Another Hairy Moment with My Teen

Ahh.  Do you hear that?  It's the sound of school buses being washed, new shoes being purchased, and pencils being sharpened.  That's the sound of Back to School, coming on Monday for us.  Wait...what's that other sound I hear?  It's the sound of champagne corks popping as the first Back to School Mimosas are being poured and mothers across the country rejoice as their children go back to school.

 Ding Dong, the school bell said

My kids are gone

Going back to bed

Ding dong, My house is like Club Med!

Oh I know.  Some of you are saying, "Oh, I'm sad, I LOVE having my kids around 24/7 all summer long!  I can't believe you are happy they are going back!"  To you I say, "Put down you mimosa and get the hell out of my house."  Just kidding.  Just stop talking and making me feel guilty.  Because I am ready.  

Now that The Wife is working, things are getting done ahead of schedule around here.  Not out of a sudden talent for organization, but rather from complete terror that I will forget something.  I've done the Back to School shopping, I've put money in the lunch accounts, I've made a calendar of activities.  The Son has tried on his football cleats, I've signed the daughters up for dance class, piano lessons have been tentatively set.  

In the middle of all of this activity, Oldest Daughter decided to audition for the Youth Ensemble of our area Symphony Orchestra.  I completely downplayed it, because I thought if I looked enthusiastic, her Teen Alarm would trip and she would instantly resist doing it.  I nonchalantly mentioned that I set an appointment for her audition.  Whatever.  I asked if she had her music, but no big deal.  I mentioned that she might want to select her outfit so she was ready, but if you want to wear your Daisy Dukes, go ahead!  The day before the audition, she had her music ready, her outfit selected, a shower taken, her hair straightened, and she asked if I would please do something for her....would I shape her eyebrows.


One needs to understand something about my people - we are hairy Germans.  Wir sind sehr haarig.  I have the unibrow, and I know how to use it, so back the eff off.  If I don't pluck my eyebrows every six hours or so, I can pull them back to make a lovely hat for myself.

My great great grandfather, 

Berthold Yoder

Again, happy that Oldest Daughter wanted me to do something to help her, and that it was something in the grooming department, I signed up and grabbed the tweezers.  This is when she froze a little bit.  I'm not sure what she thought I was going to do, but I don't think she imagined tools when she pictured us together.

As I've mentioned before, 
I have two ways of dealing with complicated situations.

1. I completely lose my shit and start yelling and swearing, or
2. I make inappropriate jokes in an effort to dispel the stress level.

So I make her sit on the edge of the tub, and I start plucking.  This would be a good time to mention that this was no small job.  She is starting to wince.  I can see that it hurts.  But I might never have this chance again.  I try to distract her - "Tell me about your favorite lines from Hot Rod!" or "What is your favorite SNL skit?" or "Tell me your favorite line from the Sassy Gay Friend!"  

We are laughing and she is quoting up a storm.  I've removed roughly 47 eyebrow hairs from her.  There are small, faint dots of blood appearing in some spots.  The left brow is done, and it looks fantastic.  I have great hopes for the right one, but she is starting to fade, and the pain is getting worse.  I get ahold of one particularly tricky spot, and I pull.  The skin actually pulls away from her face, but I can't stop now.  The hairs come out, and OD slaps her hand against her forehead, protecting her browline from my attack, and says, 

"You're a dirty bitch and I hate you!"

I say, "What show is that from?" and she says, "NONE!" I stop, and we look at each other and both completely bust out laughing.  Because I AM a dirty bitch.  I shouldn't have pulled those hairs.  I know it hurt, and I went there anyway.  But let me tell you something - those brows look fabulous.

My teen crossed over that day.  She went from a mild-mannered middle schooler to being MY daughter.  A girl who can use her swear words appropriately and in a funny context.  She knows she can't get away with that often, she saw her opportunity, and she took it.

Well played, Oldest Daughter.  And the student becomes the Master.

Enjoy Back to School, Moms of America.  I raise my mimosa to you.  Oh damn.  I work full time now, and while mimosas are frowned upon, I will raise my celebratory skinny vanilla latte.  Namaste.