I wasn’t able to get to sleep at a decent hour last night. But from my spot on the couch, while I watched an old episode of “Mystery Science Theater 3000” (this film is like a Conan the Barbarian but with less credible sleaze and a more unappealing “hero”, yes really), I could see my son as he ventured into the kitchen, poured a glass of milk (eschewing the Hershey’s chocolate this time), fetched a homemade whole wheat roll, split it, slathered peanut butter on it, pulled up a stool to the counter, then ate and ate and ate. His attitude was one of deep satisfaction; I thought to myself how most things I do when I’m awake are for these children, and everything’s working out well enough, and I just love them so incredibly deeply.
Last night besides getting up to movie-watching and sewing and painting our fingernails hot pink, my daughter – who’d recently made a “Sopping List”* of various grooming accoutrement she’d wanted for herself – including a brush, nail polish, and new shampoo and conditioner – got her long-standing wish to dye her hair black. She paid our friend Jasmine one dollar to help. The result is a deep black-blue, like a comic book shero. And she’s lovely.
In the bathroom, Sophie, upon rinsing out her new hair says to Jasmine, “I can tell I’m going to have a good life.”
* Ha ha! She totally can’t spell and I take every opportunity to joke about this!