The "eyes" have it

It’s 8 p.m. Dinner has long been finished, milk has been drunk, play outfits have been replaced by pajamas. My son is lying on the floor, trying his hardest to watch the Backyardigans while my husband lies across his legs to keep them from moving.

One hand is on my son’s forehead, the other holding his chin. All the while, I hover above them both, waiting for the perfect moment; the moment our son tries to catch a glimpse of the cartoon; the moment in which I can squirt a thin strip of eye ointment into his infected eyes.

If it seems like torture, that’s exactly what it sounds like at our house four times a day for five days. Parents call it pink eye. Doctors call it conjunctivitis. I call it “the infection with the absolute worst treatment ever.”

I should have known the ointment would be a problem when both the physician’s assistant and the nurse cautioned me when they explained the prescription they were giving me.

“You will probably need someone to help you,” each of them had said, eyeing me with what I now know must have been pity.

The first time wasn’t so bad. But that’s because he didn’t understand what we were doing. The next time, he was ready; arms flailing, head turning, and all the while, his eyes were snapped shut.

Seven treatments into it and it seemed using the ridiculous eye ointment was getting more difficult, instead of easier.

So I did what I usually do when I’m having trouble with something: I googled it.

This is what I found:

1. Place the fingers of your non-dominant hand along your child’s forehead.

2. Place the thumb of that hand gently on the child’s cheek just below the lower eyelid.

3. Gently pull down on the cheek skin with your thumb.

4. This will cause the lower lid to curl outward — you should see the thin pink “shelf” of the lining of the lower lid.

5. Using your other hand, gently apply the ointment along that thin pink “shelf.” Start at the inner corner of the eye and smoothly move across to the outer corner.

Sounds easy, right? Wrong.

Where in the directions does it address the crying that starts — and continues — as soon as we initiate step 1? What about the wails of torture the child emits as the eye ointment hits the eyelashes time and time again (which means that the medicine has not gotten into the eye, which means you must repeat each step)? And where does it mention that the child will eventually start to wail as soon as he or she sees the ointment tube?

I even checked my precious book — the one I consult for everything from runny noses to speech progress. Nothing.

We tried it with my husband holding him as I aimed the ointment from above. We tried sitting in the floor, me holding him and my husband wielding the tube. We tried it with him in a chair, we tried it with him lying there. It became as repetitive as a Dr. Seuss book. As I smeared the cream on his bottom eyelid with a Q-tip (“This totally counts,” I asserted to my husband) all I could do was laugh. Who, pray tell, came up with the idea of squirting a strip of ointment into the inner eyelid of a wriggly infant? Probably the same person who decided that giving a dog nightly mouth rinses was an “easy” way to keep his teeth clean. It’s as though someone was sitting in a room thinking, “Hmmm, what’s the most physically and mentally trying task that we can give a parent just getting used to parenthood? I know! Eye ointment.”

With the eye ointment glistening on his bottom lid, our now-exhausted son fell asleep in my husband’s arms. The day’s treatments were finished.

Only 12 more to go.

Nappily ever after

I got that "good" hair.

You know -- That wash 'n go type of hair. That "I didn't really need to put a perm in my head, anyway" hair. That "you know I got Indian on my daddy's side" type of hair. The type of hair that makes it acceptable for me to go unstraightened while nappy-wannabes are forced to remain slaves to the chemical straightener/hot comb/flat iron for the rest of their lives.

Let "them" tell it.

All the time, I am told by women (unsolicited, I must add) that they wish they could go natural. That if they had hair like mine, they would be able to. That, despite the frizzy (and uncurly) fro they usually see on me with their own eyes, I must have "good" hair. Or, "better" hair than theirs. The other day, as I swapped beauty products with a natural hair I just met (Oyin Handmade and Qhemet Biologics are my to-die-for staples) she looked at my expanding second-day twist out and said, "You must have some good hair under there!"

Uh, what?

The phrase "good hair" is one of the few (OK, too-numerous-to-count) things that really gets my goat. To me, my texture is "nappy." The word doesn't offend me, it just describes my hair. I could get all technical about how it is kinky, curly, coily, but to me, it all just rings a bit hollow -- like I'm trying to hard not to accept my hair for what it really is -- nappy.

When I went natural nearly three years ago, it wasn't because of some life-altering decision or life-affirming realization. I didn't have the eye-opening realization that the caustic chemicals I let my kitchen beautician put in my hair every 4-6 weeks was doing more harm than good. I didn't secretly covet another sista's beautiful fro. I didn't make a lifestyle change that had me re-evaluate all of the unnatural things I was putting in my body, to include, yes, my hair.

I was just cheap. And I figured that if I was shelling out $100 for hair, 130 euros for a hairstyle and unknown amounts of gas (and time) wasted on the 60 kilometer trip to the hairdresser, there was no way I'd give another hairdresser $50-$60 every other month on hair hidden beneath two packs of human hair yaki. And when I took that final weave out eight months later, my 2-inch Fantasia cut had become an afro. And I liked it.

My entire relaxed life had been an emotional rollercoaster. I've pouted when my home-done relaxer didn't turn out as sleek and straight as a friend's; I've cried in the bathroom when a beauty school 'do made me look like an 18-year-old dressed as Patti Labelle ("On my own" Patti, circa 1986); I've washed out hairstyles just minutes after leaving the beauty shop. In short, I had hair drama. That is, until I went natural.

I realized that my natural hair embodied me more than any other style could. It is bold,big and in your face without me doing anything extra to it. It's "me."

I don't try to define my non-existent "curls." I just let her (my fro, of course) be herself. Sometimes, when I tell people that I often sport a wash n' wear style, they are incredulous. Perhaps they think that by wash 'n go, I mean that my glorious naps suddenly look like Tracee Ellis Ross' hair. It doesn't -- but I love it anyway.

So, for those women who, despite having had chemically straightened hair since they were 4/5/6 years old (and couldn't possibly remember what it looked like, and who used Blue Magic grease, which is totally NOT good for your hair), think they don't have the type of texture that would allow them to go natural, I challenge you.

Now that I'm natural, have hair that expresses me, but doesn't define me. The type of hair that allows me to get in the pool with my son and not worry about my hair "going back." The type of hair that switches from twists, to twist out, to fro (and sometimes, all in one day) with ease. The type of hair that makes me feel that I am fabulous, even when I'm wearing sneakers. The type of hair that allows water and a headband to salvage the worst bad hair days.

And once you find that type of freedom, you'll have "good" hair, too.

ETA: Since someone thought I was flipping the bird in my last photo (which I wasn't!) I swapped. Happy now? :)