I never learned how to braid

Pregnant in the 50s, the test that told the sex of the fetus wasn’t standard––only given for possible problems. So like every woman, I daydreamed the life of my child, a girl, dressed like me, hair in braids that I lovingly plaited right over left, left over right down the length of her long brown hair. Instead the baby was a boy and I grew content with the jeans and tennis shoes with tee shirts proclaiming this band or a borderline-obscene motto.

When the big day arrived a second time, again with those long hours of pain, I knew the baby was another boy––a stubborn boy, a boy that didn’t want to leave the coziness he was in. After 25 hours, I finally forced him out, and lo and behold, I had a (turning out to be blond, brown-eyed) boy, screaming in anger, ready to fight against every rule or NO he experienced.

So I never learned to braid, never had the need, although for a time, the second-born wore his hair shoulder length or banded in a tail down his back. There were no lace dresses, no dressing alike on Easter. Instead I had a beautiful boy who couldn’t believe in his talents and died young and braiding was forgotten each year he lived.

These two boys filled in every hole in my life–babies in both my 20s and 30s, I was finally content with these boys in spite of not being able to braid their hair!

I’m old now, braiding hair in dreams living with my oldest son, who takes good watch over my foolish falls, knee problems and forgetting to turn off the oven.