Monday, March 16, 2009
My mom used to love it when we would brush her hair. When I was little I loved doing it, I think because it made me feel important. Or maybe because it was something mommy liked. I don't know if I actually wondered if she liked it until later though, when I started to outgrow it. I had all these places to go, you see, and the thought of sitting anywhere for a substantial length of time was not appealing to me. But mom would still ask and so sometimes I would oblige while other times I would pitch a fit. The older I got, I became more capable of questioning motives and so I wondered if she just didn't want to spend some time with me. There was something stilling about that time, the rhythm of the brush going through the hair. I guess I just never understood it because for me brushing was always a very violent experience. With a head full of curls there's not much way to make that relaxing. So I never quite understood why she liked for her daughter to brush her hair so much until last night. When mine did. Her gentle little hand moving the brush back and forth was incredibly soothing. Perhaps when she's a little older and can brush harder it won't be as fun but it was this sweet little thing that was ours. And by ours I mean all three of us, the generations once removed from me. That to me is one of the funnest parts of being a mom, getting to pass on these treasures that my parents gave me.