It is 9:30 am on a Sunday and my daughter whizzes past me, hip-checking me out of the way as she reaches for my blow dryer. We are late for church and we both stand there with damp hair.
“Are you using this?” she asks, despite the fact that it is obvious I can’t go out with my hair like this. Drying my hair – and clearly hers – is about all we have left for before the family bus leaves.
“No, go ahead,” I offer in a more Christian mood than the race to get ready usually brings. After I dress and brush my teeth I follow the blaring Indi-music down the hall to her bathroom where she is still using the dryer. I reach past her into the closet to retrieve her blow dryer. The one I bought for her so she would stop using mine. The one she doesn’t like as much as mine. The one that lies unloved and unused while mine racks up mileage traveling back and forth – usually more back than forth – between our two bathrooms.
Ah, I am my mother. The mother who was driven nuts by children who came and borrowed, often not returning, her possessions.
Her good sewing scissors – to cut craft paper no less. Her hairbrush, the one we used to comb out our sopping wet hair right before she was to brush out the curls she created by sleeping overnight on curlers; in an instant no more curls! Her best knife which made a handy tool for prying open all sorts of stuff. A favorite belt, or scarf, or hat – all worked into our dress-up sessions. Her expensive, thicken-even-the-thinnest-hair shampoo, which we used by the gobs with no interest in its special follicle boosting properties.
Now a mother of three myself, the borrowing plagues me as it did her. I rant as I search the house for my car keys, my good sewing scissors, my ipad, my scrap-booking tools, my black sweater, my shampoo. I wait in line as others use my possessions. I beg my daughters, “please put it back where you found it next time.” I comb my freshly styled hair with damp hairbrushes.
These thoughts play through my mind this morning, another internal broken record of motherhood.
Then I hear it. A favorite old song sounding from her ihome in the girls’ bathroom. Clearly an itunes purchase made by her Dad, and borrowed by her. Perhaps because anything downloaded by him is free to her. Perhaps because she recognizes it for its musical qualities. Perhaps because she saw it, all made over and new, on Glee.
Whatever the reason it made its way to her mp3 player, it warms my heart. I like that our music has become hers.
This borrowed item I want her to keep, and carry it off with her to college. And show her coolness – that she is more than just current pop music – to all her new friends.