The Family Bed

You would think that a single woman of a certain (still very young) age who has her own house and her own room would also get her own bed. A nice, not too soft, not too hard, just right sized (a queen, of course) bed all to herself. To read in at any hour, to keep as clean (those freshly laundered sheets!) or messy (those yummy Oreo crumbs!) as desired, to sprawl across or to share (hopefully!) with a selected friend, to wake up in, to an angry alarm, or to sleep late in, to her body's content.  

But last night this woman's bed was not her own. First, at a little after 10, Theo arrived, pitter-pattering up the steep stairs to the Margie-Cave, wandering into my little bedroom, surveying the rumpled sheets, and, in one little hop, landing on top of the comforter, plastered against my (very warm, I guess) legs.  It only took a couple more minutes to hear another set of feet on the stairs -- this time, only two, a little heavier, a little slower, but around the corner they came.  And there was beautiful little Miss Kanha, nowhere near as sleepy-eyed as an 11 year old should be at 10:15 pm on a school night.  She pleaded a sniffly nose -- at least she had an excuse, which was more than could be said for the puppy.  Before I knew it, she had crawled over me, leaving only a few bruises and scratches, dragged the covers down on the far side of the bed, and snuggled in.  

OK, I know what you're thinking, and in fact, you're kind of right.  It's not such a bad picture -- who doesn't love other warm, breathing bodies that you love snuggling up next to you.  Certainly not me.  And it was just lovely, for about two or three minutes, that little cocoon we had all created together.  

But, then, Kanha fell asleep, on her back, with that cold, and the heavy breathing started -- I'm being nice, it was really a snore.  And it went on, and on.  By then I had realized I couldn't turn the light back on to read a couple more pages of my book, The Mindful Woman, because I really didn't want to take the risk of waking her up if she was really sick.  So my minuscule little 10 minutes of reading I covet every night disappeared into the thick air of her snores.

Finally I managed to fall asleep myself and all again was right with the world.  Until, of course, I woke up at 3 am to that familiar feeling of a moist brow and clammy sheets that only a fifty-something woman can relate to.  But this middle-of-the-night came with an added challenge -- my full-sized woman's body had been shoe-horned into one tiny wedge of the bed.  The adorable tween at my side was literally sleeping on my side of the bed, pushing me to the very edge.  And the dog had managed to stretch himself further over next to my feet -- no chance he was going to get left out of the bed party -- so that the only way for me to avoid going overboard was to hang on to the bed's sideboard.  I wanted to scream -- everyone, move over, this is my bed!  I wasn't feeling very mindful.

The Family Bed Minus Mom

But then I took a deep breath and looked at my charges.  Here was my family all comfy in one (not-so) big bed -- the sinewy young lady with the red streak in her just-cut hair, limbs splayed out, at peace, the puppy, on his back (and miraculously NOT snoring), four legs pointed straight up to the ceiling, snoozing away.  I could be tired perhaps but how could I be grumpy?  It sure felt like we were all exactly where we were supposed to be.  

The Death of Foom

Kanha -- aka Ya, a nickname a mother could never love -- got me my favorite Christmas present ever this year.  I know - because you sense I'm such a spiritual, non-materialistic type, because you know my favorite get-away in 2011 was a mother/daughter seminar at the Omega Institute in October involving tent cabins (brrrr), because you heard my previous favorite gift was a pipecleaner sculpture that forms the "letters" Y "heart" M-- you think the gift was emotional and a bit esoteric.  Perhaps a picture of her water skiing for the first time last summer or a pamphlet of poems she wrote as a third grader.

But you would be wrong.  It was, and is, an actual thing that she paid money -- her own money -- for.  A $50 spin-hair dryer.

The best Christmas present ever

A small item, advertised on TV, cheaply made, simple in idea and construction.  Ahh, but oh so life-changing for its recipient.  You see, when I was an adolescent, not too much older than Kanha is now, my hair had received its own private descriptor among my friends -- fooming.

fooming Marge

While I can no longer remember who originated the term or exactly why, I knew what it meant -- a levitation of every last one of my both wavy AND wiry -- doesn't that seem a little unfair? -- blondish-brown hairs that created their own independent atmosphere around my head.  Think of Silly String that spews wildly from a can, in a less outrageous color but far more electric.

I had this type of hair in a day before blow-dryers and curling irons, in an era the only solution for out-of-control frizz was to wrap sections of your hair in one direction all the way around your head, carefully secure i
them with bobby pins, and then wait for at least eight hours for the hair to fully dry,which I religiously did every weekend.  The resulting "do" was definitely less wild but fell unevenly on each side of my face, as if I had a hidden fork holding up one side of my hair.

Fork-lifted hair

Suffice it to say, it was not heading me for selection as Westwood High School's next prom queen.

While over the last 30+ years my "foom" has never disappeared, I have taken advantage of the plethora of drying, curling, and straightening appliances that have become available along with the conditioners, mousses, creams, and gels, and I've listened to the advice of at least a dozen hairdressers.  All have combined to help bring my hair somewhat under control.  But it has never had that soft shiny bounce, that insouciant flair that Westwood High's popular girls pulled off when they tossed their heads.

That is, not until last week.  The day after Christmas, Kanha and I gathered in my bathroom after I had taken a shower and my hair was a half-dry, messy conglomeration of brittle curls just waiting to plant themselves scalpside for the duration.  But, alas, we had our spin dryer.  She plugged it in, turned it on, pressed the button to begin the brush twirling and all of a sudden those crunchy, unlovable curls -- I can admit it now, now that they're gone -- were subsumed into submission, automatically gently stretching out as they wound around the brush, slowly transforming into that beautiful bouncy, still blondish brown (every girl of 50+ needs a little help...) wave I'd dreamed of for so long.  I just loved to watch my new little toy -- I didn't want Kanha to stop.  But eventually all my hair was dry and stop she did.  I shook my head like you used to see on those Breck commercials and my hair just bobbed softly into place.

Breck girl

Breck girl -- side view

I could have sworn I heard the sound of a balloon slowly losing air as my "foom" gasped its last breath.  I smiled, not even able to conjure one tiny tear for its demise.