tight, my eyes slant. It was like a face lift in a bag of hair. Too cute, though. Catch me in a few weeks (and we have hopefully rectified the no camera situation).