Friday, August 8, 2014

The Magpie Strikes Again (also titled "Down syndrome, The Teenage Years")

It's been awhile since James has pilfered anything from my room because the last time I made a very dramatic (long and loud) point about him keeping his little winged claws off my stuff.  He seemed to have gotten the message.... until today.  Today I decided to take the boys to see Guardians of the Galaxy.  So I sent James to shower and I hopped in my shower.  When I got out I dressed, toweled off my hair and headed to my bathroom counter to fetch my brush. 

Now a little background.  I have been dying my hair blonde for a few years now ... and it's pretty dry and damaged.  Think scarecrow meets porcupine.  So I have a regimen that I follow to help me get my hair detangled and brushed out.  When it's wet I use a generous dap (handful) of very expensive leave in conditioner (don't tell my husband) and rub throughout my hair (straw).  I have a special brush that has very wide bristles so as to gently detangle my hair without yanking me bald.  I've had this brush for many years.   It's well worn.  The handle has been broken so many times I could easily shank an intruder with it.  I don't even need to keep a gun in the house.  I've already got the sharpest, most jagged shiv in town.   Most of the paint has flecked off, there are many missing bristles and I'm pretty sure there is hair trapped in it that is so old, it didn't have any grey in it!
AND I should also note that you cannot find a brush like this one anymore... trust me.  I've looked.  And looked.  And looked some more.  So to say this brush is off limits is phenomenal understatement. 

Now back to my after shower routine....  I looked in the basket on my counter where I keep my hair brush when it's not in use and guess what.... go ahead.  I'll wait while you wrack your brains to try and figure out where this is going.  I'll just hum the Jeopardy theme song.  Do do do .... oh wow.  You are quick.  Yep, my hair brush was gone.   Siiiiiiiigh.  After a search of the general area I quickly came to the conclusion that the "Marauding Magpie" had arisen from the temporary coma he was placed in and was flying again.  Oh thank God.  (Sarcasm)

Of course I immediately call James to the scene of the crime.  He comes in with that ridiculously innocent look on his face that makes me want to Mirandize and cuff him on the spot.  "James my dear, did you take mommy's hair brush.  You know,  the one that NO ONE is suppose to touch".  James gives me that Spongebob toothy smile and says, "Uh....  nawp".  And then he nonchalantly  turns to leave!!  Uh, I don't flippin think so mister.  I said "Hold up there, Cowboy".   He slowly turned back to me, pivoting on his toes with his arms spread out like he doing some sarcastic drunk ballet move and replies with  "Whhhhattt"?   OH NO HE DIDN'T!  "Yeah, you wanna take that long drawn out 'what' with me when "The Hairbrush" has gone missing, Bucco?   No, I don't think you do".
So I gave him the 'Mom Eye'.  If you are a mom, you know exactly what I'm talking about. One of your eyebrows raises up a bit, while the other one comes down and one of your eyes gets all squinty while you are kind of looking a bit maniacal ....

He just rolled his eyes and sighed. 

Well, that used to work.

So then, I, being experienced in Magpie recovery tactics, took a different course of questioning.  Ya know, mix it up, keep him on his toes.  "James, where is my hairbrush".  He just stands looking at me.  I swear his poker face is ridiculous.  He MUST have been John Wayne, a lawyer or a politician in a previous life.  "I dunno, mom".  Maybe he was all three.  At this point he sighed deep enough that I'm sure his last three pulmonologists all felt a warm fuzzy, where ever they were at that moment.  I feel my blood pressure rising, so in the interest of staying out of prison (especially since my hair brush shiv is missing), I decide to leave James and go searching for my brush.  I do a cursory search from the door of James's room, because if you have read my last blog post, you know I have to be desperate to actually enter the Pit of Despair.  I would consider shaving my head first.  I walk through the rest of the house just to see if it's sitting anywhere obvious.  Nope.  Still missing.  By this time, my hair is beginning to dry.  That can't happen!  If my hair dries, I won't be able to brush it at all.  It would dry in a tangled mass that looked like Medusa used a weed whacker to style her hair and then fashioned a bonnet out of an elderly vulture's nest. In desperation I go to the kids bathroom and find Ryan's hairbrush.  Oh mama, this brush has so many tightly clustered bristles that my eyes start watering before I even raise my hand to take the first stroke.  It takes some doing, but I manage to get my hair combed out.  I will, however;  have to stagger to the medicine cabinet for a surgery grade pain pill or two.  I walk back to my room, sit down on my bed and drop my head in my hands while I take a few deep calming breaths and gather patience from deep within my psyche.  After I called on the 'Patron Saint of Not Going to Prison' to grant me some extra restraint, I called James back to my room.  He comes in, with his iPhone, dancing to Party Rock Anthem, which I can hear blasting from out of his head phones.  After we battled at length about the volume of his music, how rude it is to have a conversation with Mom while wearing headphone, his right to twerk, whether or not he could grow an afro like the lead singer of LMFAO, the unfairness of the fact that he could not grow an afro like the lead singer of LMFAO, if he can't grown and afro like the lead singer of LMFAO,  then why he can't at least have a pair of skin tight red shiny pants to dance in, and we rounded it up with a knock knock joke, which James did not actually have a punch line for.  He just wanted to find out how many times he could say "Knock knock, who's there", before Mommy's eye started twitching and she got loud. (Seven, the answer is seven, but only because the 'Patron Saint of Staying out of Prison' was perched on my shoulder)  After we wrapped up the "This is why mommy drinks" portion of the conversation, I finally managed to get him quiet again.  "James, honey.  Look at mommy.  Right here.  In my face".  Meanwhile he is looking anywhere BUT my face.  At my hair, at the floor, behind me, closing his eyes altogether and at one point, turns his head in my direction, to give the illusion of looking at me, but he crossed his eyes so I knew he wasn't actually focusing on me.  Sometimes I'm certain my blood pressure could cause my eyeballs to dislodge from my face, but they never seem to.  Really glad of that. 

I take his face in my hands and direct him to look at me.  Then, as calmly as I am capable of, I quietly ask him again. "James, can YOU find Mom's brush....... please"?  Without a word, James does the drunk ballerina pivot again, walks three steps toward my bathroom, pivots again and pulls a few of the dirty clothes from the hamper, reaches in, grabs my hairbrush, replaces the dirty clothes, ballerina twirls again and walks to me, places the brush in my hand and then takes a low bow and turns to leave.  "Wait just a lemon sucking minute, Maynard, I thought you said you didn't take it".  He sighs again, looks over his shoulder at me and says "I didn't take it".   I then asked him that if he didn't take it, then just how did he know where to find it.  He gets that John Wayne look on his face again and makes a show of inhaling and exhaling very slowly, closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose and says " Gosh mom, does everything have to be a battle with you? Sometimes you are so hard to get along with".  And with that he sauntered out of my room singing 'Let it Go'. 

Dear Lord,

Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
The courage to change the things I cannot accept,
And the willpower to not put Tabasco in my
son's morning applesauce cup,
or thumbtacks in his underwear drawer,
or tarter sauce in his toothpaste tube.