TO MY BANGS... WITH LOVE

Dear Bangs,

While looking through old photos the other day, I found a photo taken of me in 1st Grade... It must have been around Thanksgiving time because half the class is wearing what appears to be Pilgrim hats (made out of construction paper), while the other half dons Indian Chief hats (it was okay to say "Indian" back then. We didn't know).

Anyway, Bangs, this was in 1982.... which means I was 6.... which means we've been together for 27 years. We've grown up together, you and I... And though I never EVER strayed (with the exception of a very long/side swept thing I tried right after college), for all intents and purposes, I have always been loyal. In fact, I stuck with you when no one else did.

Sure... I haven't always been kind: I have teased you. I have sprayed you. I have fried you.

And I have certainly cursed you.

I forgive you for all your little frayed ends, and your twisty little curls that sometimes make me look like I have payis, and all the times you've put me in a bad mood. (Yes, hair can do that).

Bangs, we, me and you... WE are a team. My hair, my look, my daily routine would be incomplete without you. .And no matter how many times you've heard my grandmother say she'd like to see you out of my eyes, I hope you know that I, I am faithfully yours and have no intentions of ending this relationship any time soon.

You've been with me through thick and thin... good times and bad...blood sweat and tears. You've covered my eyebrows when they were a mess and you've let me straighten you when you just wanted to be wild. Oh, Bangs, though I want to tell you how much money I've actually spent trying to give you the best life possible, I won't. I won't. Because that would be rude and this is a love letter. SO, my friend, I just want to thank you and wish you a happy, healthy, stylish, and face slimming anniversary.

With love,

J-Ko

P.S. Going to San Francisco this weekend. Supposed to Rain. PLEASE do your best to behave. I would hate to cheat on you with my other love, The Bandana...

EVERYONE'S ANGRY

Thanks to another informative and entertaining episode of Sesame Street, Baby-Ko's word of the week (not to be confused with Murray's "Word on the Street") is "ANGRY...." (pronounced: "ANGA-REE.") There's a segment with Cuba Gooding Jr. talking about the word "angry" -- only, every time he refers to the word "angry," the word "angry" keeps running off screen, causing Cuba to get increasingly, you guessed it: ANGRY! "Really, really angry!"

I'm pretty sure that up until now, this fine piece of media was the only time Baby-Ko heard this word and saw what it meant (at the same time). But obviously, it stuck. In fact, it's now one of his favorites and every day we have a little conversation that goes like this:

Me: "Did you have fun at day care?"

B-Ko: "Yeah."

Me: "I'm so happy to hear that. What did you do?"

B-Ko: "I push a baby."

Me: "You pushed a baby? Oh no. That's not nice."

B-Ko: "Yeah, baby fell down. Baby cryyyyy."

Me: "The baby cried???"

B-Ko: "Yeah, baby so ANGA-REE."

Later... (bath-time)....

Me: "Baby-Ko, please stop splashing the water. The water needs to stay in the tub."

B-Ko: "No! I want to splash!" WHOOSH.

Me: (Taking a deep breath) "I asked you to stop. Why are you splashing?"

B-Ko: "Cuz... cuz... I so ANGA-REE."

Me: "Why are you so angry?"

B-Ko: "Cuz... cuz... Baby fell down. Baby cryyyyy."

Me: "The baby cried??"

B-Ko: "Yeah, baby so ANGA-REE."

You're probably wondering what said baby has to do with my now sopping wet leggings... But I encourage you to indulge me for a moment while I take this opportunity to brag and point out how brilliant I think the association is. Sure, it's off, and there wasn't an actual baby falling in my tub when I asked Baby-Ko to stop splashing. Sure, my son maaaay have at some point pushed a small child down resulting in tears and a conversation that is a little groundhog day-ish. BUT, he obviously now knows that there are many things that can cause anger (even if HE is the actual anger-causer) and for THAT, I'm extraordinarily proud of this development. (Go with it.)

Eventually I will break the news to him that he can be upset and feel whatever he wants without another child getting injured (and certainly without talking about another child getting injured). But for now, I quite enjoy our little discussions.... If not for any reason other than it sounds pretty cute to hear him say "Anga-ree."

In other kinda-sorta related news, a new study out of London says that families spend, on average, 15 minutes a day FIGHTING. The cause: Moms. Yep. Your mama. Click HERE to read... It will probably make you pretty ANGA-REE....

Want Matthew McConaughey's Stroller?

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The auction runs from November 9th-18th, 2009 on www.handmedowns.com.

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(DON'T) CUT THE CHEESE

As a mom, I try really hard to do the right thing. I try to be organized. I try to be patient. I try to be thoughtful. I try to anticipate the needs and wants of my very strong willed and curious (two year old) child by being prepared. And I certainly try to handle all situations, where said personality traits can push ones buttons, with grace (and speed).

I TRY.

So, when Baby-Ko accompanied me to a very crowded and not so kid friendly Home Depot, you can imagine how hard I TRIED to explain to him why roaming the aisles (without holding my hand) wasn't really an option. You can also imagine how hard I TRIED to reason with him as we were leaving (literally four and a half minutes after we got there) that riding the fork lift in the parking lot was also not an option. And certainly, you can imagine how hard I TRIED to lure him into my very obvious not-a-contractor-just-a-stressed-out-mom-doing-an-errand-too-close-to-nap-time-SUV-with a "yummy string cheese...???"

"Cheese baby? Do you want cheese?" I said sweetly (waiting for a defiant "No!").

"Yeahhh. I want it," he said relaxing his body and sitting in to the car seat.

"Okay, my love. Here you are." Phew.

Without thinking, I peeled back the wrapper, broke the stick in half and handed him one of the pieces.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" He wailed. "I want to bite it!!!" Tears erupted.

"What? Why? Wait, no! Look, you have TWO pieces! Mommy gave you two pieces of cheese!"

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" He flailed. "I don't want two!! I want together!!!"

Are you kidding me??? WTF?! Who doesn't like two pieces of cheese???

"Okay, shhhh! Calm down, Baby-Ko. Give it back to Mommy. I will make you one piece," I said boldly.

With one hand on the steering wheel (did I mention we were already on the road??), and one hand on the cheese(s), I literally started to mush the two ends together to create one "string," if you will. As I handed what I thought was a perfectly welded string/stick of friggin' cheese back to my boy, it fell apart. MORE TEARS.

"Baby! It's not working."

"I want it!!!! I want to bite!!!" He said, chucking half of the cheese back at me (thankfully landing on the console). OMG, kid.

O. M. G.

Doing my best not to lose it (with both tears and laughter), I took a deep breath and dug deep to my inner MacGyver. I mushed, and mushed, and contorted the over-processed (and while we're being honest: NOT organic) cheese back in to one stick and supported it by using the wrapper (like a banana leaf).

With my fingers now smelling like a combo of ass, foot crud, and Wisconsin Cheddar, I delicately handed the golden stick of goodness back to his royal highness.

"Okay, Baby-Ko. One stick. Eat it slowly."

"It's mine," he said sniffling. "My cheese."

"Yes," I said, "It's your cheese...." And for some reason, (and I have no idea why I said it, I just did), under my breath muttered: "Believe me it's yours. My hand smells like vagina."

Without missing a beat he responded: "I want my penis."

This time, I said and tried nothing. Down the road, (a long road, I hope) I think my strong willed and curious child will handle this one on his own... I just hope I'm prepared.....