Charge/charging/charged

On long rainy afternoons, we play down in the basement. Z dumps her tiny choke-able Legos onto the carpet and I create a barricade with pillows and my body, leaving E on the other side with the bigger, safer toys. E ignores the toys strewn all around her and makes an attempt on my stronghold. Grabbing my pants with her pinch-y hands and her drool-y mouth, she pulls herself up onto her knees, peering over my legs to see the prizes on the other side. Grunting, struggling, inching, she is determined. I try to focus her on the excitement of the crinkly birdies! and plastic rattle phones! and felted wool balls! and she wants none of it.

When I adjust, just a little, she makes her move, catapulting herself over the top of my thighs headfirst into the bin of tiny Legos.

And I hear in my head: "Charge!"

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There is this spot on the back of her head, where all the hairs stand up, as if charged by electricity. The baby-fine, light brown hairs, with uneven never-cut edges that have touched my insides, only lie down when wet. Sometimes, when she's nursing, I stroke that spot, those hairs, and watch them spring back up over and over again. She doesn't mind this. I wonder how long she won't mind this.

Sometimes, after her bath, I smooth her wet hair. Ragged wispy bangs get swept to the side, tall hairs in back get pressed down.


They will not stay pressed down.

As her hair dries, it rises slowly. One hair at first, then a few more. Finally they all stand at attention, driven by some hidden energy source below.

It is quite an energy source.

Hey E, Kate Gosselin called. She wants her old hairdo back.