Righteous, Dude.

As soon as Oscar started talking G encouraged him to participate in prayers.  I was impressed with how young a child can be and understand that he should clasp his hands together and say "amen" at the end.  His precious "amens," cued by the name of our Lord, became a source of pride and amusement during church as he joined the congregation in saying "amen" at the end of prayers and talks---and of a wee bit of embarrassment as, in the middle of the sacrament prayer, a lone, resounding "amen" came from our pew.  And it was very funny indeed as we watched General Conference last October.  Bless his little heart.  I'm not sure if he gets what "amen" means.  Or perhaps he really gets it:  he also states it very authoritatively when he closes a book, slams down the lid of the laptop, or wants me to stop talking.

Later he started doing shout-outs during prayer.  "More snow!"  Daddy would petition Heavenly Father for more snow, if it was right.  "Oscar play in it!"  "Daddy play in it!"  "Car play in it!"  G duly asked that we might all play in it.  Another favorite was "More bubbles!"  (G would sometimes bring those little packing pillows home from work for Oscar to pop.)  To my surprise, we got snow this year later than expected.  And bubbles abounded.  Could it be?  These days, unfortunately, we are hard pressed to get him to do anything other than run around wildly shouting at the top of his lungs during prayer time.  I guess there won't be any more snow.

Oscar was fascinated with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir during conference as well.  It was the only time he was transfixed by the proceedings.  He sang along.  It is also true that he will only sit still in sacrament meeting during the hymns.  He holds his book and sings like any other congregant.  Or at least like any other congregant who is tone deaf and doesn't know the words.  So he fits right in.  Singing time is also his favorite part of nursery, and he's really learning the songs (which will later play into his most precious display of religious inclination).

For virtually every family home evening, we bring out the gospel art book and look at the pictures.  Oscar identifies "prophets" in general, and "Prophet Monson," "Prophet Smith," and "Prophet Moroni" in particular.  Moroni is putting the "gold plates" into a "hole."  He also identifies "temples," and, of course, "Jesus."  When asked whom Jesus loves, he replies, "Oscar."  Awww.

It gets better.  When Oscar is in his high chair eating he often points to the picture above our table and says, "temple."  Once when he did this I said, "We love going to the temple."  He shyly used his hand to cover his eyes and beaming smile and said sweetly, "someday."  Isn't he the loveliest boy ever!

The picture above our table is of the Notre Dame cathedral.  Oops.

Crowning Glory

So Oscar's hair kind of got to be a thing, an entity unto itself, that begged for compliment or criticism from friend and stranger alike.  Many parents regaled me with fond memories of their own son's baby curls, telling me at what age they finally gave in to the first cut, and warning me that they would never come back.  Some (mainly seriously unhip old guys) urged a cut from the time Oscar was one year old, when it began to press beyond military length.  Some (mainly the aforementioned nostalgic parents) encouraged us to enjoy it for a while.  Eventually, when it got really long, people stopped talking about it.  Except for the few admirers who clearly came of age during the fabled Grunge era.  That was around the time the public started calling Oscar a girl.

Why do people keep calling me a girl?  Duh.  Blue bib.

It all started with my desire to fund Oscar's university career on someone else's dime.  Every year---I thought---Regis and Kelly run this beautiful baby contest, with first prize being a sizeable college fund.  I entered Oscar the first year he was eligible and he was not selected.  WHAT?!  I made a careful study of the semifinalists, past and present.  I discovered that, in addition to the attributes one would expect, the semifinalists, without exception, had all their teeth and full heads of hair.  In fact, every last one of them was magnificently coiffed.  No wonder my wispy headed gopher was rejected.  Well, that was that.  No hair cut for Oscar.  Next year would be our year.

Oscar seemed to enjoy his growing hair, and he attended to it with great care.  When he learned to drink from a sippy cup, he would often shake a few drops of the contents into his palm and "style" his hair.  I found this tremendously comical...when it was a cup of water.  When it got to that awkward stage where the bangs were poking his eyes, I tried getting him to wear a clip (shhh, G didn't like that).  Oscar kept pulling it out.  Then I tried to slick it back with various hair products, none of which were powerful enough to hold his increasingly magnificent coif.  However, he really loved using "product" and insisted that we apply some every day.  I secretly worried that I was making him blind, as the product-tainted hair would fall into his eyes constantly.  Finally came the model-esque (or perhaps horse-esque) tossing and shaking of the mane.  At last we had achieved rock star hair.

The hair at the time of the contest.  A magnificent coif!

I'm ready for my close up, Regis.

January, when the contest is usually announced, came and went.  No word of it.  Later this year, I guessed.  I hoped his hair wasn't getting too long now.  February...nothing.  March...nope.  I resigned myself to the fact that they were skipping this year, OUR year.  Just my luck.

Still waiting for that close up, Regis!

Now, what to do with the hair?  Frankly, I didn't really think about it, except when my mother-in-law would say he needed a cut, then I would feel a determination to leave it long.  Another month for every mention.  To be honest, I was avoiding thinking about it.  What hair cut to choose?  Would he freak out (or rather, how intensely would he freak out) and would the stylist only be able to get half-way through? I envisioned him sporting that hairdo so popular among young boys, the "attacked-by-a-lawn-mower" cut.  Most importantly, without that hair, would he STILL LOOK LIKE OSCAR??

A woman from church asked me who was so adamant about not cutting Oscar's hair---me, G, or both of us.  I didn't know what to say to that.  Perhaps it was getting a little ridiculous.  But mainly we were beginning to have serious concerns that he would have some gender identity confusion:  at home we teach him he is a boy, but everywhere else he goes he is told he is a girl.  He could even say "androgynous."  I booked an appointment.

In the days leading up to C-Day we practiced the hair cut.  Oscar would sit in a chair, I'd wrap a big plastic sheet around him, then I'd stick scissors close to his head and make snipping noises.  He originally said he didn't want a hair cut, but later he said he did, and seemed excited.  He laughed while we practiced, anyway.  And I had this fool proof plan to put him in a trance with an episode of Curious George while the stylist was doing the dirty work.

Last bath before the cut.

Why do they make that pretty little girl wear boy clothes and a hard hat?

The morning of the appointment he slept in (of course) so we were late and stressed.  G forgot the laptop, and I still didn't know what kind of cut to ask for, though I had a picture of a longish one I've seen all the cool boys wearing lately (just kidding, I don't know if they're cool).  Once in the shearing pen, my worst case scenario began to be realized.  Oscar screamed, fought, and generally acted in a very uncooperative manner.  Reminding him of the practice sessions seemed ineffective.  As was the stash of chocolate in my bag.  I suggested we try another day (still thinking about that lawn mower attack) but the  stylist was determined.  Happily, he submitted after a while.

She did the longish one.  It didn't look like the picture.  We left and went to Target.  I couldn't stop staring.  In horror.  Nor could I stop complaining.  He looked more like a girl than ever!  A girl with a frumpy hair cut.  I called the stylist to let her know Oscar was ready for his second cut.  She let us come back over right away.

The same exact scenario played out the second time, only this time he looked like a boy when she was finished.  She gave us a baggie full of clippings that were neither long nor curly.  I was gutted that we didn't snip one or two of the beautiful ringlets before we left home.  I thought she would.  Yep, I'm still gutted.

Who are you and what have you done with Oscar?

At church the next day, the husband of the woman who wondered which of us would never agree to a cut swore to me that his oldest son's personality changed after his curls were shorn.  Huh??  He wondered if I noticed any difference in Oscar.  Um, no.  Same Oscar.  However, I have noticed that I have changed.  I used to smile and nod understandingly when my tiny temperamental rock star would rant, flail about, and pitch his toys in a fit of temper.  I scold and punish my petulant little boy for the same.  Just kidding.  I've never smiled or nodded understandingly in my life.  But I do miss those curls (sniff sniff).  Oh well.  Hair today, gone tomorrow.

No one tell me if Regis and Kelly announce a beautiful baby contest.

Oh look!  My rock star's back.

And don't you forget it.