Tag Archives: children

The little kid with the big wig

Our baby was born with lots of hair, and after nine months on the outside, he has even more. His hair is dark and curly. When allowed to do what it pleases, it stands up tall on the top of his head.

For a long time, the hair on the back of his head was very short, highlighting the coiffure plume reaching skyward from the top. Lately, the hair on the back of his head has filled in nicely, but it still is mere undergrowth compared to the jungle of vines on top.

Big Brother refers to this hairstyle as the baby’s Big Wig. Having been a Seinfeld fan in the ‘90s, I sometimes wonder if this child weren’t meant to be named Cosmo or Kramer. Because of his Big Wig, people have often mistaken him for a girl. So far he is not the least bit embarrassed by their misconceptions. He is very comfortable beneath his own skin, and under the impenetrable canopy of his own hair.

boy peering over tabletop

It’s hard to hide when your wig is always giving you away.

We have an unwritten rule that we don’t cut our kids’ hair in the first year. I don’t know where we came up with this, but it is as solid as if it were issued by the Lawgiver himself. Besides, we all really get a kick out of the Big Wig. It’s almost become as much a part of the baby to us as his button nose. When that first birthday rolls around, it’s going to present a difficult decision.

The latest member of the family to begin to enjoy the Big Wig is the baby himself. He sometimes grabs a sample of his own hair and pulls it down in front of his face to get a good look at it. I’m not sure if he likes the way it looks, but if nothing else, it has become a fun and handy toy.

baby's mohawk hair

Big Brother had a unique hairstyle as a baby also. But his was more of a natural mohawk.

The baby plays with his hair more and more. Occasionally, he even gets some fingers caught in it. It’s dangerous hair; I know; I’ve attempted to comb it. My wife is the only one who is qualified to make attempts at taming that hair. A brief comparison of our heads will inform any viewer that she is on much better terms with hair than I am.

We understand that, at some point, we will have to trim back the Big Wig. We wouldn’t want the child to lose his hands in that morass. Still, it will not be an event free of regret. Never has an unmanageable patch of hair endeared us so uniformly to it.

The Big Wig will eventually have to go so that the baby can grow into a respectable toddler. When he’s old enough, he can decide for himself whether he wants to grow it back. That is, unless he has inherited the same gene that caused the diaspora of my hair from its native scalp. Let’s hope Mommy’s DNA is filling in that slot in the gene pool.

Home is where the warm, cozy blankets are

My four-year-old son likes to sit with me in our recliner to watch cartoons. When I say sit with me, of course I mean sit on top of me. That’s okay though, he only weighs a few pounds more than a big bag of kitty litter and he’s more fun to watch cartoons with than a sack of granulated clay is.

The boy usually announces his intention to set up camp on top of me with the words, “Daddy, I want to be with you.” Then he climbs up and snuggles himself in while I guard my tender spots from wayward elbows and knees. Once he settles in, it’s not the least bit uncomfortable, and it’s nice to watch cartoons together.

Since we don’t lack sweaters or blankets in our house, we don’t like to run the heat too high, even on cold winter nights. My son and I help keep each other warm as we sit together in our recliner. If I can avoid injury during the climbing up and down portion of this together time, it presents what would seem to be a great bonding opportunity.

The other night, it seemed particularly cold in the house. The temperature had just plunged back into January after a short, mid-winter thaw. It always seems much colder after a fleeting taste of spring.

My son was sitting with me on the recliner when he noticed his mother spreading a thick, cozy comforter over herself on the couch. Before I knew what happened, I was sitting alone. The boy was installing himself next to his mother, under her inviting blanket.

“What?” I asked, in the disappointed tone of one suddenly abandoned. “I thought you said you wanted to be with me.”

He shrugged. “I found someone else I wanted to be with.”

So much for our great bonding opportunity.

on Daddy's lap

Watching cartoons in the good old days, before a sudden cold snap left me cast aside for somebody more cozy.

When in doubt, sound it out – or just take a wild guess

My son is starting to be able to put the sounds letters make together to form words. This is a joyous, proud, and maddening time for his parents. It is hard to hold a single emotion from one moment to the next when our budding little reader is playing with the intellectual Flubber commonly referred to as sounding it out.

We are certain the boy is a genius when he correctly reads a word we thought beyond his knowledge of the pot-hole-laced rules of English pronunciation. In the next instant, we become convinced that Kindergarten is nothing more than a pipe dream for this daft child who just sounded out the letters of a simple syllable, then blended them to form a word completely foreign to the sounds he just uttered.

In our hearts we know that he is neither genius nor daft. He’s a kid who is on solid academic footing when he is focused. He is also a kid who is four. Consequently, he is often tempted by disinterest in thinking a problem through when it is more convenient to take a wild guess and move on to playtime.

This laziness is as natural as it is maddening. Without it, parenting would probably get to be too easy; parents would go around bumping their swelled heads into each other as they waited a minute for their gifted children to become doctors specializing in the treatment of concussions.

My son and I were looking at a group of portraits of people he did not know. Beneath each, the person’s name was spelled out. My son wanted to know who they were, so I asked him to sound out one of the names. The one I chose was Mary.

He began, “Maa, aah, ra, ee.”

“Now put it all together,” I said.

“Mary,” he replied without hesitation.

“Good job!” I had thought that the Y at the end might give him some trouble, since Ys have been known to make various sounds in different situations. But he tore right through it, making me just a tiny bit proud. We moved on to the name Adam. I thought this one would be easy after Mary.

“Aah, da, aah, ma,” he read.

I was already counting this one as a win and trying to find the next name we would try. “What’s it say, when you put it together?” I asked, almost as an afterthought.

“Henry!”

That high-pitched noise bystanders heard next was made by the hot air of parental conceit rushing out of my head through my ear holes.

Adam and Eve Currier and Ives lithograph

Eve laments the time wasted in trying to sound out the hard-to-read and easily tempted Adam. If she had only followed her instincts and gone with Henry, things certainly would have turned out better. (Image: Currier & Ives)

Let’s keep playing Uno until your eyes glaze over!

Our four-year-old likes playing Uno. This is the card game that evolved from the old Crazy Eights we used to play with a traditional deck. Uno has several more specialized cards; it is more sophisticated than our old game and my boy loves it.

The sad part is that he has trouble finding people who want to play it with him. Whenever he asks, “Who wants to play Uno?” everyone looks the other way and pretends they didn’t hear him. It’s not that Uno is such a bad game. I imagine it could be a pleasant pastime, to those who stand any chance of winning. But any game loses its appeal when you know you are bound to be defeated. In our house, no one can beat the four-year-old at Uno.

The boy beats me; he beats his mother, he beats his aunt; he just plain beats everybody. And he doesn’t even seem to try that hard. I don’t know if this phenomena indicates that he is a particularly bright kid or just an average one who routinely takes advantage of the low wattage produced by the dim minds of the rest of his family.

Sometimes it even seems as if he’s trying not to win, which makes me especially proud of the fact that I still can’t beat him. He makes no special effort to hide his cards from his opponents. In fact, he will cycle through his cards right in front of you. It doesn’t matter what you know about his cards; he’s not going to play them in the order his conventional, inside-the-box opponent expects anyway.

card game quarrel

“Quit showing all your cards! How can I have a fair chance of winning when you keep showing me your cards?” (Image: Frederic Remington)

Knowing what he has in his hand at most times, it’s still hard to follow the brilliance in the way he plays his cards. He plays whichever card strikes his fancy, often without considering all the possible plays in his hand. Sometimes he will use a wild card to change the color to one he does not even hold. This diabolical strategy is beyond my ability to fathom. I can’t figure out how it comes around to working out for him, but it always does.

It would be tempting to believe that he is somehow cheating his way to dominance over me in this game, but all the evidence points to him cheating in my favor, if at all. The one thing he does kind of fudge on is not always declaring “Uno” when he is down to his last card. But this oversight is not to blame for his winning streak. When playing against him, one should assume that, if he has not won yet, he is one slim card away from victory.

When he does lay his last card down, he doesn’t gloat over his victory. He merely pays a smiling homage to what was inevitable. Then, as you try to slink away unnoticed, he innocently speaks the words that clutch at you like a garden of nettles: “Let’s play again.”

playing cards on boxcar

“I’ve got a great idea! After I win this game, let’s play again!” (Image: Bain Collection)