A/N: Thank you for the beta read-through and the suggestions, Deedldee and MilkandSugar!

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended

Miss Mischief

With two kids, it seems as though you are constantly running late. Getting ready to go anywhere as a family of four always takes at least 30 minutes longer than you think it will, and even when you try to account for that, it still feels like a frantic rush to get out the door. You never know when your daughter might throw a tantrum or have a potty accident, you can't anticipate when you son will spontaneously spit-up all over your shirt or have a meltdown of his own, and it always seems to happen at the worst possible time.

Today's challenge is getting ready in time to make it to the annual Spring Gala for Cece's daycare. It starts at 5, and it's already 4:17. Your mother hasn't arrived yet to watch Philip, Jim can't find his good shoes, and Cece is refusing to wear clothes. At this rate, arrival by 5 will be a miracle.

You are in the bathroom finishing up curling your hair when you realize that you don't hear Cece anymore. She had been playing with a set of wooden blocks on the floor next to Philip, but now when you turn around, all you see is Philip sucking on his pacifier in his bouncy seat with Cece nowhere in sight.

It doesn't alarm you at first. Her new favorite thing is finding places to hide, so you have a few ideas of where she could be. After checking your bedroom closet, hall linen closet, under your bed, and in even your laundry basket, you still can't find her, and when you call her name and she doesn't respond, you grab Philip and set out to check some of her downstairs hiding places.

She isn't hiding in the pantry, underneath an end table in the living room, or covered by a blanket on the couch. Jim is ironing his pants in the laundry room, and she isn't there either.

"Have you seen Cece?"

"I thought she was upstairs with you…?"

"She was, but then I turned around for a few minutes, and she disappeared."

"Did you check underneath Philip's changing table? I found her there last night when you were out with Penny."

And sure enough, just as you reach Philip's nursery, you hear an impish little giggle that lets you know before you even see her that she is up to no good.

When you find her, she is sitting underneath the changing table just as Jim suspected. Her back is to you, and she is wearing only a Pull-Up. This might be cute if it wasn't for the fact that she is in the process of smearing a thick white glob of diaper rash cream all over the top of her head, giggling the whole time.

Yeah, at this rate, you might not make it to the gala at all.

"Cece, what are you doing?" You ask calmly, trying not to startle or scold her.

She flinches for a second at the sound of your voice, and then both of her hands immediately fly to her head as if she thinks she can hide what she has done.

"Nuffin'," she insists innocently, still facing away from you.

Still covering her hair with her hands, she uses her feet to turn herself around, revealing the full extent of her crime. With the exception of everything below her eyebrows, her entire head is covered in a shiny layer of white. She also has little splotches of it spaced randomly across her chest, stomach, arms, and legs, and her little hands are completely coated. Fortunately, though, it doesn't appear that any of it made its way into her mouth.

"Oh, sweetie," you exhale in disbelief and lightly shield Philip's ears before leaning out the doorway to call downstairs to your husband, "Jim! Come here! Bring a towel!"

When you look back at Cece, she has the blue-and-white tube of diaper rash cream in her hold again, and she is getting ready to squeeze out another handful.

"Put that down, please," you instruct, walking towards her with Philip resting against your left shoulder.

"No," she insists. "I playin', Mama."

"Cecelia, honey, we don't have time for this," you sigh before bending over to claim the tube from her sticky fingers.

"Nooo! Mine!" She complains, her face scrunching up into her famous angry pout. "Want Dada hair!"

You aren't sure what she is talking about regarding her father, and you don't really have time to think about it because your immediate concern now is coming up with a quick distraction before this becomes a temper tantrum.

"Hey, we have to go sing 'Twinkle, Twinkle' with your friends, remember?" You remind her gently. The beginning part of the Spring Gala involves the 2 to 4 year-olds performing songs for the parents, and Cece is part of the group singing 'Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.' "Don't you want to put on your new pretty dress and go sing?"

Her face quickly grows serious. "Sing, pease?"

Something about the way she is looking at you with her eyes all wide and her head covered in white suddenly strikes you as funny. Sure, this is an inopportune moment for your daughter to make such a huge mess of herself, but isn't she just adorable anyway?

"Yes, we can go sing, but we have to clean you up first," you explain, grabbing a burp-cloth off the side of the changing table and passing it to her. "Wipe your hands, please."

Just as she takes hold of it, Jim enters the room carrying the towel you requested, and he is met with the same surprise that you were only a minute ago.

"Wha—oh, God."

"Look, Dada! Hair pwetty! Like 'ou!" Cece exclaims as she enthusiastically jumps out from under the changing table.

And now you what she meant by 'Dada hair.' Jim puts gel in his hair nearly every morning before work, often while Cece watches, and yesterday, he let her put a tiny bit in her own hair. Clearly, that was a mistake, but the fact that she did all of this with the simple intention of having "pretty" hair like her daddy makes you want to 'aww' and laugh at the same time even though this whole situation is throwing a serious wrench in your plans to leave the house by 4:30.

Jim seems more overwhelmed than amused by the whole thing.

"Wow, uh, not quite," he tells her in response to her declaration. "Cece, that's not for hair, buddy."

He looks over at you and shakes his head as you wordlessly negotiate how you both will handle this. He trades you the towel for the baby, and it's up to you to start the toddler clean-up process as the two of them stand by to watch.

"Come here, Miss Mischief."

"Mama! No!"

"Cece, we have to wipe it off," you say as she struggles against you and the towel. "It's not the same thing as what Daddy puts in his hair. This stuff is for babies like Philip who wear diapers."

She pauses and glances quickly between you and Philip. "But I big girl."

"I know you are," you assure her, wiping off her forehead while you can. "That's why we have to get this out of your hair, okay?"

She'll go along with anything these days as long as you frame whatever it is in a way that makes her feel like a big girl, so after that explanation, she complies. It doesn't take long, though, for you to realize that this substance is no match for a dry towel. Removing the excess isn't so bad, but there still remains a stubborn layer that flattens her curls and makes them cling to her head like a helmet.

"Maybe we could just stick her head under the faucet?" Jim suggests when Cece starts to fidget. "Actually, nevermind—we would both end up soaked."

"Yeah. That's not happening."

"Hose her down in the back yard?"

"Ha."

"Mama, owie," Cece complains as you firmly wipe off another section of her hair. "Hurts."

"I'm sorry, Cee. Just try to hold still," you say before turning to your husband. "What time is it?"

"Four-thirty."

"This isn't going to come out. Maybe we should just—" You are interrupted by the ring of the doorbell, indicating that your mother is finally here to watch Philip. It drives you crazy that she doesn't just let herself in. "Ugh. She has a key! Why doesn't she just use the key?"

"Kid trade?" Jim offers.

"Yes, please."

"I'll figure something out. Don't worry."

You sigh, hoping for the best as you walk quickly down the steps, and when your mother rings the doorbell for a second time and then starts knocking, you mumble a couple things under your breath that you are glad Philip is too young to understand.

"Mom, you can use the key," you say as soon as you open the door.

"I know, but I don't want to interrupt anything," she defends, and you roll your eyes because now that you have two kids, the only 'anything' she could possibly be interrupting at this time of day is a sleeping baby. "There's my little man."

She grins and holds out her arms for Philip as you close the door behind her.

"He has been our good child today," you tell her, handing him over. "His sister just surprised us with a mess of epic proportions that may keep us from going out altogether."

"Oh, no."

"Oh, yes. Come on up and see. There's a tube of Desitin all over in her hair."

But when you get back to your husband and daughter, you are met with another surprise: Jim on his knees, sculpting Cece's sticky hair into a peak on top of her head with a look of concentration on his face.

Your mouth drops open. When he said he would figure something out, you didn't expect his solution would involve giving your two year-old a punk-rocker hairstyle.

"Faux hawk," he explains seriously as he presses Cece's hair between his palms, and before you can even question his choice, he adds, "What? I'm improvising here. We've gotta go, right?"

At this point, you really can't do anything other than take a deep breath and shrug.

"Faux hawk it is, then."

xx

Being the only toddler with a greasy white spike of hair, she sticks out like a sore thumb amongst the other children. There are even some whispers and pointing from your fellow audience members during the performance of 'Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,' but you and Jim just smile proudly as you watch your daughter stand on stage, and when she spots you both in the crowd and waves excitedly, you wave back. The grin on her face is huge, and her complete obliviousness to the fact that a diaper rash cream faux hawk is not the norm is just priceless.

"Such a rebel," Jim jokes as he squeezes your hand. "That's my little girl."

You laugh, but at the same time, you hope that she always feels as confident in herself as she does right in this moment.