Out With a Bang

They, whoever "they"are, say you should pick your battles. Don't waste too much energy and time on unimportant things. Pick the ones that are and then go kick some but getting the results you want.

When it came to Ms hair there was no battle to fight once we got rid of what I'm sure you've all heard me refer to as the Mulhawk. It was easy enough, the bad hair days were finally over and now it was time to grow it out. All of it, bangs and all.

At about five months I caved. She didn't keep the clips in and the hair was constantly falling into her eyes. It couldn't be comfortable and I cut it. It was her first haircut. We went to Jack & Jill's, a salon specializing in children's cuts. We got a little card marking the occasion to which a little lock of her hair was attached. A scrapbook moment brought on by a little bump in the road leading to one-length bliss.

I had big ideas: as soon as the bangs grew to chin length we'd make another appointment and cut it all into an adorable, well, chin-length bob. It wouldn't be long (time wise).

Two months later, it was long (lengthwise) again. At least the bangs were. She still wanted no part of the clips and her beautiful brown eyes were being obstructed by the beautiful brown hair. I took matters into my own hands, literally, and cut them myself. I wrote a traumatic post on this unfortunate event back when it happened so I won't bore anyone with the details. That the hair was uneven is all you need to know.

Since then I've tried everything to avoid another visit to the stylist: Small clips, large clips, headbands, even the itty-bitty rubber bands I said I would never use in fear that she'd look more like a Flinstone than a Koong. She even pulls those out, hair and all. Clips can be found everywhere in the house; and in both of our cars; and in her stroller; my purse; and in the pockets of my pants, shirts, and jackets.

Now it's a battle! And she knows it. I swear I've noticed a smirk on her face when she's yanking out whatever the hair accessory of the day is.

So I'm done. She wins. She picked her battle and kicked some butt. Mine. There will be other battles more important than this one that I'll have to tackle in the future. This is one I'm no longer willing to fight. She'll win the battle, but I, hopefully, will win the war.

Feeling defeated from all the time spent in the combat zone and with my mom at my side, I drove her to Jack & Jill's once again, paid my 10 bucks (they gave us a discount because she cut so little), and no more than 15 minutes later walked out.....with a BANG!

(only somebody this cute can pull off hair that looks like this)

Really?

"Really, Pati? Another entry about how wonderful your kids are? Or let me guess, one of them met a certain milestone? Maybe they had another sweet sibling moment together? What is it this time, you show off? Get some new material, already"!

That's what I'm sure my followers are thinking.....and I don't blame them. But I didn't title the blog The Perfect Pair of Boots for nothing. And I really, really have to share this moment.

J just got an invite to the birthday party of a little girl in his class. This is the same little girl that I wrote about at the start of the school year that he was obsessed with; the same little girl who dictated when he could and couldn't sit on the bus with her. As I figured, it didn't last long. I had several conversations with him about how awesome he was, how he had other friends and didn't always have to play with O nor did he always have to sit by her on the bus. I ran into her mom a couple of months later and she mentioned that two kiddos were getting along just fine; that O had asked J to sit on the bus with her and he respectfully declined.

They've since become good buddies. At his birthday celebration at school the kids were asked to say things to J about what they thought of him...we heard silly, good friend, smart, and then O said that she loved him very much. Last Friday we went to Pizza and Bingo Night at the school. The two of them had got on nicely and a good time was had by all.

Fast forward to this afternoon after receiving the Evite. I mentioned to him that he was invited and that it was the same day that Abuelita (my mom) was flying into Portland but that we may be able to make it back in time for the party if he really wanted to go. He said that he did want to go and asked if Abuelita was going to go too. I said probably because M didn't know Abuelita very well and would probably put up a fight about staying with her to which he said, "But O doesn't know Abuelita at all!" I continued by saying that it would probably be okay but that I would call O's mommy and see if it was okay.

He then said, "Okay. And if she says no then we don't have to go either."

Really? This is coming from a child who lives for birthday parties and all that goes with them! Saying something like "and if she says no then she can stay here and wait for us," is more along the lines of what I thought he'd say.

Am I really raising such a considerate child?

Well, no. Not always. There are days that he greatly lacks in that department which makes today's incident all that more touching. Really.

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...