Earlier this month, I was a bridesmaid in a close friend’s destination wedding in Mexico — and for logistical and financial reasons, only Taylor and Rhys accompanied me.
Everyone, of course, adored my youngest son. He’s the quintessential gateway baby: friendly, calm, and curious. Surprisingly, though, his biggest fan was one of the groomsmen, who asked to hold Rhys at every available opportunity — even while out on a boat.
One of these opportunities was at the very end of the wedding, after Rhys had beatifically slept through most of the raucous festivities. He woke just in time for one more snuggle with his favorite groomsman.
Marveling at my baby, a different groomsman asked, “What are your other kids like?”
I snorted. “Not like this. They’re both super intense.”
“Yeah? Like what?”
“Well, for Borealis, picture Sheldon Cooper… and that’s basically it.”
The groomsman laughed. “From Big Bang Theory?”
“Yep. Even down to the hatred of whistling.”
“And your daughter?”
I chewed on my lip for a second. “Like… Katy Perry?”
“So she’s a stunner!”
“Oh, yeah… that.”
It was a sweet compliment, but it revealed that I had chosen the wrong celebrity. Because, while my daughter is beautiful, she’s mostly just…
CRAZY.
Well, so maybe “crazy” isn’t exactly the right word. She’s not clinically insane; she’s just… difficult to describe. Erratic, and big-hearted, and dramatic, and sweet, and incredibly strong-willed. It’s not for nothing that we call her the Human Sour Patch Kid.
However, my mother recently pointed out that Aza doesn’t feature very prominently in this blog — at least, not compared to Bo.
To some extent, this is to be expected. My son’s superior grasp of language generally results in greater speaking roles. He is certainly more capable of carrying on a conversation — even if his side largely consists of bluntly-stated desires, peppered sparingly with pleases and thank yous. And, though he frequently tunes me out, his listening comprehension is phenomenal, when engaged.
However, Aza is also a forceful communicator in her own right. She is, if possible, even less nuanced than is Bo. Nevertheless, she is quite effective at speaking her mind — and, more importantly, she usually gets her way.
Intrigued? Here are some recent vignettes that are so quintessentially “Aza”.
The first took place a couple days before Taylor, Rhys, and I left for Mexico. I wanted to pack ahead of time, but Aza was not having it.
“Pick me up!” she wailed, wrapping her arms around my legs.
I stumbled and barely caught myself against a wall. Thankfully, Rhys was asleep in his playard, where he was safe from any wall-induced head injuries.
“Aza’s being a brat!” Bo [accurately] observed. He loves to use these borderline “racy” words — especially against his sister.
I rolled my eyes and ignored his jab.
Aza, unfortunately, did not. She slapped at his face and shrieked, “I’m not being a brat!” — which didn’t exactly prove her case.
I knelt down to their level. Addressing Bo first, I admonished, “Hey. Your sister’s feeling pretty sensitive right now. She could really use some more patience from you. Can you show me how you speak to her respectfully?”
Bo nodded, squared his shoulders, and ordered, “Aza, please stop being a brat.”
I breathed out heavily but barely managed to hold in a laugh. “Ok, I guess that was slightly better.”
Then, turning to Aza, I admonished, “And you are not allowed to slap your brother, even if he’s being mean.”
“I need snuggles,” Aza sniveled, climbing onto my lap.
I gave her a hug and glanced at the clock. If my three-year-old still napped, it would be around this time — but she doesn’t, so mid-afternoon is perpetually miserable instead. But maybe…
“Aza, do you want to take a nap?” I asked.
“Noooooooo!”
The lady doth protest too much, I thought. Out loud, I mused, “I bet a nap would help you feel soooooo much better.”
“I don’t want to take a nap!” Australis sobbed.
I gritted my teeth. “I’m really sorry, babe. It’s clear that you need one. You’re going to take a rest, and then afterward, you’ll be ready to play with us again.”
“Yeah,” Bo chimed in. “Aza needs a nap because she’s being a brat.”
“Cut it out, Bo,” I muttered.
“Nooooooooo! I’m *not* a brat!” Aza wailed again.
I ignored my daughter’s complaint — rising to my feet and sweeping her up into my arms. “I’m gonna set a timer for twenty minutes, and then we’ll be ready to play again.”
Australis screeched incoherently as I carried her to bed. My ears rang by the time I laid her down.
“Look,” I snapped. “You are out of control right now. You need to take some time to rest. You will be in here for twenty minutes, so you get to decide if you’re going to have a good nap or a bad nap.“
She whimpered wordlessly in response, so I continued, “You can lay here calmly and fall asleep, and then you’ll have a good nap, or you can just rage and scream the whole time, and then you’ll have a bad nap. Which would you prefer?”
Aza snuffled piteously and answered, “A bad nap.”
I should have seen that coming. I gave my daughter a tired smile and admitted, “Well, that’s your prerogative.”
After hugs and kisses, I left the room and locked the door from the outside. (Because I’m no dummy.) I returned to the kitchen, where Bo still lingered.
“Is Aza going to take a nap?” he asked.
I shrugged. “We’ll see! It’s up to her, now.”
Bo looked pensive for a few seconds, then announced, “I’m just going to go check on her. You know, to remind her that she should take a nap.”
“Borealis!” I growled, but he was already trotting toward the nursery.
I raced behind him and hissed, “Borealis, so help me, do not wake up your sister!”
“I won’t wake her up! I’m just going to check on her!”
I swatted his hand away from the handle. “And you don’t think that that will wake her up!?”
“Um… no?”
“Well, it will — if your yelling hasn’t already!”
But, amazingly, no sounds emanated from the nursery. Instead, they came from my room… where Rhys was no longer napping.
I shot Bo a withering glare and went to retrieve my infant. Then, we all retreated to the living room — hopefully, out of earshot of Australis.
A few minutes later, after I had nursed Rhys, Bo commented, “I think Aza must be asleep.”
To my surprise, I agreed — except, at that moment, the nursery doorknob rattled.
I threw back my head and groaned. “Ughhhhh. I guess she’s not asleep.”
“I guess not,” Bo echoed.
“Will you go let your sister out of her room?” I asked. As he scampered away, I added, “Thank you for being so helpful!”
A minute later, he came running back. “Yes, Aza is awake.”
“Is she coming out of her room?”
“Hmm… I don’t know!”
I reluctantly rose from the couch, leaving Rhys to crawl around on the floor instead. I shuffled toward Aza’s room, at which point —
“AHHHH!”
— I encountered… this.
“Wow,” I marveled. “I guess you really did want a bad nap.”
Thankfully, the bloody nose was relatively easy to clean up. Sure, blood got all over her face, hands, dress, pillowcase, pillow, and sheet — but it didn’t get on her blanket or on the rug, both of which are much harder to clean. So, a wash in cold water quickly resolved most of the mess.
Nevertheless, Aza was still a little upset — but she knew just the solution.
“Will you paint my nails?” she mewled, dropping a large bag at my feet.
The bag contained all of my UV-cure nail supplies, and I should have known better than to leave it in an unsecured location — because when I do, Aza always finds it, and she always wants her nails done.
For a few months, I had a reason to say no — “Not until you stop biting your nails.” However, when she successfully completed that goal, I was left with little recourse. Now, the only answer she’ll accept is “yes”.
No sooner was the word out of my mouth than Aza was digging through the available colors, eventually settling on a seasonally-appropriate mustard yellow.
I, meanwhile, stowed Rhys in his highchair with a smattering of Cheerios, raspberries, and graham crackers. I hoped the culinary variety would buy me enough time to complete the task at hand.
And it did — almost. We made it through the base coat and two color coats before Rhys began to grumble.
“Rhysi’s sad,” Aza observed. “I will give him a kiss!”
“No!” I barked, clinging to her half-painted hand. “We’re almost done! Just the top coat!”
“But I want to give Rhysi a kiss!” Aza repeated.
“Yes, I understand that, but your nails are still uncured,” I argued.
[Note: Nail polish is like cement: it doesn’t “dry”; it cures. That’s why a manicure doesn’t melt when exposed to water — and thankfully, neither do sidewalks.]
Unfortunately for me, Aza was interested neither in the finer points of desiccation nor in obedience to my instructions. Instead, she yanked all the harder, wailing, “But I want toooooooo!”
The back of my neck prickled, and I cut a glare at Bo. “Don’t. Even.”
His mouth snapped shut faster than he could say brat! — although I could tell he was still thinking it.
Once again, I explained, “We have to use the light on your nails one more time, and then you can give Rhysi a kiss. Ok?”
All at once, she slumped back to the ground, gave me an amiable smile, and agreed, “Ok!”
I took full advantage of her mood swing — completing the top coat and sticking her grubby little toddler hands into the UV lamp.
“Don’t look at the light,” I reminded.
Aza dramatically scrunched up her eyes and nose — as though the UV might also prove deleterious to her sense of smell.
After sixty seconds, I announced, “Done!” I grabbed the lamp and returned it to its box, then packed everything back into the nail-supply bag.
Meanwhile, of course, Aza had leapt up and was showering Rhys with [unwanted] kisses. It’s a good thing he’s sturdy, because her hugs frequently leave something to be desired — like, gentleness, or maybe just aim. She always goes straight for the neck.
But eventually, she released her brother and ran off down the hall. I examined my baby and confirmed that he was still intact, then cleaned him off and plopped him back onto the ground. He immediately grabbed the table and pulled up onto wobbly legs — legs growing stronger by the day.
For a few moments, all was peaceful — and then I realized that my daughter was still conspicuously absent.
I found her sitting on the hallway rug, surrounded by tiny flakes of mustard yellow.
“Australis!” I admonished.
My daughter gazed innocently up at me — and then she asked, “Will you paint my nails again?”
I, of course, did not paint her nails again. I have a once-per-day policy for manicures that take longer than they last.
The next morning, we departed before Aza could talk me into another session of nail polish. Thus, she went to my parents’ house with bare nails, and I went to Mexico — also with bare nails.
My parents managed to keep my reckless daughter alive while we were gone — although I’ve been told that she benefited greatly from wearing a helmet. As is her habit, Australis periodically fell from pieces of furniture, stairs, and even just a standing position — often, repeatedly, and in rapid succession. From our perspective, it seems that she lacks even the most primitive self-preservation instinct.
But what she lacks in practicality, she makes up for in charm — and, despite our fervent wishes, she’s not naive to her nascent feminine mystique.
This became especially apparent several days after we returned from Mexico. I hadn’t done a great job of unpacking, so a number of my travel items were still scattered higgledy-piggledy around the house.
One of those, I discovered, was my makeup bag.
Taylor had been “watching” the kids while I showered. Unfortunately, this afforded Aza the perfect opportunity to grab my makeup bag, sneak off to the hallway mirror, and do… this.
Needless to say, this was not what I expected to see immediately upon exiting the shower.
“AHH! Australis!” And then, “Taylor! Do you think you missed something?”
Taylor: <grunts inquisitively from living room>
“Ok, go show Daddy,” I prompted.
Aza needed no encouragement. She bolted down the hallway toward her father, who gave a reaction similar to mine.
“Uh, I guess you must’ve left your makeup out,” he called.
“You were supposed to watch them!”
“I watched the other two!”
I scoffed. “Rhysi is sleeping!!”
“Exactly. And he’s still sleeping, which just goes to show that I’m doing an excellent job.”
“Look at your daughter!”
<pause> “Well, that part isn’t quite as excellent.”
I sighed. “Ok, just… don’t let anything else happen, ok? I have to finish getting dressed.”
Alas, Aza still sported her Joker-like appearance several minutes later, when I joined my family in the living room.
Noticing my gaze, she beamed, “I’m so beautiful!”
I laughed, then agreed, “Yes, baby, you are beautiful. But who is allowed to use makeup?”
“Um… Mommy?”
“Exactly. Not you. You’re still too little for makeup! It’s just for grownups.”
Taylor snorted. “Yeah, I’m sure she’ll wait that long.”
“Or, at least, just for big kids,” I amended.
“I’m a big kid!” Bo observed.
“Bigger big kids,” I amended again. “And also, boys in our family don’t wear makeup.” <pause> “Except foundation, but only when we’re getting pictures taken.” <pause> “Oh, and sometimes eyebrow color.”
Taylor scoffed. “Wow. Way to lay down the law.”
“Ok, you know what?” I laughed. “This is the rule: only Mommy uses the makeup, and I have full discretion on how and when to share it.”
Taylor: <grunts in amusement>
I ignored him. Instead, I turned back to Aza and announced, “Alright, it’s time to take off your makeup.”
My daughter immediately produced a shocking amount of tears, coupled with a piteous wail. “But I liiiiiiike it!”
I chuckled as I knelt before her with a baby wipe. “I know, sweetie. And you’ll have plenty of time to like it when you’re older. Just… maybe not quite yet.”
I carefully removed the eyeshadow and mascara — a surprising amount of which had actually ended up in the right place. (Like, there was mascara on her eyelashes.) This hadn’t just been a random act of facial vandalism.
Well, I thought sardonically, I’m sure we’ll never have *this* fight again.
Sitting back, I appraised my sweet, sassy daughter. Australis still sulked — but I knew just how to cheer her up.
With a sly grin, I asked, “Do you want me to paint your nails?”
And there, once again, was my daughter’s beautiful smile.
“Yes, please!”