neighborly influence

As you might guess from the lack of posts here, I have been quite busy.  In particular, last week was full.  On Friday, Obi-2 & I helped out at Obi-1's school with a "Reading Well."  Basically, the PTA purchases a boat-load of books, and each child in the school is invited to come in and choose one, free of charge, to keep.  My friend was in charge, and nobody signed up to help her all day, so we dropped in and held her new baby while she facilitated the afternoon.  It wasn't very interesting for Obi-2, but he was a trooper and lovely helper for those hours.

By the end of Friday afternoon, I decided the boys (and I) deserved a little celebration.  We headed into our local Italian cafe, which is complete with those beautiful glass-fronted displays of decadent treats.  Obi-2's class had been studying the letter "S" all week, so I offered to get the boys S cookies, which excited them both.  

When we walked in, we were greeted by the incredible smells of fresh bread and pastries, and the smiling face of Grandpa Frank.  Grandpa Frank is the owner's dad, and has recently moved to the rainy northwest from New York.  He is everything sweet about an Italian grandpa, and he loves kids.  Problem is, he always thinks I have girls... and greets them as such.  He's figured out that Obi-1 is a boy, though he always asks me, "Is this a girl or a boy?  I can't tell!"    

No matter how much I hint or correct him, he always greets Obi-2 as a "baby doll" or "cutest little sister" or something similar.  I usually smile, try a couple corrections, and then move on.  On this particular day, however, Grandpa Frank and his friends made it a veritable little Italy in the cafe.  The sights, conversations, and smells just took me to another place, and so we enjoyed the familial feel of the cafe with them. Grandpa Frank took special interest in us, a mom and her two little ones at a table.  He kept complimenting the girls - and when he finally remembered that Obi-1 is a boy, he apologized but complimented his sister, anyway.

We got our "S cookies" and sat down to enjoy a little Mama-boy time.  Then, Grandpa Frank came up to our table.  He looked at me and said, "What are their names again?"  Well, I can't reveal this to you online friends, but let's just say their names are pretty basic, easily pronounced names.  They're not super common names, but they're also not odd inventions or exotic entities, either.

"You people out here have such weird names for kids!  Why don't you just name them something normal?"  Grandpa Frank admonished me for choosing names he couldn't understand.  Then he looked at the boys, especially Obi-1, and said, "Do me a favor, kid.  Next time you come in here, get a proper hair cut. You look like a girl.  You look like your sister!"

At this point, I had to step in.  "Actually, they're both boys, Frank.  Brothers."  He looked at me, looked at Obi-2, and back at me, totally surprised.

  

"You're kidding!  Then he needs a haircut, too!  Geesh, you people need to put labels or something on your kids.  I just embarrassed that boy.  They look like girls." 

No, Grandpa Frank, you didn't embarrass him, but you're starting to push some buttons.  All of this reminds me of my Bampa, who probably would have done exactly the same thing.   Unfortunately, my Bampa died when Obi-1 was a little baby.  He was the last of Mr. Kenobi's & my living grandparents, and so we lost a generation in our families.  My boys' grandpas (our dads) simply cannot get away with the grumpy-old-man routine... partly because they live too far away, and mostly because they're simply too young! 

On the other hand, Grandpa Frank has earned the age to be one of those truly treasured old men in the neighborhood.  The kind who says what he thinks, even if it's not very politically correct.  The kind who tells a 5-year old with beautiful, curly hair that he needs a haircut because he looks like a girl.  The kind who calls a long-haired, surfer-boy 3-year-old that he's a darling little "baby doll."

We all need a Grandpa like that once in a while.  Too much PC, diplomatic talk makes us soft and overly sensitive.  Plus, sometimes we need somebody to be definitive about things.  Grandpa Frank believes boys should have short hair.  Period.  This weekend, my boys got hair cuts.  They were due, and it is time to let go of the toddler locks and trim it almost above their ears.  It's not a buzz cut, and some will say they still look a little girlish, but it's cut nonetheless.

They got to watch "The Grinch" while I trimmed & cut inches - inches! - of curls from their head.  Obi-1 commented as I went, "You're kind of like the grinch, Mama, cause you're taking all my hair!"  He wasn't upset, however.  He was ready to have a cut, and thrilled to watch a movie on a Saturday morning.  I, of course, felt a twinge of loving sadness that can only be delivered by a Grandpa.  It was hard to see the curls fall, but they always grow back.  By next summer, they can be surfer boys again.

And in the meantime, Grandpa Frank (and my brother, and many others who've commented on my long-haired hippie boys) will be pleased.