The Comb

Bean came home for a good long time a few weeks ago. She had been teaching internationally and is finally ready to settle in Minnesota. And after a day of sleeping and jetlag recovery we were back to making a ruckus and a scene in public places while reminiscing about the good ol' days. We spent a lot of time and joy-tears on a classic that I need to finally share.

.     .     .     .     .

My mom is notorious for wardrobe mishaps. But before you start thinking it's a Janet Jackson kind of mishap, let me explain.

She has been known to wear one earring at a time. And sometimes two different ones. A dangly and a stud.

She once went an entire day wearing two different shoes to work. Didn't even notice until a friend asked her if she did it on purpose.

She rode her bike to Kmart and walked all around the store and after noticing a young couple following her around and giggling together she discovered that her shorts were split right down the back.

She also wore her dress inside out to church. Didn't notice until after saying hi to most everyone in the foyer then quickly ducked into the bathroom to flip it.

And usually after these little mishaps she will turn to my dad and squeal, "Joel! Why didn't you tell me?" He will shrug, I dunno, and smile. And before she can get one more word in, we're all, Mom included, rolling on the floor.

But in the one story that takes the cake, she has no one to blame but herself, because I tried but...

.     .      .      .     .

The Comb

I don't know about your family, but in our family Sunday morning was the most stressful time of the week. Three kids and a husband she's trying to wrangle and dress. Grabbing a bit a breakfast and getting us all to the car without forgetting anything. Our van was full of curlers. A vivid memory: Mom sitting in the front seat chatting quietly with Dad while putting a pink foam curler in her bangs. A few minutes to dry. Sometimes she would stick a comb at her crown to keep her hair back while she put some finishing touches on her makeup.

This particular morning she did exactly that. The curler. The comb. The makeup. As we drove the winding pine lined roads to our little church. We scrambled out of the car, the three kids, going ahead to grab our usual spots. And as my sister and I got settled in our row, I turned around to see my mom walking in to the sanctuary, wave to a friend and start a conversation.

 All while a big green comb was nestled, forgotten, in her hair.

Bean and I quickly and quietly discussed the situation in whispers. Do we say something? She'll figure it out, right? She's not figuring it out! Do we bring attention to it? She'll be mad if we interrupt her, but..what else can we do? And we concluded it would be best to step in and save her from embarrassment than to later hear, "Jenna! Why didn't you tell me?"

And as I was oldest, I would go.

I walked up behind her and waited for a pause in the conversation. And waited. And waited.We were taught to be quiet while the adults talked. Out of respect. And I knew this. And she knew I knew this. So when I opened my mouth and said, "Mom." She didn't respond. I should know better. And I said, "Mom," again. And again. And again And I tugged on her sweater. Maybe she didn't hear me? I could hear her sigh. Not believing what was happening. And finally she turned and said, "Jenna, I'm talking. Go sit down."

So I did.

I returned to a confused Bean, "Why is it still in her hair? Didn't you tell her?" I told her I tried. But she... wouldn't listen.

And when Mom did finally come over to sit with us, she had her scolding face on and I was more than willing to get a talkin-to. "Jenna, I was trying to talk. That's rude. Now what did you need to tell me so badly?"

"You have a comb in your hair."

As she gasped and grabbed for said comb, Bean and I rolled into a fit of giggles. "Why didn't you tell me?!"

"I tried."

More fits of giggles and laughter and struggles to contain it all as the music began.

.     .     .     .     .

We sat, Bean and I, in a Panera Bread with tears streaming down our faces and aching stomach muscles as we relived that moment together, much to the chagrin of the lady trying to eat in peace next to us. And later that week we sat with Mom and laughed together again. She can still hear that little shy voice, "Mom." Trying to save her.

It is so good to be back together again, all of us. And I'm so grateful to have a family where funny stories are never wasted.  Grateful that even when life is chaotic and we have little to spare, we have more than enough laughter to go around and share.