Like Father, Like Son

I'd hesitate to call my son a "mama's boy," however he does love his mom.

And for good reason. I do too. Can't say I blame him.

But some of this has gone too far and I've put a stop to it.

Like many women, my wife wears headbands, to hold her hair out of her face. Most guys don't have long hair and thus headbands serve no purpose to them.

In my son's ongoing quest to do things that his mom or I do, he's taken to wanting to wear his mom's headband. He has his own computer that he likes to bang on if one of us using the computer. He likes to take the remote while the TV is on. He always wants a bite of whatever we're eating--or drinking (especially coffee!).

The cell phone is his favorite. If we leave it within reach, he will inevitably find it, open it and attempt to dial.

So far he's called my voicemail. My wife fears that he will somehow manage to call her boss. It's like juvenile drunk-dialing.

But the headband thing is crossing the line for me. I'm comfortable with my manhood and whatever my son becomes is what he becomes. However, I can't help but think about Ernest Hemingway as a young child. His mother dressed him up like a girl. And while he became a great American author...the dude had issues.

I'm not implying that a headband is the first step towards a cross-dressing two-year-old, but I felt I needed to cut this habit off before it became too serious.

Sure, he does look cute with the thing on his head. It's hard to explain, but to me, he looks like some sort of robot and I find robots incredibly cool. I do think it's kind of funny, but we can't have him going into pre-school wearing women's headbands.

So the logical solution is find something that dad wears so we can attempt to replace this habit. Well, he already wears lots of hoodies and cool shoes. He sports the Falcons' jersey on Sundays. I can't make the kid look more like me than he already does.

So I have to add an accessory to my own repertoire. And the sweatband has been introduced.

Long a staple in competitive sports where the competitor sweats. It's a stylish, yet functional device that keeps hair and sweat out of one's eyes.

So to the sports store we go. I was hoping he'd pick black, but when faced with a decision between red, black, and white, he went with red.

So now at home throughout the course of the day, you'll find me sporting a red sweatband. If I'm wearing it, there's a good chance my son is as well. He seems to like it and it seems, thus far, to be a sound substitute for the female headband.

I must admit, we look like a couple of tennis pros sitting around relaxing. At first glance, you'd probably expect us to break out into a pick-up game of basketball at any given moment. He's not quite ready for that, but the sweatband does help when wrestling. Ever the goon, I pull it down over his eyes so he can't see as I proceed to put him in the cross-face chicken wing.

I am concerned, however, about when I'm not at home. Which band does my wife wear: sweat or hair? If I'm not here, does she support the conversion or is she content to let him dress like a girl?

Christmas Ornament Plans

My wife and I were talking a few nights ago.

There is concern, this holiday season, about how our 16-month-old son will handle the Christmas tree and its glowing lights and sparkling decorations.

My wife has a lot of really nice ornaments that have great value to her. I must admit, our tree always looks incredibly wonderful, almost awe-inspiring.

In the past the concern has always been about the cats. We all know cats like to climb trees, especially indoor cats--how often do they even get the opportunity?

We've survived five holidays without any major disasters to the tree at the paws of out cats. There was the year that the tree stand failed to work properly, but a simple rigging of some string and anchoring the tree to various heavy objects in the dining room fixed all that.

That was my idea, and while not the best solution, we did have a great ropes course to navigate through the holiday season.

So we've escaped cat-destruction each year, but now we have new worries.

Our son is a cross between a young Jacques Cousteau and Benjamin Franklin. There's no limit to what he'd like to mess with. He's especially drawn to electronics and things that sparkle.

My wife's solution? Well, while the youngster is strong, we know he can't knock over the tree (there's a new and improved tree stand in its second year), but the ornaments are a completely different story.

My wife has set up shop in the dining room and is on a quest to make all the low-hanging ornaments this year.

In the process, she's also discovered she likes to make sock monkeys. Not your traditional boring cream and red monkeys either. She's discovered a use for the fuzzy socks I used to get her that she doesn't like because they make her feet sweat. I don't wear socks, so I know nothing about that.

Her monkeys are a mismash of plaids and flames. She's also created some owls, a dog, and a tree (that resembles, to me, the mushrooms on Super Mario).

They are awesome and I think a new tradition has started. She's made ornaments before, but this year she's pulling out all the stops. One of the things I love about my wife is her child-like approach to creativity.

Too often, we as adults, take a lazy approach to solutions. There's nothing we can't buy or pay someone to solve for us. These solutions have provided our holiday decorations with a sense of homemade which is unique and fun. We've got, among other things, our own stockings, that we each made ourselves, ornaments, and a homemade tree skirt.

This year's Christmas will be quite an adventure. Surely most of the ornaments will find themselves scattered around the living room floor and they will be part of the nightly pick-up-and-clean-up session that takes place in our home.

I haven't mentioned this yet, but I'm most concerned about the presents themselves. The boy can't see a newspaper, or any magazine, without wanting to rip it to shreds, in fact he's doing just that right now.

There's going to be a lot of wrapping and re-wrapping in our home this season.

The First Haircut

My son's hair was wild. I loved that about him. Sure, it was messy and sometimes in his eyes and had some strange swirly action in the back, but it made him unique. Not to say my son's not unique already, believe me, he is, but...well, let me back up.

My parents never let their sons grow long hair. We were boys and if God had wanted us to look like girls, he'd have made us girls.

So what's the first thing we did when we got out of the house? You guessed it: grew long hair. My brothers straight hair grew long in the back, perfect for the pony-tail I'm sure he always desired.

My hair is more curly in nature so as it grew in length it also grew in thickness. I ended up looking like Fryer Tuck, but I thought it was cool.

We've both satisfied our desire to have long hair and I doubt we'll ever do it again. Of course, our parents hated it.

So letting my son have long hair so early in the game, was sort of my way of passive aggressively getting back at my parents for denying me the long hair experience for so long. I think it looks cool also.

In my mind, it's what gives him character. He can't yet talk and while he has loads of personality, in public he can sometimes draw a little into himself, just like his dad, thought I'm sure it's more of the fact that people are so darn interesting to look at.

To me, his hair distinguished him. He didn't look like all the little fresh-cut, neat-haired kids running around in the world. He was my rebellious, wild-haired son. Every time I looked at him, it reminded me of my own hair, though at times troublesome. If we have nothing else, we are bonded for life through our hair.

Then last night, my wife was sitting on the couch across from me and said, "Should we cut his hair?"

She's said this before, but this time, I knew she was serious. There was nothing I could do to change the subject this time.

And before you think we loaded him up and let some stranger cut our son's hair, think again.

In my family we cut our own hair. My wife does it--it's one of her uber-talents.

She's not trained and has "no plan," as she says, but amazingly my hair always turns out well, and hers incredibly.

So we strap him into his highchair and begin. Nothing dramatic--just a few snips in the back, a bit around the ears and just a scosh up front.

It broke my heart a little bit. Gone is the wild-haired portion of my wild-eyed son. Sure nothing's really changed about him, but to me, it's not quite the same having a son maniacally running around in circles in the kitchen with perfectly manicured hair.

But upon closer inspection, my wife missed a few strands...maybe it's not so perfect after all. I'm going to keep that to myself.

I Don't Like Your Kids

Tuesday was election day and my son and I went to vote. Because election day isn't yet considered a national holiday, I had to get an early start because work-duty still called.

My son is 16-months old and a whirlwind of energy and activity. He's not one to simply be held and watch those around him. He wants to get his hands on everything, and everyone, around him. A future politician, perhaps?

But what gets me the most is that when I have my son with me in public, it seems that it's an open invitation to discuss kids. It also seems to imply that a)I like kids and b)I care about your kids.

It happens everywhere, not just on election day. It happens in line at the grocery store. It happens walking through Home Depot. It happens out at dinner with the family.

I like my kid. In fact, I love him and he's the best thing in the world. The world's greatest toy, my own personal daily entertainer. He's the court jester of our home. However, I'm not much of a fan of other kids. No offense to them, I just don't care for them. They're loud and a bit obnoxious at times.

But everyone in line around me at the polling station wanted to ask me about my son (which I don't mind too much--he's pretty awesome and highly deserving of being talked about), talk about their own kids, and point out to me all the other little kids in the room.

The older lady in front of me made a point to single out each child under the age of five in the room, but also to inform me each time a child entered the room.

"Oh, look at that little girl," the elder voter said and I'd have to turn around and acknowledge the little girl. "She's so cute, isn't she?" I sheepishly grinned and said "Of course."

You see, cute kids and the cute things they do just isn't my scene. Having my son with me is not an invisible nod that I do, in fact, appreciate small children. My son was with me because I wanted his company on a historic day in our country and I wanted to be able to tell him years from now that he voted with me on that day.

It was all I could do to keep my son under wraps and from terrorizing the whole station. I had a constant hand on him. It's as if his legs are constantly moving and my grasp on him keeps him somewhat immobile. If I were to let go, he'd be off like a spring-loaded car, headed in any direction.

Here's the bottom line: Don't assume parents want to talk about your kid. I don't. If you ask about my son I'll let you know about him. But I'm not that concerned about yours. Call me a jerk if you like, but I've only got so much soft-hearted child-love and adoration and it's all reserved for my son.