Wanted: Baby Groomers
Christina Applegate once guest-starred on an episode of Friends as Rachel’s clueless sister who agrees to take care of Rachel’s baby. When she arrives home at the end of the day, having had the baby’s ears pierced, she announces that she has come up with a new career – baby stylist, providing parents with advice on how to hide their babies’ flaws. This was supposed to be a hilarious example of how clueless she was, unaware that nobody thinks that their baby has flaws. For me, it was a brief moment of hope. I hoped that someone watching the show might make the leap from baby stylist to the career that I have been hoping to see launch for the past 6 years – baby groomer. I once suggested that every city should have a fleet of baby groomers who swoop in, provide manicures, pedicures, hair combing and baths, and then return your sparkling clean children to you. My mother, in her most imperious and disapproving voice, told me, “There are baby groomers, they are called mothers.” Okay mom, but since you once sent me to school with a sandwich bag tie in my hair because you couldn’t find a barrette (actually I thought that was kind of cool), maybe you should back off a little.
When we brought our first daughter home from the hospital, she had a full set of talons that would make any falcon mommy proud. I was terrified of those teeny little fingers with their microscopic little nails, and hoped I could wait a few weeks before I had to try to trim them. Unfortunately, within a few days my daughter was beginning to look like we’d dropped her into a thorn bush, and every time she flailed her arms or stretched, she seemed to cause another pink scratch on her cute little face or arms. I was sure that if I took those tiny little nail clippers to her tiny little nails, I would end up with a tiny little fingertip on my lap. The baby books suggested filing her nails (but they really weren’t hard enough to file) or biting her nails (but that really seemed too disgusting) for parents who were afraid to cut them. But then, quite unexpectedly, my husband came to the rescue and gave our daughter her first manicure. And then he put down those tiny little nail clippers and has never picked them up again.
When we brought our second daughter home, I decided I would tackle the first nail trim, since I had been single-handedly torturing our other daughter for 2 years and figured I was pretty good at it by then. I was not. I had forgotten how thin and soft those little baby nails were, and after trimming five fingers I had two bleeders. The books reassure you that these little wounds don’t hurt the baby and as long as you clean them off, won’t lead to gangrene or flesh-eating strep. I don’t think my mother-in-law believed that though, since when I came back from answering the phone to attempt to trim the other hand, she wouldn’t let me near the baby. She didn’t say anything, but she wouldn’t move from her spot on the sofa where she was serving as a sort of barricade between me and my daughter. I let it go and got the other hand later after the in-laws had returned to their hotel, but I did wonder if I hadn’t been careful enough and that my mother-in-law was right to jump in and save the baby.
Finally, when my son came home from the hospital, I just kept his hands covered. For a week or two I would turn down the cuffs on his sleeves to make sure he didn’t hurt himself. I figured he was too small to need to use his hands anyway, and he was also too small to be maimed by his clipper-wielding mother. After a while though, I decided that he probably needed to see his hands occasionally if he was going to meet the milestone where he notices his hands, so I gave him a trim, only drawing blood once. And so it has continued, the nonstop wrestling with little hands and feet in an ongoing attempt to keep the kiddies from hurting themselves or each other with excessively long nails. The girls have pretty much given up the fight, and just stand there and take it when I say it is time for a trim. My son, however, apparently still thinks that if he can wriggle free from me, he can escape these manicures and pedicures. He can do a 360 and start to low crawl away while I am holding his ankle attempting to get at his toes. He uses whatever appendage he has free to push me and the clippers away while desperately trying to pull free and run. These little episodes are not fun for either of us.
And it’s not just the nails. Every morning I have three heads worth of bed head to comb through and three faces worth of milk moustaches to scrub off. Every morning the girls studiously avoid me and my comb until I am left to sneak up behind them while they are eating breakfast. Every morning they tear up when I mistakenly pull through a knot that was not ready to untangle. In solidarity, my son whines too when I comb his hair, although it rarely has any tangles at all, but is more likely to stick up all over his head like the top of a pineapple. Every morning I must chase them down to clean off their faces, but when we get outside, the daylight always reveals the remains of whatever last bit of breakfast they grabbed before we left.
And then there’s bath time. They argue over who gets in first, who gets out first, who gets their hair washed first, who sits in the front, and who gets to play with the big plastic Dora. One needs ear plugs, two need washcloths to hold over their eyes when their hair is rinsed, and all of them need “just one more minute?” before they are willing to get out of the tub and into their pajamas. Once they are finally out, the scavenger hunt begins, where I must first locate a comb, and then locate the children one by one to comb out their rapidly drying and tangling hair.
So where are you baby groomers? Look at all of the strife and stress you could eliminate from my life, all the arguing and conflict you could alleviate. Here’s how it would work: you could come in every morning and help get the kids ready to go out the door - I’d make the lunches and pack the bags and you would look after the faces and hair. Every few days you could come over and supervise bath time up until their hair is combed, and then I would happily feed them and read to them and get them to bed. We could schedule regular manicures and pedicures, and when they were done, the kids could run to me for comfort rather than away from me in fear. Let’s face it, kids are much more cooperative with teachers and other adults than they are with their parents, so baby groomers would have a sort of power and mystique, like a favorite baby sitter. Any takers?
Unfortunately, I know in America, the baby groomer business would take off, and then it would need to be torn down. Unscrupulous baby grooming rackets would spring up and hand over hefty bills to parents who notice that the kids are still rather grimy when they get out of the tub. The parenting magazines would argue that all of that time you spend making your kids cry through hair combing and nail trimming is actually “bonding” time, and you are doing serious psychological damage to them by denying them those special painful moments. Mothers groups dedicated to “Home Grooming” would lobby Congress to pass legislation outlawing the baby grooming trade. Inevitably, Dateline would air an episode where Stone Phillips casts his steely gaze on an unsuspecting baby groomer as she watches secret footage of herself using her wet thumb to clean a baby’s face. “But the wipes were in the car, and it was only a few crumbs…” she’ll try to explain through her tears, but Stone will have none of it, and will wind up his three part series by providing the telephone numbers for hotlines that will talk you through the steps of combing your six year old’s hair.
Given its inevitable stormy end, I imagine that the baby grooming business will never truly take off or even start up. I must face the fact that I need to gut out the years of hair combing, nail trimming, and bathing until the kids finally don’t need me anymore. I’m sure that when the kids are older, I’ll look back and fondly remember when they were small and depended on me for so much, but I can assure you that none of those happy memories will involve combs, brushes, clippers, scissors, or shampoo.
When we brought our first daughter home from the hospital, she had a full set of talons that would make any falcon mommy proud. I was terrified of those teeny little fingers with their microscopic little nails, and hoped I could wait a few weeks before I had to try to trim them. Unfortunately, within a few days my daughter was beginning to look like we’d dropped her into a thorn bush, and every time she flailed her arms or stretched, she seemed to cause another pink scratch on her cute little face or arms. I was sure that if I took those tiny little nail clippers to her tiny little nails, I would end up with a tiny little fingertip on my lap. The baby books suggested filing her nails (but they really weren’t hard enough to file) or biting her nails (but that really seemed too disgusting) for parents who were afraid to cut them. But then, quite unexpectedly, my husband came to the rescue and gave our daughter her first manicure. And then he put down those tiny little nail clippers and has never picked them up again.
When we brought our second daughter home, I decided I would tackle the first nail trim, since I had been single-handedly torturing our other daughter for 2 years and figured I was pretty good at it by then. I was not. I had forgotten how thin and soft those little baby nails were, and after trimming five fingers I had two bleeders. The books reassure you that these little wounds don’t hurt the baby and as long as you clean them off, won’t lead to gangrene or flesh-eating strep. I don’t think my mother-in-law believed that though, since when I came back from answering the phone to attempt to trim the other hand, she wouldn’t let me near the baby. She didn’t say anything, but she wouldn’t move from her spot on the sofa where she was serving as a sort of barricade between me and my daughter. I let it go and got the other hand later after the in-laws had returned to their hotel, but I did wonder if I hadn’t been careful enough and that my mother-in-law was right to jump in and save the baby.
Finally, when my son came home from the hospital, I just kept his hands covered. For a week or two I would turn down the cuffs on his sleeves to make sure he didn’t hurt himself. I figured he was too small to need to use his hands anyway, and he was also too small to be maimed by his clipper-wielding mother. After a while though, I decided that he probably needed to see his hands occasionally if he was going to meet the milestone where he notices his hands, so I gave him a trim, only drawing blood once. And so it has continued, the nonstop wrestling with little hands and feet in an ongoing attempt to keep the kiddies from hurting themselves or each other with excessively long nails. The girls have pretty much given up the fight, and just stand there and take it when I say it is time for a trim. My son, however, apparently still thinks that if he can wriggle free from me, he can escape these manicures and pedicures. He can do a 360 and start to low crawl away while I am holding his ankle attempting to get at his toes. He uses whatever appendage he has free to push me and the clippers away while desperately trying to pull free and run. These little episodes are not fun for either of us.
And it’s not just the nails. Every morning I have three heads worth of bed head to comb through and three faces worth of milk moustaches to scrub off. Every morning the girls studiously avoid me and my comb until I am left to sneak up behind them while they are eating breakfast. Every morning they tear up when I mistakenly pull through a knot that was not ready to untangle. In solidarity, my son whines too when I comb his hair, although it rarely has any tangles at all, but is more likely to stick up all over his head like the top of a pineapple. Every morning I must chase them down to clean off their faces, but when we get outside, the daylight always reveals the remains of whatever last bit of breakfast they grabbed before we left.
And then there’s bath time. They argue over who gets in first, who gets out first, who gets their hair washed first, who sits in the front, and who gets to play with the big plastic Dora. One needs ear plugs, two need washcloths to hold over their eyes when their hair is rinsed, and all of them need “just one more minute?” before they are willing to get out of the tub and into their pajamas. Once they are finally out, the scavenger hunt begins, where I must first locate a comb, and then locate the children one by one to comb out their rapidly drying and tangling hair.
So where are you baby groomers? Look at all of the strife and stress you could eliminate from my life, all the arguing and conflict you could alleviate. Here’s how it would work: you could come in every morning and help get the kids ready to go out the door - I’d make the lunches and pack the bags and you would look after the faces and hair. Every few days you could come over and supervise bath time up until their hair is combed, and then I would happily feed them and read to them and get them to bed. We could schedule regular manicures and pedicures, and when they were done, the kids could run to me for comfort rather than away from me in fear. Let’s face it, kids are much more cooperative with teachers and other adults than they are with their parents, so baby groomers would have a sort of power and mystique, like a favorite baby sitter. Any takers?
Unfortunately, I know in America, the baby groomer business would take off, and then it would need to be torn down. Unscrupulous baby grooming rackets would spring up and hand over hefty bills to parents who notice that the kids are still rather grimy when they get out of the tub. The parenting magazines would argue that all of that time you spend making your kids cry through hair combing and nail trimming is actually “bonding” time, and you are doing serious psychological damage to them by denying them those special painful moments. Mothers groups dedicated to “Home Grooming” would lobby Congress to pass legislation outlawing the baby grooming trade. Inevitably, Dateline would air an episode where Stone Phillips casts his steely gaze on an unsuspecting baby groomer as she watches secret footage of herself using her wet thumb to clean a baby’s face. “But the wipes were in the car, and it was only a few crumbs…” she’ll try to explain through her tears, but Stone will have none of it, and will wind up his three part series by providing the telephone numbers for hotlines that will talk you through the steps of combing your six year old’s hair.
Given its inevitable stormy end, I imagine that the baby grooming business will never truly take off or even start up. I must face the fact that I need to gut out the years of hair combing, nail trimming, and bathing until the kids finally don’t need me anymore. I’m sure that when the kids are older, I’ll look back and fondly remember when they were small and depended on me for so much, but I can assure you that none of those happy memories will involve combs, brushes, clippers, scissors, or shampoo.
posted by Shannon at 8:39 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home