The Harris Family - We Don't Split Hairs

Shane - The Fake Mohawk
Feaux Hawk? Fohok? Fohawk? Oh well, it doesn’t matter how you spell it; it all adds up to one very cool thing. For those of you who don’t know about this new hair style, let me explain. I will start with telling you what it is not. It is not the name of the cool new dancer on my favorite summer reality show, So You Think You Can Dance. It is not the name of what my son does when he pretends to cough up something nasty just to gross out his mom. And, it isn’t the name of that fake predatory bird sitting on the mantle in your grandfather’s study. A feaux hauk is the newest hairstyle for young boys these days. It imitates a Mohawk in the sense that it is short on the sides and only stands up a little bit on top - hence the term “feaux” hawk. And it is the perfect hairstyle for that very cool teenager who wants to stand out in a crowd without being too obvious. Or, in my case, for a really cool 2nd grader-going-into-3rd grade boy who is already trying desperately to become an individual in a family of fashion conservative people.

Kyle - The Structural Mess
Remember when it was popular for girls of the 90’s to curl their bangs under in front and then take the hair behind it and stick it straight up? It was one of those looks that made one imagine a rooster standing on top of a fence that was sitting on the forehead of an otherwise pretty girl. Thank goodness that didn’t last very long! It was funny a few years later when the whole standing-up-in-front thing became popular for boys. It was really quite cute because it was kept close on the sides and only styled in the front. This style worked out very well for my older son. He is a highly precise individual who would never dream of doing anything too different with his clothing or hair styles. The problem came when the style morphed itself into a messy look on top rather than a combed-up, neat, compact look like he was used to. Messy? On purpose? And you had to use gel to make it stay that way all day? I don’t think so! Kyle has spent most of his 7th grade year trying to make his hair become an oxy moron – perfectly messy. But that’s ok. He has started to perfect this look rather well. In fact, I think he has come to accept that messiness is a virtue he can live with… for a little while… until he can get home and put on a ball cap. You know, being a precise person with messy hair is more difficult than you many think.

Mike – My Cul-de-Sac
What does this term represent to you? To me, it is a place where families live and gather, a place where block parties bring the giant inflatable toys for the kids to play on and giant ice chests of beverages for the adults to play with. A place where BBQ pits can be rolled around from back yards, and everyone brings some delectable morsel to plop on to sizzle away into the afternoon. It is a place where children can play safely in the street with out worry of a car speeding by to scare every mother in every driveway. In my mind, cul-de-sac equals community – community of the best kind.

If you are not sure of what a cul-de-sac is, let me use my husband’s head as a bit of a road map of an explanation. He would be very proud of me for this analogy since he works for Mapsco and thinks nobody can use a map if they don’t have the Y chromosome. So comparing his head to anything resembling a map would put a light in his eyes.

When I met my husband, he was the ripe old age of 19. He came complete with loving parents, the legs that reflected the track star that he was, and a mullet. His hair was as luxuriously think and curly as it was long - a completely sexy look for 1984. As he got older, and the mullet disappeared, so did a lot of the hair on the top of his head. But, as with most men losing their hair, it only thinned out on top and not on the side. As the years went on, this thinning started to look like a road on the top of his head – not a paved road yet – more like a path through a forest that is beginning to wither. So how does this reflect a cul-de-sac? Well, imagine, if you will, a clearing at the end of that path. That is a cul-de-sac!

I wonder if God realized when he made Mike into the man that he is today that his hair growth (or lack thereof) would reflect the images of a cul-de-sac that spring to my mind. Those images of security, happiness, bliss, and most importantly that of family. Did God decide the cul-de-sac would not only be the place I live with this man, but also be reflected ON this man? Did He intend for those images to replace the other family images that had been my perception for most of my teenage years? Of course He did! After years of contemplation, I have finally realized that Mike was sent to me for a very specific reason. He IS my cul-de-sac – in more ways than one.

When I Was Little - Words Stolen from Shane's Head by Me

When I Was Little
By Shane Harris – 8 years old

I am from Granddaddy.
A police chief who has retired
But isn’t really tired – he just didn’t want to work anymore.
A man who takes me to McDonald’s
Because no one else will,
And will pick me up early from school just to go get ice cream.
Someone who tires to show me how to play baseball
And ALWAYS tries to tell me about those old people
In those funny colored pictures,
Even though I really don’t understand who those people are.

I am from Granddaddy
Who always tries to trick me,
But I am much smarter than I used to be
Last year
When I was little.

I am from Meemaw
A cook, a singer, a secretary
And a mom.
A woman who let’s me get away with so much more than my parents!
Someone who laughs when I say things –
Things that make my parents’ eyebrows go together.
Someone who makes me pancakes
In the shape of my name and always
Makes sure I get to do what I want when I visit her lake.
I am from a swing tied to a tree that Papa Flip hung up just for me,
Even though, secretly, I am afraid of heights…
And swings…
And hitting the trees that the swing is tied to.

I am from Meemaw
Who always tells me
That I am getting to be much braver than I used to be
Last year
When I was little.

I am from Grandma and Grandpa
Who grew up picking cotton.
From funny names like
Alwin
Wanda
Bubby
Sister
Rocky
Sunshine
And Davy Dean.
From a fisherman who wants to take me out on his boat
And doesn’t understand why it terrifies me.
I am from Georgetown, Texas
Where they live and where my parents met many years ago.

I am from Grandma and Grandpa
Who we don’t go see very much because I hate long car rides.
But I am getting to be much more patient than I used to be
Last year
When I was little.

I am from a family
Loving
Blended
Spread out
Funny
Christians
Survivors
Hard workers
A bit screwed up
But they are my family

Someday I want to have a family too.
I am always telling my dad that I can’t wait to be married.
It’s not just the kiss that I look forward to,
Even though that is what I tell my mom,
Secretly…
A whisper in her ear.
It’s gonna be so much fun to play with my kids!
Maybe I should start looking for that girl who will be my wife.
Isabell?
Chloe?
Or the beautiful Gretchen that I only get to see at recess time
From across the playground.

Oh well, I guess that will have to wait til later
Maybe next year…
When I’m in third grade…
Because third graders MUST understand these things better than I did
Last year
When I was little.

My Children in a Nutshell

My children. My laughs, my dreams, my source of frustration, my source of worry, my life. No one ever told me how deep this love would be. No one ever mentioned that I would always be in fear for their every day existence. And, no one ever thought to let me in on the secret that they would be so different from each other. Let me begin this revelation with a story that comes complete with its own warning label and end it with one that unveils my own soul just the tiniest bit.

WARNING: The events you are about to read are true. Names have not been changed to protect the innocent because innocence is exactly what is causing this warning!

Shane: Shit!
Mike: What did you just say?
Shane: I said shit-p. I ended it with a 'p', Dad. If you end it with a 'p' then it is ok to say.
Mike: Not in this house!

Later the same week
Shane: (sitting at the dinner table "singing") Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn. Hmmm, hmmmm...
Me: What did you just say?
Shane: (after swallowing his bite of food that he conviently put in his mouth as soon as he was noticed) I said 'damn'.
Me: Shane, you know that is a word that you don't need to be saying.
Shane: You mean like 'shit'?
Me: (stifling a laugh and trying to keep Kyle and Mike from ruining this moment with giggling) Yes, like 'shit'.
Shane: So 'damn' is a bad word?
Me: Yes, Shane. Stop saying it.
Shane: What about DAMage?
Me: Damage is ok to say.
Shane: And the DAM on a river?
Me: The dam on a river is ok to say.
Shane: But not just plain 'damn'?
Me: Right

Those are just a few of the ones that I can remember. He keeps us in stitches on a daily basis. We know that we should be angry, but he is so funny! My biggest fear is that his innocence will get him into so much trouble at school. So far, his teachers always say, "He is just so cute!" I only hope that they will continue to think that. As he gets older, and the things that he does become more inappropriate, I am sure to get many phone calls from school administrators about his visits to the office. I will just have to take it as it comes. Someday, he will learn that being "cute" won't always keep him out of trouble. But until that day, I am going to enjoy his wit and charm while trying to keep the DAMaged teachers from gettin' all up into his SHIT-p.

Now, on the other side of the universe is my older son. Kyle plays soccer, and it wasn’t until recently that I began to see his own life reflected on the soccer field.

Defense. The position of choice for my oldest son, Kyle. A boy that plays defense must stay back on the side of the field to make sure his goal is guarded. He is not in the maylay at the other end of the field trying to make a goal. He stands off from the rest plotting his move and does his best to NOT let the other player near the most important part of his field, the goal. You see, if the other player makes it past him and makes a goal, there is much blame to go around. That is why the defensive player must chase down the player from the other team to get it away from him. This requires agressiveness that is usually only found in the player known as the forward. Agressiveness is a trait that many defensive players do not have. It places the defensive player in a situtation that is out of the norm for him which causes a lot of stress. Basically, it means that the other player got a little bit too close to home, and the defensive player must do everything he can to get the other team back up the field and away from his goal.

Where is all this going? No, it is not a disseratation about a mother's view of the game. It is a complete description of my oldest son. The situtation that was just described is a metaphor of his life. His life really IS a soccer game. Ever since he was a baby, he has been the one on the outside of the group watching and plotting his next move. He has never liked jumping right in the middle of a group of kids to join in their games. Kyle is perfectly happy with standing on the other end of the field, watching and waiting for his opportunity to make a difference. A difference that could save the game, but one that is short-lived because someone else will eventually become a bigger hero when his team scores a point. But that is ok with him! It just means that he doesn't have to be center of attention for long, and he can still be part of the winning team.

The stress in his life is something that I have a hard time accepting. It is always over things that are beyond his control. He is a very guarded person in life, as well as soccer. He really doesn't want people to get too close to home. He won't tell people what he really thinks because he is afraid of how he will be judged. He tends to follow along with what he thinks he is SUPPOSED to do until he gets so deep into it that it becomes very difficult to back out. Just like when the other player on the field finds a way to get past him into the territory that could mean a point scored by the other team. Kyle scambles to catch up to that player to kick it out of harm's way so that he can get his team back on the right path. In soccer, as in his own life, he is constantly concerned with making sure EVERYTHING is done correctly so that no one can place blame on him. Even if that means scrambling down the field of life to get it right.

I don't mean to make him sound like some headcase that needs professional help. He is simply the sweetest , kindest, most thoughtful thirteen-year-old I know (and having been a teacher for sixteen years, I know about thirteen-year-olds). It has just always been interesting to see his life reflected on the soccer field. A field he has been playing on since he was four. A field that he understands more than life itself. A field that is very familiar to me for reasons that I don't like to admit. You see, if soccer had been the game to play when I was thirteen, I am pretty sure that defense would have been my position, too.

So there you have it. My children in a nutshell. One that pushes the limits of every boundary he sees. The other who tries his best to stay on the edge of those boundaries. I see myself reflected in so much of each of their lives. I also see some of my husband in them as well. In fact, there was this one time when… oh never mind… that’s another story!

The Mum

My freshman year of high school. It was 1983. A time of leg warmers and ripped sweatshirts hanging off one shoulder. A time when every girl wanted to be “Like a Virgin” and every boy wanted to be a “Thriller.” A time of mullets, Swatch watches, and hoping that every guy who lip-synced in his underwear looked as sexy as Tom Cruise! And it was also a time when every girl in every high school in America wore a beautiful mum to school on the Friday of the Homecoming football game. And it better be a real one, too! No fake ones back then! Only the loser girls whose moms bought them one out of pity would be caught dead with one of those. That was something that no upstanding freshman girl would ever dream of doing. Except for this one.

So, back to my freshman year. I was at a brand new school in another brand new city. Making friends had become something that I was pretty good at since this was just another in a long string of schools that I had attended. However, in October of that fateful year, I had not started dating anyone yet and the homecoming football game was fast approaching. I had mentioned to my mom that having a mum to wear to school on that Friday was critical to the popularity issue. She knew I was upset about not having one, so she secretly arranged for one to be made for me – and when I say “made”, I mean it in the literal sense of the word.

I woke up that morning having already succumbed to the fact that I would not be jingling and jangling down the hallways of my school with streamers hanging down my blouse full of glittery names and declarations. I had even convinced myself that that would be SOOO cumbersome and that I was glad to not have to deal with it. And then I walked into the kitchen and saw the package sitting at the table next to my seat.

My mom was also sitting there with a huge grin on her face. “I’ve got a surprise for you!” she said. Not being one to turn my nose up to a gift, I excitedly sat down to open the box before me. My mom had a different plan.

“Before you open it, let me explain something to you. I found this lady,” (never a good start to a her explanations), “who does something really clever with mums! The florist gave me her name. I tried to go get you a real mum, but honey, they are so expensive! She told me about a lady that has been making mums that are a little... different.” (Another bad sign). “She has been really busy right now because of homecoming and all, but she had one extra that she sold me at a fraction of the price of a real one!”

Now let me back up a little here. We never had much growing up. Money was a tight squeeze every day. I’m talking about opening two cans for dinner – peas and beans. The thing about my mother, though, was that she made those two dinner items into a feast! I knew we were always short on money, but I never knew how bad it really was. My mother did her best to make sure that my teen years were as normal as possible, and it usually meant a sacrifice of some kind on her part. So, when she started talking about wanting to get me the all-important mum but at a lower price, I understood. But I was also quite curious.

As I lifted the top of the box, the beauty of what lay within became evident. It was a mum all right – a giant, white, crocheted mum complete with tons of streamers and cowbell janglers. Mixed emotions ran through my mind – shock, awe, appreciation for the skill involved, and repulsion at the ghetto effect this would have in comparison to the delicate white masterpieces worn by the other girls. I wasn’t exactly sure about how to react.

“Isn’t it cute?” she asked with apprehension oozing out from every syllable. I looked at her face. I knew at that moment I could crush her or make her day with my next breath. She had probably spent the money she was going to use to pay the cable bill on this creative atrocity. Most likely, she was thinking all along that I would no longer be the nerdy new girl roaming the halls of my high school. In her eyes I would be the ultra cool new girl with a mum like no other. I would stand out in the crowd and be noticed! I would be the talk of the school – a concept that she thought would be wonderful! I looked at the “mum” and then into her eyes.

With every ounce of teenage lying aptitude that I could muster, I said, “Mama, it’s beautiful. Thank you for making sure I had something to wear today.”

She beamed.

Well, needless to say, that was a pretty interesting day. By the time I left the house, she had convinced me that this mum was pretty cool and that everyone would want to know where I got it so they could get one too! Considering I had a closet full of clothes that I never wore that were bought with this same mentality, you would think I would have known better. Anyway, after receiving many disdainful stares from peers and teachers alike, I ditched it in my locker by 2nd period – only to pull it out again at the end of the day so I would be wearing it when she picked me up from school.

So what is the moral of this story you may ask? Well, when I think back to that day, I think of the word ‘sacrifice’. I sacrificed my impending popularity for yet another day by wearing this creation just to spare my mother’s feelings. I also sacrificed beauty so that I could look like every other girl walking around the halls with a flower on my chest. But my mom had been sacrificing her life for a lot longer, and always for my benefit. She had been making sure that I had as normal a life as possible, even though it meant that hers was not. Because of my mom’s sacrifices, I am the person that I am today.

So, when people say things like, “Kerri, that sounds like something your mother would do!” and expect me to be insulted by their remark, they get an unexpected reply from me.

“Thank you,” I tell them, “I couldn’t think of a nicer compliment.”