Why My Oldest Child Should (Rightfully) Hate Me
When my oldest was three, he wandered into my parents’ closet one day. I wasn’t there, but my sister found him standing in the middle of the closet staring wide-eyed up at the top shelf. The shelf was lined with Styrofoam heads, covered in wigs.
My mother lost almost all of her hair in her 20s due to a medical condition, so she’d always worn wigs. My sister, being …..well, heavily influenced by me…couldn’t resist the urge to mess with the mind of a toddler. She didn’t have kids, yet, so she didn’t know how much her shenannigans would affect him.
“What are doze?”
“Those? Oh this is a head farm. You see, grandma has to grow new heads in here because she has a strange disease that makes her head fall off every night while she sleeps. Every morning she gets a new head out of the closet and paints a face on with her make-up.”
He ran, screaming, from the room.
He still remembers the incident.
He’s a little strange.
I blame her.