A couple of weeks ago, we were just finishing up a bad bedtime routine. I was in tears standing at the foot of the bed, Mike was laying in bed, and I was telling him what crappy parents we were, that we never have any fun anymore, and no-one ever laughs. (I was in the middle of a couple of weeks that weren't pretty...) Add to it, it was a very late night and the children were finally settling after a few threats and yells thrown their way.
I think I had closed the door for my barrage of complaints spewed to Mike, when suddenly a knock came at the door, and a timid voice, "Dad, I need some help." In walked Megan (with giggling Ellie by her side) at 11pm at night with a comb stuck in her hair.
Did I mention, it was STUCK??
Our first reaction was sheer frustration. It was 11pm at night. What in the world was Megan doing even combing her hair, let alone combing it backwards and sideways?
As Mike attempted to help her, our frustration quickly gave way to laughter. The good belly kind of laughter that everyone needs once in a while. Only problem was, Megan wasn't laughing. Well, and the problem of the comb stuck in the hair. There was certainly no laughing from Megan when Mike announced that the comb was not budging, and the only option was to cut her hair. Oh boy did that get Megan started. Suddenly she began crying, really loud oh-my-heck-my-life-is-over type cries. Mike told Megan to go to bed, and told her yours truly would take her to a hair salon first thing in the morning.
Megan was appalled. We're not sure what at? The fact Mike was expecting her to go to bed with a comb attached to her head or the thought of walking into a salon with a comb stuck in her hair. Or the thought of the ugly haircut she would have come morning.
In an effort to end the theatrical performance happening before my eyes, I insisted I give the comb removal one last effort. The comb was stuck! Unfortunately it was a high-quality, thick comb, and simply snapping it into pieces wasn't an option.
With tears falling down her eyes, and my laughter tears replaced now with frustration and irritation that it was as late as it was and this incident was as stupid as it was, I set out to remove the comb.
It wasn't easy. But the result?
Only a few hair strands removed, a broken comb, some owies on my hand from breaking high-quality comb teeth, a relieved Megan, an irritated mother, and a snoring father a few feet away.
(I respected Megan's tearful pleas of, "Please don't take a photo of it" while said comb was stuck in her hair. I regret that I have no picture now. Even she regrets it a little bit.)
This is the same girl that currently has 2 blisters on her bottom lip from biting the television controller battery compartment.
She is almost 15.