Man vs. Food

Ah-Tai and Joe-Boo are some of the newest words that M's uses in her ongoing quest to communicate with the world, but there's one word in her vocabulary that stands out above the rest: Huh-Uh. Yes, it's an actual word and the dictionary defines it as an utterance used to indicate negation.

Right after mastering the standard Mama, Dada, and Jay-Je, Huh-Uh quickly became a part of her normal lexicon. No one made a consorted effort to teach her this but I'm sure there was no shortage of examples for the usage around our house. I would bet it tops the list of offenders in the universal language of parenting.

It started out innocently enough a few months ago. She and J were hanging out and he asked her if she liked him to which she quickly responds, Huh-Uh while shaking her head no. She caught us completely off guard so we laughed and he asked again, same response. And so it went for a few days. He badgered her with the same question over and over. He changed the noun from me to Mommy to Daddy, but her response didn't.

He finally concluded that she really didn't know what she was saying and set out to prove his theory. Because all of the previous inquiries were subjective or mood-derived, the Million Dollar Question was in order:

J: Is your name Mia?
M: Huh-Uh (with shaking of the head.)

Bingo....he just knew he was onto something!

In the last couple of weeks she's picked up the opposite and started saying Uh-Huh coupled with the nodding of the head. The contrast is evident. The Huh-Uhs come almost as a grunt and the shaking is fast and furious. With the Uh-Huhs the sound is sweeter and the nodding slower. It would certainly seem to the casual observer that she's got this whole thing down to a science.

Now when asked about her "like" for us there are days that we get the sweet, gentle Uh-Huh but the scales continue to tip towards the other on most days.

When asked if she likes her food, the answer is always in the affirmative...J is not convinced that she can possibly like her food more than her family but hasn't devised any new experiments so far to get to the bottom of it.

For now we are collectively resigned to the fact that in the ongoing battle for M's affection, food comes out victorious.

Apparently the old route going directly from stomach to the heart is no longer gender biased.

Sweet Blessings

One of my favorite times of the day is right before the bus comes to pick up J for school -- no, not because I might get a moment to myself, but because of what has become our special daily routine.

Somewhere between 11:50 and 11:55 we sit in the living room and just hang out. Sometimes we talk about stuff; sometimes we play one of his many made-up games; other times we just sit quietly. What goes on isn't really as important as the time we spend together just the two of us without the pressures of getting his backpack together, his lunch on the table, his shoes and his jacket on. It's our time to just chill.

Once the bus gets here we do the same routine of walking to the door where he hugs me, kisses me, and then it's my turn to return the favor in the exact same order: Hug. Kiss. Next I persinar him (bless him) both in English and in Spanish; and not until then is he ready to walk out of the door and onto the bus.

This is one of those rare, organically derived things that just became a part of our daily weekday lives. We don't' talk about it, but I know we both enjoy the moment.

Growing up, my mom would do something similar to my bro and me. Each morning before we walked out she would bless us and send us on our way. Whether it's done physically as we're about to board a plane back to what is now home or just mentally before she goes to bed, her bendicion continues to be with us to this day. Again, it's not something I think about all the time, but it brings a subconscious comfort to my being.

This last week has been full of a much-needed yet out-of-the-ordinary splash of sunshine so we decided to take our little party outside. I wasn't sure what to expect when the bus arrived as far as our good byes went, but nothing was altered. There were hugs and kisses on both ends and the international dose of blessings. He wasn't shy or embarrassed by our antics. It was the most normal thing in the world for him.

A couple of nights later, D took over the usually divied-up bedtime routines. I normally get M; he, J. After he came back downstairs he told me that when he walked M into the bonus room to say good night to J, he blessed her -- both in English and Spanish -- and he asked if this is something he usually does. It isn't, but he probably figures I do it each night before putting her to bed as I do to him.

Did he think that because I wasn't the one taking her to bed that night she wasn't going to be blessed??? That was the only thing that swayed from the norm and the only logical explanation I can muster. Even D was touched by the small gesture of the loving big brother.

Sweet blessings like this -- literal or not -- may or may not last forever.

Sweet blessings disguised as little boys not being embarrassed just to be seen with mom let alone hug, kiss, and engage in some awkward gesture while his friends look on, won't.....

No Scrubs

No, I don't want no scrubs

a scrub is a guy that can't get

no love from me ~ TLC

Because of her egg allergy, M has been to more than her share of doctors. In addition to her regular well checks we've been to Seattle several times to see the allergist.

On Monday, we made the drive up north for her H1N1 booster.

Poor thing has had enough and decided to make a statement.

Once inside the examining room she was happily playing in the corner until she saw the nurse walk in at which point she got up, practically ran over to me, and started yelling. There was nothing about the nurse that was intimidating. On the contrary, she was a young, pretty girl with a sweet smile and a soft voice. But a wolf in sheep's clothing as far as M was concerned. She wasn't fooled by any of the pleasantries. She knew that not far behind was the black pen that would mark the spots on her back where the dreaded little needles would poke around for the red spots that threaten to block her airwaves.

The drill goes something like this: Do skin testing for egg content in the vaccine; wait fifteen minutes; inoculate; wait half an hour to make sure there's no respiratory

reaction and/or dermatological one; get the okay to go home.

To avoid another trip there next month, on this particular day we also scheduled a follow-up visit. The doctor came in to see how she was doing. He's a big man with strong features and a much deeper voice than the nurse, but M had no concerns. We were on the home stretch, I thought. Another few minutes and we'd be off to Ikea without any further ado.

And then the skin-checker guy walks in and the yelling, running, scared-to-death look returns. That's when it hit me. The common denominator was right there in my face and

draped on his body:

SCRUBS!

Of course. After all, at her pediatrician's office it's not Dr. Harvey with her cute Goldilocks self that gives her the shots, it's scrub-wearing Karen that has the honors and the horror of that is too fresh in her mind to just let go.

Scrubs are scary. Yes, they are. They're a fashion nightmare. And they also posses the power to drive an otherwise sane little girl to the brink.

No, I don't want no Scrubs...

Thank You. He's 6.

I'm not real sure when exactly it happened. I'm pretty sure it was a gradual slope and not just a giant fall, but we've reached the destination that I always knew we would: The day when people just don't constantly tell me how cute J is.

For the first few years, no matter where we went we were always getting compliments, looks, and smiles of admiration for our little guy. Every single time we took him somewhere we heard it several times during the outing. I know that we're not alone; every parent hears the same. After all, babies are just cute. There is something about them that lures people into their little spell. They're soft, they're chubby, they're cuddly.

As he morphed into a toddler, he was still adorable. A little roley poley man wobbling around, trying to keep his balance while getting from here to there all with a huge, one-tooth smile full of slobber on his face.

( J @ six months )

I am not exaggerating when I say that he thought Cute was his middle name. At the mention of the word in his presence he would look over to the person speaking it and expect some sort of acknowledgement.

At his two-year checkup his pediatrician told me to prepare myself for the day that he stopped looking like a toddler and more like a little man. then one day about a year later we were walking through the airport. He was in front of me in his little Jordan sweatsuit holding Bunkey on our way to the gate. People just stopped to see him. They smiled, waved, and uttered several adjectives to describe his appearance all of which are synonyms of precious. I wondered how much longer that would last.

It's inevitable. Every parent stops hearing it eventually, or at least on a daily basis.

We're now three years removed from that day at the airport. He turned six on Saturday. Something about this age really had him excited. He woke up that morning shouting, "I'm Six, I'm Six." Throughout the day he told anybody that would listen -- and that was a lot of people -- that he was six. That evening when my bro, his kids, and my mom called to wish him a Happy Birthday they all got the same response: "Thank You. I'm 6." When my Tia Nena called a few moments after, "Thank You. I'm 6."

These days, the compliments are much more spread out and they usually come in the form of the more age-appropriate, "What a handsome boy." We can't walk by an older Asian woman without hearing something along those lines. Apparently they have a bias for half-breed little boys with radiant skin and beautiful brown eyes. No longer taking it for granted, I feel humbled and thankful for what really seem like genuine words.

Let me make this clear, to me he's as adorable as he was on Day 1; as he is to his Dad and both of his grandmothers. You can't tell me otherwise. Try as you might, I'm not listening.

While the rolls, slobbers, and coos of the little baby may be gone, a little man has emerged. A little man that along with the occasional compliments about his physical appearance hears a lot about his demeanor. "He's so smart. He's so well-spoken. He's so polite." We will never get tired of sucking up the comments about his cuteness, but the others are the ones that really matter. It's a testament to the work we, as parents, put into the rearing of our kids. The fruits of our labors are emerging as well.

I usually don't know how to respond to that. Next time, however, I'll sum it up with,

"Thank You. He's 6 ."

(and on the day he turned six years)

Girl Gone Wild

Get out of the womb --let the great baby race begin.

It starts about five minutes after they're born: the questions, the numbers, the comparisons, the charts. Is he/she latching on? How many wet diapers do you get a day? What about poopy ones? It goes on and on. Sleeping through the night yet? Talking? Walking?

Quit Stalking!!!

I don't fall into the trap easily, but people that do are really annoying, and although I don't usually have the nerve to say it, I have the perfect response: "The day they start issuing scholarships to Harvard for being the first to (insert milestone here), then that's the day I'll start worrying, until then, I'll let my kid be a kid for as long as necessary. In the end they'll all be (insert milestone here) and (insert milestone here) and if they don't, then we'll have bigger problems to concern ourselves with."

Both of my kids are talkers, not walkers. M has been babbling about for months. She met her quota for 18 months long ago. J was the same way. By two years one could have a pretty good little conversation going. But the steps didn't come easily or early. J was about 14 months when he started his upright journey through life.

At M's 12 month appointment, the doc told me that if she wasn't walking by 15 months to give her a call. Fifteen months came and went without any significant mileage clocked and so I called. "Give her one more month," she said, "if she's not walking by then we may have to send her to physical therapy just to be sure it's all okay."

Even that didn't concern me. I knew M would walk and I didn't care if she had to go to PT before she did. She stood, balanced, and took a few steps here and there, it just wasn't her primary means of transporting herself around yet.

And then on January 22 it was.

The girl went to Charlie's Safari and checked her inhibitions at the door. She let loose and hasn't slowed down. Today at BabyGym she was climbing up the steps on the slide where last week I still had to sit her on top of it.

We now have a walker and a talker in the house, but who's keeping score anyway?