'Wind Blow Hair!'

It occasionally happens that something we say or do as a child lives far beyond the moment. No one can predict which statement, or action, becomes a family tradition, but I’d like to tell you about two such in our family.

Every year on Nov. 27 my parents went out to dinner for their anniversary, and Momo, my grandmother, babysat. I loved it when November came around, because I knew we were in for a night of fun. But one year, the year I was five, I moved into immortality.

I don’t remember the incident, but one of my older siblings did something to me that I didn’t think Momo dealt with sufficiently, so I took my little body out under the Palo Verde tree and started yelling, as loudly and plaintively as I could, “Maaawwwm!”  Momo came outside a few times, laughing. “She can’t hear you!”  Undeterred, and because everyone knows by now that I was a foolish girl, I continued this futile activity for half an hour.

Momo told on me many times, her mouth wide open, mimicking my wail, chuckling at a girl who thought by howling she could summon a miles-away parent.

This gaffe is still glued to me, and for many years, long past childhood, when I was disgruntled, my sister and brother would bellow: “Maaawwwm!” I could never keep from smiling, even though it was at my expense. And so, it became a story that sewed the generations together.

I realized a couple of weeks ago that now my grandchildren have one, too. Because today is our son’s birthday, it’s fitting to share it. It begins with the backstory.

Parents feel duty-bound to record their children’s milestones: first smiles, first steps, and first sentences. I was just such a parent, but for one child that first phrase will never be forgotten. Our son, second in birth order, was rough-and-tumble, full of energy, as boys often are. One June day, when he was not quite 14 months old, I buckled him and his two-year-old sister into the back seat of my 1968 Ford Falcon and headed to the grocery store, windows open. As we picked up speed, my heretofore single-word boy squealed in protest, “Mom!  Wind blow hair!”  

I promptly nicknamed him “Old Blood and Guts,” a moniker assigned to General Patton in World War II. That first utterance has accompanied Jon since, in, I concede, sometimes unfair ways. Any time he mentioned that something hurt, his sisters taunted, “Wind blow hair!” Even legitimate aches were accompanied by “Wind blow hair!”  For him it was a double whammy, as it was quickly followed by “Old Blood and Guts!”

Recently, when their family came over for dinner, four-year-old Sarah pinched her finger and began to whimper. Instantly her sisters, using their best hamster voices, chanted “Wind blow hair! Wind blow hair!”

Sometimes life is sweet! Right, “Maaawwwm?”