Good morning! Is there anything else I can do to make your day worse?

[Editor's note: This, like all posts that date prior to January 9, 2007, was originally posted at my former Woebegotten Wonderland blog that was destroyed for many very good reasons and a few pretty pathetic ones. They will all be labeled as "re-runs" here. I apologize for the blatant recycling hack-job, but the truth is I don't write that much and some of this stuff is probably better than I am likely to write any time soon. It seemed such a shame to let it go to waste.]

As you may or may not know, my wife and I split parenting duties rather efficiently. While I am at school, working in the studio, or fulfilling my duties at the church she is a wonderful doting mother for our three fantastic children. The rest of the time they're my problem. Shannon is also in the process of training for her new job while still working out her notice at her old job. The upshot of this is that I plan to see her again in about two weeks.

My daughter is sick. My daughter also loves her mother very much and is willing to put up with her father in the absence of a suitable adult care provider. She also wants to brush her hair.

NOW.

Why is this a problem?

Daddy has no hair brush.

My wife called this morning to mention that when she left for work she forgot to take Maggie and Caleb's shoes and jackets out of the car. (Apparently Josh got his own out last night and then took them with him to school this morning like the responsible oldest child he is.) I ought to, Shannon said, come by her work get them after I get the kids up and ready.

Now that's inconvenient. But its not that big of a deal. What's ten minutes out of your life, right? So Maggie and Caleb get up, have breakfast, take baths, get dressed, and have the most messed-up-looking-moppy-wet-shaggy-dog case of bed-head-been-washed-but-not-brushed hair I have ever seen.

Caleb is a boy. Caleb is a boy's boy. It's like his first word was football. He's not yet two, but he'll tackle a six-year-old (or even a twenty-six-year-old) that looks at him the wrong way (or any way). We call him "Bam-Bam". His favorite toy is a plastic bat, and no living being would dare come near him when he wields it. He's something of a Viking warrior/Norse god type of personality. So his hair is messed up. Good. It's more intimidating this way. "Bam-Bam" must conquer, bed head or not.

Maggie is a princess. She is so much of a princess she will not allow anyone to call her a princess because she does not yet have a crown. There are only two colors in Maggie's world: pink and purple. I think it's actually one color: pinkandpurple. She likes dresses. She likes bows. She likes hair bows. And she likes hair brushes. She brushes hair. Her hair. My hair. Caleb's hair (until "Bam-Bam" attacks). If it's hair it needs to be brushed.

Apparently what Shannon forgot to mention when she called earlier about things my children need that she accidentally has is this: she is in fact a hair brush black hole.

Shannon has a hair brush that she keeps in her purse, at work, in the car, or wherever else she is likely to be at any given time. The rest of the family has a hair brush that stays in the bathroom in a drawer. Whenever anyone needs to brush his (or more likely her) hair, that person knows to go to the bathroom, take the hair brush out of the drawer, perform any and all necessary brushing, and always put the brush back. There is never a question of where the hair brush is. It's in the drawer.

This morning there was no brush in the drawer.

Or in the bathroom. Or in the living room. Or kitchen. Or bedrooms. Or any room in the house. The hair brush is not here.

No big deal, right?

Did you forget about the sick princess?

There are tears. There are sobs. There are wails. There is an inconsolable princess and no hair brush.

So I call Shannon at work and find out that she couldn't find a hair brush and accidentally (accidentally?!) took ours to work with her. Realizing exactly what this development has done to my physical, emotional, mental, spiritual (and any thing else you can think of) well-being she asks, facetiously, "Is there anything else I can do to make your day worse?".

Nothing came to mind.