The minutes after bath and before bed are precious in our house. Everyone is winding down and the King especially, is extra sweet and asks for cuddles.
This evening, I decided to spend some time detangling his tiny mane. We sat, legs crossed, on the floor as I combed a homemade shea butter through his tangles. His little movements sending up wafts of the lavender oil I’d whipped into the balm.
I inhaled deeply, and the King turned around with sleepy eyes;
“Why you stop singing, Mama?”, he inquired.
It took me a moment to realize that I’d been humming tunelessly into the darkened room as I combed his hair, and resumed my singing.
“Thank you, Mama.”
Staring at his small back, as he flipped through the pages of a Berenstain Bears I was reminded of sitting on the floor with my Mom, when I was little. I remembered her hands deftly moving through my hair and easing the days adventures out of my locks. I remembered the way she praised the very things about my hair that I hated. Where I was embarrassed at the way my hair defied gravity, she extolled its thickness and strength. I felt beautiful under her hands.
Sighing at the decades old feeling, I pushed the brush a final time through his hair and tapped his shoulder.
“Ok SugarPea. I’m all done.” I told him.
He snapped his book shut, jumped up and raced out of the room. His bathroom door banged open, and I leaned forward to see him standing on tippy-toe, straining to see himself in the mirror. He hopped down and returned to his room.
“My hair is curly!”, he informed me importantly.
I stifled a smile, and returned his serious look “Why yes, yes it is.”
He looked up at me, with the crinkles his grandmother’s eyes wear when she smiles and told me “It’s curly like your hair, Mama. It’s beautiful.”
It is sweet King. It really is.