Since the official bedtime of 8:15 p.m., Evelyn and her sleepover buddy have picked sugar snap peas from the garden, gathered books and flashlights, played with dolls, discovered a rogue nail (not finger, the hammer kind) in the carpet, and fetched ice water. It’s now 9:40 p.m., and Dave and I have absolutely zero cares about anything resembling a normal bedtime. Maybe it’s the relaxing, fulfilling Saturday we had that’s helped us kick off our parenting shoes and bury our toes deep in the sand of “whatever.”
Each time Dave walks by with his hair neatly tucked behind his ears—now three inches shorter—my chest puffs up with pride. I did that. That haircut is my best yet. With the long, thick weight of it, it took an hour one day and another twenty minutes yesterday to finish, and it was worth every snip. I’ve been cutting his hair for seven or so years, and I don’t recall ever admiring a cut afterward and thinking, Wow, that’s almost professional.
I’ve cut hair for two past boyfriends. One of them, awkwardly, after we’d broken up—while his new girlfriend was there. That was… weird. And uncomfortable. And, frankly, I should have said no.
Now, the girls are giggling in the bathroom. I think one of them might be going #2. It’s hard to say.
I’ve just sent Dave in to wrangle them into their sleeping bags. It’s creeping up on 10 p.m., and even though that’s nearly two hours past Evelyn’s usual bedtime, I’m pretty sure she’ll still be up with the sunrise. That means I will too.
I should get to bed sooner than later. Ta-ta!
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 