The Silver Hair in My Comb

The silver hair in  my comb, it's long.  It has been growing many years.  It's nothing new, it's not a secret, there are many others trying to highlight my once reddish-chestnut hair.  Hair that darkened to a deeper brown through the years and the children, until the silver ones started appearing.

The silver hair in my comb, it's nothing to be ashamed of.  It's nothing to paint over, to hide.  It is who I am.

The silver hair in my comb is a badge of honor.  I've made it through hard times, and I'm still kicking.  I am me, and I'm a fighter.  Tell me my chances of success are slim, and I'll prove you wrong.

The silver hair in my comb is my life in a shiny momento.  The hair raising things I did as a kid.  The more hair raising things I did as a teen.  Those tough early years of marriage and child bearing.  The worries about the risk of losing our fourth baby when premature labor threatened in the fifth month, and having to try to slow down and hold that baby in as long as possible while still taking care of the older three children and DH traveling half of each month with his job.  The subsequent decision, months later when baby #4 arrived healthy and only three weeks early, that she would be our final one.

The silver hair in my comb is wisdom: I have designed and built a house, a barn, a family, a life.  I have advice to share with those women coming behind me that wish to do the same.

The silver hair in my comb is a reminder that I have raised sons to adulthood.  They didn't crack themselves, or their cars, up too badly along the way.  We all made it with all of our body parts, if not quite all of my sanity. They graduated high school on time, no one failed anything, one made valedictorian.

The silver hair in my comb is evidence that I am in the final stages of raising daughters.  Driving, dating, drama.  Sometimes I think the boys were easier to live through.

The silver hair in my comb is a symbol that I am the mother of a Marine. I gave my eldest boy to the government when he was still 17, and I rely on God to keep him safe.  I do not hear from him often, and see him even less frequently.  Those once or twice a year hugs from him are cherished things.  Like our military children, we Mothers of Marines are tough.  Ooh Rah!

The silver hair in my comb matches the ones in DH's beard.  We were young together, and we will be old together.

The silver hair in my comb is not feared; it is revered.  I'm forty today, and boy, have I earned that silver hair.