Do You Believe In Magic?

I grew up in a house with six kids: three boys and three girls. Despite all the fun times I had with my sisters, there was always a clear delineation as to what belonged to girls and what belonged to boys. Jelly shoes, New Kids on the Block sweaters and Barbie dolls - girls. Baseball cards, toy cars and boogers stuck to walls - boys. Hair brushes always have and always will fall into the girl category. Brushes were both unappreciated and unused by the boys in my house. In fact, the only reason I think I ever touched a brush was to use one as a weapon.

This marked line of boy versus girl items has followed me to my new home in Florida, where there is now a controversy brewing. Rachel wants to brush Micah's hair after his baths, despite my strong objections. I've tried using reason. "Micah doesn't even have any hair," I protested, to no avail. When Rachel picks up the brush anyway, I've tried to sway her using facts. "The only boys who use hair brushes are magicians and John Stamos," I cry when Rachel takes the first swipe at Micah's peach fuzz. I've tried faking tears and would have attempted to use the brush as a weapon against Rachel, but she's already holding it. Plus Florida has strong laws against spousal abuse. In spite of all my pleas, my son always leaves the tub straight haired and emasculated.

However, Rachel got her comeuppance as Micah made my words prophetic the other night. Micah had just finished eating, I mean drinking, and so Rachel began to burp him. She held him upright, covered her lap with a burp cloth and began patting his back. Then the magic show began as Micah the Magnificent erupted with a roar of a wet belch. Rachel looked down onto the cloth expecting to see burped-up milk, but there was none. "Wow," she said as she examined the rag, "I can't believe he had that big of a burp and nothing came back up with it." However, once she moved the clean rag, the trick was revealed. Micah had somehow burped over, around or through the burp cloth and right onto Rachel's leg that had been fully covered by the cloth. "How in the world..." Rachel began, but I cut her off. "That's what you get for brushing his hair!" I bellowed belligerently. My bewildered wife caught on as I proclaimed, "Now you've turned our son into David Copperfield!"

I guess there are worse things than brushing a boys hair with a brush instead of a comb. But, then again, there are worse things than getting burped up milk all over one's pants. I hate to say it, but Rachel, you got what you deserved. If there is one thing I appreciate, it's justice. Now I guess I had better learn to also learn to like magic and little boys using girlie hair brushes.