A couple of weeks ago, I took Miss P to get a manicure with me. Because I can’t seem to get any time for personal care and maintenance unless it either happens in the 3 hours she’s in preschool, or unless I drag my kids with me.
Doctor’s appointments for Mommy need to be scheduled during school time. Ditto for haircuts, bra shopping and mind-numbing trips to the DMV, Manicures are easier to manage with a tag-along than, say, a pelvic exam.
Thankfully, my children find friends wherever they go. They don’t discriminate by age, race, appearance, or whether you look busy or not. My kids aren’t shy and will talk about anyone’s ear off. Ask the dental assistant from yesterday’s 2 hour ordeal. I think she knows more about my sons snack preferences than I do.
But, back to the manicure. Now that she’s old enough to sit still for at least 5 minutes, I’ve taken to bringing her along with me and getting her nails painted so that I can pay someone to pry the hangnails and thick layers of cuticles from my talons. We’ve done it about three times now. Usually they set Miss P up in a chair next to me, slap some blindingly pink polish on her wee nails while I’m getting my manicure done.
The time before last, the nail technician was sweet enough to paint on a couple of daisies on my daughter’s nails, which sent her through the roof with beauty euphoria.
So, naturally, on our last visit, Miss P asked the nail tech to hook her up with some horticulture. A simple request, had it been understood.
Except that Miss P sometimes resorts to this nasal-y baby voice if she’s feeling a bit awkward.
She is 3 after all. Sometimes even I can’t understand her. But the nail tech was Asian and didn’t speak much English, and you couldn”t understand her very well either.
The resulting conversation was something right out of a Saturday Night Live skit.
CanI havea fwower?
Can. I. Have. A. FWOWER?
Hmmhmm. That’s nice…
No, I wan a FWOWER. Right dere.
You want a 4?
No, a FWOWER!
Returned with a blank stare, a half-smile, and then a look at me as if to ask “WTF does this little half pint want exactly?”
Remember when you used to get manicures before you had kids? You could take your time, try out every polish on the wall, pony up the cash for the fancy scrubdown, and that paint job would still be nick-free by the time you got home?
Now I bring in my own polish so I don’t have tiny fingers tempted by The Wall of Glorious Colorful Glass, bypass the dryer, and ending up with at least two nails gouged by the buckling of car seat harnesses a mere 10 minutes after walking out.
Still, for those four or five minutes when we’re both sitting side by side at the table, Mother And Daughter, hands stretched out for some stranger to apply polish to, it’s magical. I see the excitement in my daughter’s eyes, anticipating how pretty and grown up she’ll feel after it’s all over, her delight at being quasi-pampered. It’s nice to finally have a buddy to do these kinds of things with.
But I draw the line at tandem pap smears.
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