I've been feeling my parenting status dwindle. First, the power of the boob went up in smoke. And then I found myself cold in bed alone at night.
For a moment I felt desperate. I've felt sad.
But then there's hair.
My hair. -- If the breast is empty, at least there's still a head full of hair.
One of the mamas I interviewed for my sleep question book told me that all it took for one of her kids to fall asleep, was holding on to "a wad of hair." It could be hers or her husbands, and eventually even the child's own hair, soothing himself to sleep.
This is where I find my power these days: in my hair. Be it before nap or after, it's the hair she holds on to. In the morning, still in that vulnerable not quite awake state, it's the hair she needs. And even if she can't hold onto it as I brew that coffee I so desperately need to wake up; she needs to see it there. In fact, I cause a scene if I put my hair up to avoid getting any in my food. The important thing is to let it all out.
Many parents can relate to their little ones' clutching at their hair, like baby monkeys. But this feels different. This is hair adoration; all she wants to do is run her fingers through my hair.
I do get her thing with hair; I love hers just as much.