How Not to Calm a Child on a Plane (25 page)

The husband rolled his eyes and threw his hands up in a particular combination of exasperation and acceptance that I have come to know so well.

Driving the child the next morning to preschool—her adorably Jew-y preschool—I felt at peace. It had taken years of inner struggle, but I was finally, truly ready to put my Christmas obsession into permanent storage. I was so focused on my admirable decision-making skills, in fact, that I hadn't noticed the flashing blue and red lights behind me. It wasn't until I heard the siren that I pulled over, in front of the kid's preschool.

The officer stomped toward my window.

“You know you were goin' twenty-five in a fifteen-mile-an-hour school zone?”

“Was I? I didn't realize. We didn't want to be late. My daughter actually goes to preschool here . . .”

“Oh yeah?” The officer seemed to soften. “My niece goes there too. It's a sweet place.” He flashed a kind smile to my daughter, who smiled back.

Then his expression turned to puzzlement as he looked beyond the kid to the green needle-y branches behind her head. He then shook his head and turned back to me, his face betrayed by the weariness of someone who gets lied to on a regular basis.

“Nice ‘Christmas Tree' you got there.”

Before I could explain myself, and just as the words “HOLIDAY SHRUB . . .” tried to flee from my lips, I heard
an ear-splitting squeal, and in the rearview I watched as my kid's head rotated 180 degrees.

“MOMMA, YOU GOT ME A CHRISTMAS TREE?! YAYYYYYY!!!!”

There were so many things I could have/should have said. Instead, I just kept my mouth shut and held out my hand as Officer Greenberg handed me my ticket.

That night we stood, the husband, the kid, and I: three Jews hanging Christmas lights and blobby Hanukkah decorations around a sharp, slouching bush, praying to God (or somebody) that nobody would put an eye out.

“DO YOU THINK SANTA WILL COME?” the kid asked.

I looked at the husband. He shrugged.

“Sure,” I sighed. “Why not?”

And he did. And it was good. And it was all thanks to a cranky police officer who'd forced our hands into making a simple, deliberate decision—that we would create our own holiday rituals, starting with the concepts of Inclusion and Joy. So this year there will be a tree and a menorah, stockings and dreidels, bagels and turkey, and a nighttime visit from some milk-and-cookie-fueled chubster in a red getup. And the following day we'll invite our friends over for a Stein Day dinner. There will be plenty of gratitude for flexible family, and the halls will ring with singing and the voices of well-wishers calling out: “
Merry Christmukkah-SteinMas to All, and to All a Good Night!
”

*
I'm guessing I don't need to explain what “kiki” means, but suffice it to say I have not had it waxed in a long time. I.e.: Ever.

*
Let the record show that I have since learned that Winnipeg is a veritable hotbed of Canadian Jewry. Clearly I should have gotten out more.

*
Except without the bong.

sixteen

THE VERY BAD HAIR DAY

I
t's the smell that hits you first. Like a mixture of Kool-Aid, nail-polish remover, and dirty nickels soaked in spit.

As we enter, the four-year-old child emits a squeal that causes my pupils to dilate. I can't exactly blame her; this place—a hair-salon entry into the lucrative children's market—has been scientifically engineered for the delight of her species.

We are greeted at reception by a disturbingly cheerful, tiara-wearing, Tigger tattoo–having girl named Caitlin, whose every sentence! Is punctuated by! An Exclamation!! Mark!!!!! She ushers us through the salon, giving us the apparently earth-shattering news that “YOU'RE WITH JENNA! OH EM GEE, I LOOOVE JENNA!”

The place feels vaguely like a Chuck E. Cheese, only more hygienic and 15 percent less barfy. Colored lights flash on cartoon murals of oily-looking princes and brainless princesses; happy clients suck on lollipops in barber chairs built to look like race cars, rocket ships, and royal carriages; while pop music by singers with dolphin-pitched voices fills the air.

It's every kid's dream—and for me a nightmare of
Saw 14
proportions.

I clench my jaw, personally offended that this place has the audacity to exist. I know I sound like my future grandma self when I say this, but What The Hell Have We Become? When I was a kid my mom would grab her pinking shears,
^*
tell me to shut my eyes, and eight minutes of dangerous-implement wielding later, I had a perfectly good haircut that, if I tilted my head to one side, was pretty much passable.

And if I sound crotchety right now, that's because crotchety is the condition in which I find myself as I take in this overstimulating, acid-trip panorama through my strained and baggy red-rimmed eyes.

The fact is that three weeks ago, said child did extract from me, in a weak moment,
^†
a promise that I would bring her to this place for a haircut. And even though said child cannot seem to remember that “Tuesday”
does not follow “November” on the calendar, she was able to recall that “TODAY IS HAIRCUT DAY!”—about ten minutes before the appointment. And though I may be a crank of immense proportions, I will not renege on our deal because I am a woman of honor. (Also, they made me give them a credit card number to hold the reservation, and there's a twenty-five-dollar fee to cancel. Jerks.)

My daughter eeny-meeny-minies between a hot-air-balloon chair and a royal-carriage chair (she “wins” the hot-air balloon, then picks the carriage anyway—clearly her sense of honor is not as strong as mine) and is then greeted by Jenna, yet another horrifyingly bright-eyed and cartoon-character-tattooed maiden who will be cutting the kid's hair at a cost of approximately a dollar per strand.

After a quick conference with Jenna about what we're looking for: price (low) and style (who cares), I warn the child that she is not to request any extras (no bows, tiaras, gowns, or live Clydesdales) and to not even
think
about playing the extortionist Claw Grabber Game in the corner, and then I slither over to the bench to stew in what is probably number 3 in my list of Top-Ten Nonspecific Yet Supremely Foul Moods I Have Been In.

I take a seat in the waiting area, where my thighs—the ones that have been struggling to escape the ill-fitting jean skort I'd thrown on before running out the door—are sticking to the painted wooden bench under them, making a nauseating
FWAP FWAP
sound every time I move, while twelve inches from my head an unattended
toddler pounds away at the paddles on a retro Strawberry Shortcake pinball machine (
BLAPATTA-BLAPATTA-BLAPATTA
).

Shifting uncomfortably (
FWAP FWAP
), I mull over the seventeen-item to-do list (CHANGE OIL, POST OFFICE, VET BILL) that is weighing heavily on my mind (PAY TRAFFIC TICKET, PICK UP PRESCRIPTION), or rather on my hand, where I wrote it (
BLAPPATA BLAPPATA BLAPPATA
) in pen while driving here because I couldn't get it together (
FWAP FWAP FWAP
) to buy a friggin notepad (BUY FRIGGIN NOTEPAD).

I glance out the window and lock eyes with a sullen, mean-faced lady wearing a hat that appears to have been knitted from a knotted-up bundle of yak hair. Then I realize that the window is actually a mirror, and the mean-faced lady is me. And PS: it's not a hat.

I reach up and attempt to rearrange the yarn ball, but it's pointless. I close my eyes and make a mental note to add “HAVE HAIR BALL REMOVED FROM HEAD” to my ever-growing to-do list, because of course I can't find a pen to add to my list of hand-inked chores.