A Visit To Remember

I'm depressed. Yesterday I had the best hair day of my life. It will never be that perfect again. I almost wish I hadn't had it. Now every other hair day will pale in comparison to it. I'm doomed to a lifetime of almost-my-best-hair-days. Sure enough, this morning... it's gone. Oh well.

Just kidding about the depressed thing. Actually I'm pretty happy. My husband and I just returned from a pre-Christmas visit with our kids and grandkids. (Well, the truth is, they're his two daughters, but I get to claim them a little too, because they've known me most of their lives, and even lived with us on and off. They love me, I love them.) We only live a few hours away, but our work schedule at Christmas won't allow a nice Christmas visit this year, so we went early. But it really feels like we've had our Christmas now. We exchanged gifts, we watched the older daughter put up her Christmas tree, and the younger daughter had hers up too. And we thoroughly enjoyed the company of our two teenage granddaughters, who are just the coolest young women now. But the real entertainment came with the two-year old granddaughter. We found out from her mom that she kept pointing at a Barbie guitar in a catalog and saying, "Thank you Mommy, thank you Mommy." Apparently this went on pretty much nonstop. So we bought the guitar. When my my ever-alert husband went to buy it, he also noticed a pair of pink cowboy boots in her size, so naturally who could resist? She loves shoes more than Oprah does. So we couldn't wait to see the reaction to both. WELL.....we gave her the boots package first. She barely ripped the paper off one end of the box and she got all rigid the way little kids do and started squealing "Shoes! Shoes! Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh!". We couldn't figure out how she knew what they were from seeing about 3 square inches of cardboard, but she knew. Well, the pink boots went on her feet, and as far as I know, they're still there today. So next was the guitar. You can imagine that scene. More squealing and "Guitar! MY GUITAR! Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh!" After finally extricating it from its packaging, her daddy helped her put it on properly and showed her how she should hold it. Well let me tell you, the Barbie guitar doesn't play the Farmer in the Dell. It plays licks like Keith Richards. You touch a string, or a button and it's rock n' roll baby. But the best was yet to come. It comes with a head set microphone that you plug into the guitar and it amplifies your voice. Once we figured out how that went on her and how it worked, she was loaded for bear. She got the rhythm going on the guitar, then figured out that when she spoke it was amplifed, so she started singing made-up songs loudly and without a semblance of melody. She did this for awhile with her feet planted in one position. Then, (and I think I actually saw a light bulb go on over her head) she began WALKING AROUND, playing and singing. It was like she was born for this. But it wasn't enough for HER to walk around by herself. She went over to my husband, who up to now had been sitting comfortably on the couch, laughing his butt off saying "I can die happy now", and pointed at him straight-armed and commanded, "Grandpa! DANCE!!" Then she came to me, "Grandma, DANCE!" And so on until everyone in the room --Mommy, Daddy, Grandpa, Grandma, cousins, Auntie etc. - was up dancing while she strutted around like Chuck Berry singing her little heart out. It was a scene. This two-year-old had taken complete control of the room. But then, I guess that's what two-year-olds do for a living.

I'm still basking in the afterglow of a wonderful family visit. I've had my temporary fix of good quality time with my "daughters" and grandchildren. Not to mention the fabulous home-cooked meal of meatballs, sausage and pasta, prepared by one of the daughters. She's a throwback to the old Italian mamas. Except that she's young and adorable and thin. Go figure. The other daughter is also beautiful, and a gifted hair stylist. She had to keep reassuring me that my new longer hair style was "perfect". I become all insecure and needy around these young, beautiful women. "Do you really like it? How's the color? Really? Do you think I should trim it here?" Thankfully, they're patient with me.

So I feel as if I've already had my Christmas, and my wish for everyone is that they have an equally wonderful holiday. Unlike the "best hair day", I'm not worried that there will never be as good a Christmas as this one. I know they'll just keep getting better and better.