Of Mothering Morgan

I was an art major in college. I saw plenty of pink haired, mohawked, body pierced people. But the squeaky type A in me has been cringing lately at my daughter's budding independence.

The latest manifestation was seen on her feet. We have a rule in our house that when it's cold outside (only November through April really) we have to wear at least socks on our feet in the house. No bare tootsies. Every day I must remind Morgan of this rule. Today she agreed to put socks on and she did so with an eager, "I can do it myself, Mommy!" as she ran to her room. It was too easy. I should have known. My child came out with one bright pink sock and one white one on her feet. Not only that, one sock looked to be two sizes too small. Serenity now!

There's more. Since Morgan's ear tube surgery, I neglected to purchase ear plugs. I was not allowed to shampoo her hair until doing so. It's been too long since she's had a good hair cleaning and yesterday it showed. Morgan awoke with what looked to be the beginning of dreads. Nappy, dread hair. Ewww. I am NOT raising a Rastafarian.

But there's more to mothering than grooming. There's the delicate art of arranging or preventing a nap. You've heard nap terms thrown around before: "She's a one-napper", "He's a double napper", etc. Well, unless Morgan is thoroughly overstimulated, hepped up and dropped down on sugar, she's what we call a "no-napper". This means that I have no privacy or down time save for Sesame Street hour. Today, I wore dear Morgan out with a double whammy: I had a little friend of hers over this morning. Then I took her to another friend's house this afternoon. The child was bone tired. But I wouldn't let her nap. Oh, no. This would be an early night in. (Hallelujah Chorus.)

Unfortunately, I didn't let my father in on this strategy. Her grandfather wanted to read her books before dinner. They BOTH fell asleep. ARRGGGHH followed by NOOOOOOOOOOO. I woke her up. I EVEN bribed her with candy to pump her up enough to get through dinner. It worked. Call it cruel. Maybe. But my Chinese-water-tortureesque mothering will result in a good night's sleep, my friend. And as all mothers know, sleep is god. I mean good.

And as a final story, let me wrap up with WHY I need my sleep. Because the child is wicked smart. I'm not saying she's genius-smart. She's wily-smart. And wily-smart kiddos do things like stick pennies in paper shredders because they look like giant, gray piggy banks. They also smother their bodies in 13 oz. of petroleum jelly because they love lotion and, by jove, petroleum jelly sticks longer. And unless I have my game on, I'm pretty certain this wily one could also start the car, drive over the border of Mexico and convince our southern friends that she is a senorita.

Go ahead. Call me a sadistic, type A, suffocating mother. But I'm not raising a nappy haired, shoeless greased pig. No, I'm raising something far more interesting. I'm raising a "Morgan".