Braiding Bad

And my separation anxieties

When we last talked, I was about to head home on a cross country flight solo with Baby Girl to keep her hair looking good on my own for an entire week. It was quite the learning opportunity.

Daddy’s got hair skills. Sort of. (Full video here.)

Along with various and sundry baby gear and suitcases, Anisa and I piled into the car for the ride to Ronald Reagan National Airport. While she babbled away in the backseat, my brother-in-law and I had an hour to catch up. KW is a father of three fabulous kids and is, hands down, one of the kindest, most generous people I’ve met.

It was a great start to a great week.

We rolled into the airport. Baby Girl, baby gear and suitcases piled out of the car. Uncle KW got a hug and beso from Anisa, and off we went. I could feel the flop sweat as soon as the doors slid closed behind us.

Made it to the ticket counter, checked in seamlessly and scored the first class upgrade. (I’m not even embarrassed.) As we turned to deposit our suitcases and baby gear (but not Baby Girl) into the x-ray machine, we walked past a family with three young, antsy, kids. From the harried look on the parent’s faces, I was feeling dangerously overconfident.

We spent the next 30 minutes walking around the terminal, oohing and aahing at the airplanes. “This will tire her out,” I thought to myself (naively). Made our way to the gate, boarded super early and settled in.

Fortunately, Toya and her incredible sister had stocked me with busy-boards, coloring books, and iPad recommendations. My job was to ration all of the above strategically over the course of the flight.

I blew through everything before Group B boarded. Rookie move. More sweat.

Deep breath. I buckled down. Preemptively filled a couple bottles. Pulled out the headphones. Refreshed the busy-board and coloring books.

As we pushed back, I noticed two things. First, everyone else in first class was looking at me nervously. And, second, we had an entire first class row to ourselves. Which I understand: If that was my seat and I saw a befuddled, sweating, desperate old-man-girl-dad trying to manage his 19-month old daughter, I too would have kept walking to the row against the back lavatory and sat with my knees glued to my forehead.

The key moment was takeoff. I needed to make sure Baby Girl was gulping from a bottle or the change in air pressure would lead to chaos. I nailed it. Perfect 10. Bottle chugging. No crying. Easy transition to coloring, busy-booking and iPad ABC’s. Along with a lot of giggling and selfies. A deep sigh of relief was heard across rows one through six.

Then came hour two of five.

To make a long story short, Baby Girl got hungry, tired and cranky. And proceeded to remind everyone in the first six rows that she was a baby and I was out of my league. We walked up and down the aisle. We ate some food. We cried. And, eventually, she fell asleep on me for the remainder of the flight. Which was also the best.

As Anisa slumbered, the flight attendant walked up and asked, “Can I get you anything?”

“A beer.”

Braiding Bad

Made it home and, the next day Anisa and I picked up Lady from our dog sitter; they were ecstatic to see each other. Then we settled in for the week.

Let me take a step back: I never got the “What to Know if you Marry a Black Woman and You Are Not Black” handbook. So, everyday is a learning opportunity.

For example, my first Thanksgiving with the future in-laws? I brought a homemade pumpkin pie. Which everyone loved. Two years later before another such Thanksgiving, I learned sweet potato pie is the move - not pumpkin. Now, over the course of my week with Anisa, I came to appreciate the connection Black moms have to their children’s hair. In other words, a week of solo hairstyling was not just daunting. It was a test of my worthiness as a husband, as a father, as a person.

Sunday was easy. Anisa and I were both tired and we had nowhere to go. So a headband was sufficient. Monday was another story. Baby Girl was going to be seen in public and I knew the entire Gavin family would be watching from the East Coast.

I woke up at 5:00 AM, an hour before she stirred. Took a shower. Prepared what I believed would be the necessary tools and potions to appropriately style Baby Girl’s hair. It was an unmitigated disaster. Not a straight or clean part to be found. Pony tails pointed in every direction. The bed littered with broken rubber bands.

Things were braiding bad.

Tuesday was no better. Wednesday was a regression (if that was even possible).

But, Wednesday night, on the recommendation of Toya’s other sister, I dove deep (deep) into the world of YouTube Black toddler hairstyle videos. Armed with that information, a pro-tip from a work colleague (put some leave-in conditioner in the spray bottle) and a new tail comb (Game. Changer.), I was ready to roll.

The parts were straight(ish). The ponies tight. The curls popping. Baby Girl looked good and felt good. We were rocking, I was Dad of the Week, and my mother-in-law was effusive in her praise of my hairstyling skills. (She was being very generous.)

I had never felt more connected to Anisa.

Separation Anxieties

That week we missed Mom terribly. (And, I know Toya missed us.) But, if I am completely honest, it was also one of the best weeks of my life. It was just so special to be able to have that time with Anisa.

It was wonderful to have Toya return home on Sunday. We were a complete unit again, even if Baby Girl had come down with a bug. Then something changed.

Between the illness and the time away from her mom, Anisa turned hard towards Toya. She wanted nothing to do with me. Pushed me away. Screamed when I came into her room. Was the week that bad? Would I ever have a week like that again? Was this the beginning of Anisa pushing me away? The emotional whiplash led to my own kind of separation anxiety.

While Anisa spent most of the week angry at me, I got over myself. Because, you know, this isn’t about me. This is about Anisa. What she needs. And, that week, she needed her mom. A lot.

Even though going from Best Dad Ever hair-styler to persona non grata wasn’t fun, my one and only job, whether Anisa is 19 months old or 19 years old, is to love her unconditionally. Full stop.

This morning, I returned to being on good paper with Baby Girl. We went to tumbling, enjoyed our post-tumbling croissant and, as I close out this week’s post, Mom brought Baby Girl downstairs for my very own beso.