Zombified, Ittybit sat staring at the T.V. watching a pint-sized prodigy perform a song from Phantom of The Opera.
The little girl, Jackie Evancho, is tiny but her voice is bigger than life.
"I want to be like that girl," she said emphatically. "I want to be famous."
It wasn't for art's sake that Ittybit wanted to make her voice lift above the songs she hears on popular radio stations. Although the beauty of the music drew her in, it was the sight of a pretty little girl in a floor-length dress that held her imagination hostage. "She's only a kid ... and she's on TeeeeVeeee!"
"You don't want to be that girl," I say immediately and without thinking. Just as quickly I want to kick myself for saying it that way.
Of course she wants to be just like that little girl. She wants to flesh out the mental picture we all have about fame. How special it would be. How good it would feel to be adored by strangers. How happy it would make you.
It's easy to find fault with the logic, but more difficult to dismiss the emotion behind it. Don't we all have some degree of desire for acknowledgement and adoration? Only we want the well-deserved kind of fame that wipes its feet when we invite it in, doesn't snoop in our drawers when it uses our facilities, and never wears out its welcome.
"No. I do want to be like her. I want to sing on a stage in front of lots of people. Or I want to publish a book. Or I want to act in the movies. I definitely want to be on TV."
I try a different approach.
"Well, I wouldn't want to be that girl. I was listening to an interview with her and she seemed extremely anxious for a little girl. She was worried about what would happen to her career when she became an adult. Would she be able to keep the momentum? Would her voice change? Would it be as pretty when it did?
“I just think that's a lot of worry for a little girl to handle."
Ittybit shrugs her shoulders. She doesn't share my concern. Time is fleeting. Even at her age she understands the importance of youth. The gun has fired and the stopwatch has started. The time to make your mark, she thinks, is now.
"She's already 11. Maybe that would be a problem if she were not yet 10," she explains as if she's already decided it's all over once you reach the chronological double digits.
Maybe I should have mentioned the hours of practice, the stress of performing for a crowd night after night after night and the lack of time to just play.
But that just takes the stance that hard work ise something to be avoided at all cost. And the idea that childhood is supposed to be carefree and easy, is just another lie we tell ourselves.
I just smile and let her dream alone.
What does her old mother know about fame and what it's like, anyway?
Maybe the best thing I can do is nothing at all. Don't help. Don't hinder.
We all have our dreams and anxieties no matter where we go or what we do. We all swim against tides. We walk down roads others travel and they're always new to us. The only thing I can really advise her to do is to follow what makes her happy until it makes her miserable. Then maybe she'll be ready to forge her own path.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Sunday, June 19, 2011
The business of childhood
The guest room was awash in orangey-pink light. "Sunrise never ceases to amaze me," I thought to myself as I dragged my broom past its doorway, whisking a cloud of dirt and debris from the mudroom toward the laundry area.
"What are we going to do today," she asks fretfully, and then answers herself: "Probably nothing. Again."
Saturdays around our house aren't the joyous, lazy affairs they once seemed to be. Each passing year brings with it taller children, bigger messes, larger laundry piles and fewer days of the week for restoring order and restocking closets.
"I just need to get this done," I reason, "and then we can do something fun."
She just shrugs. She's heard it all before. I can’t blame her. I don’t believe me, either.
As I bend to try and sweep a week's worth of dog hair and snack crumbs into the dustpan, I know I've barely made a dent. This will take me all day.
The phone rings. I pick it up and hear the welcome voice of another mother who's trying to find something for her kid to do so she won't have to make dolls dance and ponies talk.
Magical timing.
Ittybit is squinting at me as I tell her her day — and mine — has been saved by a last-minute play date.
When her friend arrives the two girls skip off to discuss their plans for world domination, trailed by the "Little Bother." It's an often spoken rule in our house that if there are to be play dates little brothers are to be included in all plans for world domination or they are to be given chores that will make them less likely to require intervention from the Hague.
Oh sure, there are disagreements.
Blah-blah ... "It's not fair." Blah-blah "Why doesn't he have his own play date. Blah-blah "He won't leave us alone ..."
But I find that reciting the rules to myself, above the din of any screaming, seems to work to everyone's advantage.
That and "Maybe I should just call her mother and tell her it's time to call it a play day."
Silence. "No, no. Never mind."
It's amazing how fast they figure it out for themselves.
It's also quite something to realize that together, two little minds can come up with so much more entertainment value than any of the things my mind can scrounge.
They will build cities out of sofa cushions as I vacuum under the couch. They will have picnics of finger foods they forage from the fridge on the front porch.
It takes no more than an hour before they've settled on a plan that will take them all day to execute and be of no interest to the Little Bother. When they get my approval, the pair disappears into the guest room, which also houses my office, a stash of fabric for crafting and two sewing machines.
There is quiet. Which should be the first clue for any parent of trouble. And then there are more questions:
Can we use some of this fabric?
How about this fabric?
Do you have any glue?
What about tape?
Eventually they hit an impasse and came to find me.
The same orangey-pink light from the morning is spilling out into the hallway as I approach the room. This time, however, the sun has nothing to do with it; it was the light reflecting off a sea of fabrics they'd cut up and strewn about the floor.
I didn't even have time to be annoyed when I saw what was left of the stash: Two perfectly lovely doll quilts arranged on the guest bed awaiting a few sweeps through the sewing machine.
"Can you help us sew them?" Ittybit asked. "We've got to get them finished so we can start working on the marketing campaign."
"What are we going to do today," she asks fretfully, and then answers herself: "Probably nothing. Again."
Saturdays around our house aren't the joyous, lazy affairs they once seemed to be. Each passing year brings with it taller children, bigger messes, larger laundry piles and fewer days of the week for restoring order and restocking closets.
"I just need to get this done," I reason, "and then we can do something fun."
She just shrugs. She's heard it all before. I can’t blame her. I don’t believe me, either.
As I bend to try and sweep a week's worth of dog hair and snack crumbs into the dustpan, I know I've barely made a dent. This will take me all day.
The phone rings. I pick it up and hear the welcome voice of another mother who's trying to find something for her kid to do so she won't have to make dolls dance and ponies talk.
Magical timing.
Ittybit is squinting at me as I tell her her day — and mine — has been saved by a last-minute play date.
When her friend arrives the two girls skip off to discuss their plans for world domination, trailed by the "Little Bother." It's an often spoken rule in our house that if there are to be play dates little brothers are to be included in all plans for world domination or they are to be given chores that will make them less likely to require intervention from the Hague.
Oh sure, there are disagreements.
Blah-blah ... "It's not fair." Blah-blah "Why doesn't he have his own play date. Blah-blah "He won't leave us alone ..."
But I find that reciting the rules to myself, above the din of any screaming, seems to work to everyone's advantage.
That and "Maybe I should just call her mother and tell her it's time to call it a play day."
Silence. "No, no. Never mind."
It's amazing how fast they figure it out for themselves.
It's also quite something to realize that together, two little minds can come up with so much more entertainment value than any of the things my mind can scrounge.
They will build cities out of sofa cushions as I vacuum under the couch. They will have picnics of finger foods they forage from the fridge on the front porch.
It takes no more than an hour before they've settled on a plan that will take them all day to execute and be of no interest to the Little Bother. When they get my approval, the pair disappears into the guest room, which also houses my office, a stash of fabric for crafting and two sewing machines.
There is quiet. Which should be the first clue for any parent of trouble. And then there are more questions:
Can we use some of this fabric?
How about this fabric?
Do you have any glue?
What about tape?
Eventually they hit an impasse and came to find me.
The same orangey-pink light from the morning is spilling out into the hallway as I approach the room. This time, however, the sun has nothing to do with it; it was the light reflecting off a sea of fabrics they'd cut up and strewn about the floor.
I didn't even have time to be annoyed when I saw what was left of the stash: Two perfectly lovely doll quilts arranged on the guest bed awaiting a few sweeps through the sewing machine.
"Can you help us sew them?" Ittybit asked. "We've got to get them finished so we can start working on the marketing campaign."
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Not everything gets lost in translation
"He was a Wego man but he didn't have arms, so my mom got me a new Wego man who did have arms, but I didn't wike his hair. I took it off. But now I can't find it. I frink I left him outside, but the cat won't bover it. I hope. I don't know. Dad said she awmust kiwed a bunny what's not living in our house anymore. If I were a bunny I would not like that."
The Champ was standing in the driveway, in his pajamas, talking a mile a minute and waving a toothbrush for emphasis. He looked like an eccentric professor.
A grandmotherly woman is smiling at him and nodding her head. He takes a breath and asks her: "Did you see dat?" She looks up at me. Her smile has tightened and I realize she didn't understand a word of what he was so emphatically telling her.
I perform a loose translation: His Lego figure lost its arms and so I bought him another one, however he lost it outside and he's slightly worried that the cat — who attacked a young rabbit recently and brought its stunned but still living body into the house — also may be hunting his toys. He was wondering if you may have come across any bald Lego people?
She pats his head as he hugs her legs. He tells her he has to wear "Aqua Arms in the pool swim."
"He wears a life preserver when he goes into the swimming pool," I say, and then whisper, "which is next on the to-do list today."
The Champ starts to bounce. We have to move on.
Schedules must be kept. We're on the meter. And everything has to be just so:
He's got his underwear perfectly positioned backwards so the Super Hero is in the front (where you can see it).
He's wearing his black Spider-Man shirt (pajamas) with his dinosaur pants (also pajamas), although he's changed twice because he spilled a drop of water near a cuff when he was brushing his teeth.
He's wearing his favorite shoes (his "golf shoes," though no one he's ever met plays the game) that must be worn at all times with socks, which are never the first ones you grabbed out of the drawer. His feet, once property encased, can never touch water — not even slight dampness — lest he have to deal with the dreaded squeaking.
His "packback" must have at least one toy, which is different from the toy he brought three weeks ago yesterday. And it must be red. ... Or blue. ... Or green. Though not today. Today is anyone's guess.
He's sleepy at nighttime and "watchy" in the morning time. Curious George on PBS is his favorite show, although sometimes he wants to watch Lego Spider-Man movies on YouTube ... unless he wants to watch "Not Wego Spider-Man moobies" on Hulu.com.
Food is a whole other kettle of fish, and even my own understanding of what he'll eat is precarious.
Did I pack the right sandwich? Was it peanut butter on Daddy's Bread (wheat) that he wanted or was it Turkey Lurkey on a Pillow (roll)?
His father, holding out a buttered bagel the boy had just begged him to make, doesn't understand why he's now so upset.
"YOU FRENCHED IT!"
"He didn't want his bagel toasted," I explain. "He likes it hot with butter, but not toasted. The brown bits make him sad. Microwave, 20 seconds."
Everything seems to get lost in translation, especially patience.
"Why does he get to do everything HIS way? Someday he's going to have to put his two feet on the ground even if it's raining," complains his sister, who only recently began wearing her left and right shoes on their proper feet.
"Because, little miss 'I-Don't-Want-To-Wear-Jeans-Because-They-Feel-Ichy,' you know as well as I do that some battles aren't worth fighting.
"And besides, I'm saving my energy for clean pajamas and brushed teeth."
The Champ was standing in the driveway, in his pajamas, talking a mile a minute and waving a toothbrush for emphasis. He looked like an eccentric professor.
A grandmotherly woman is smiling at him and nodding her head. He takes a breath and asks her: "Did you see dat?" She looks up at me. Her smile has tightened and I realize she didn't understand a word of what he was so emphatically telling her.
I perform a loose translation: His Lego figure lost its arms and so I bought him another one, however he lost it outside and he's slightly worried that the cat — who attacked a young rabbit recently and brought its stunned but still living body into the house — also may be hunting his toys. He was wondering if you may have come across any bald Lego people?
She pats his head as he hugs her legs. He tells her he has to wear "Aqua Arms in the pool swim."
"He wears a life preserver when he goes into the swimming pool," I say, and then whisper, "which is next on the to-do list today."
The Champ starts to bounce. We have to move on.
Schedules must be kept. We're on the meter. And everything has to be just so:
He's got his underwear perfectly positioned backwards so the Super Hero is in the front (where you can see it).
He's wearing his black Spider-Man shirt (pajamas) with his dinosaur pants (also pajamas), although he's changed twice because he spilled a drop of water near a cuff when he was brushing his teeth.
He's wearing his favorite shoes (his "golf shoes," though no one he's ever met plays the game) that must be worn at all times with socks, which are never the first ones you grabbed out of the drawer. His feet, once property encased, can never touch water — not even slight dampness — lest he have to deal with the dreaded squeaking.
His "packback" must have at least one toy, which is different from the toy he brought three weeks ago yesterday. And it must be red. ... Or blue. ... Or green. Though not today. Today is anyone's guess.
He's sleepy at nighttime and "watchy" in the morning time. Curious George on PBS is his favorite show, although sometimes he wants to watch Lego Spider-Man movies on YouTube ... unless he wants to watch "Not Wego Spider-Man moobies" on Hulu.com.
Food is a whole other kettle of fish, and even my own understanding of what he'll eat is precarious.
Did I pack the right sandwich? Was it peanut butter on Daddy's Bread (wheat) that he wanted or was it Turkey Lurkey on a Pillow (roll)?
His father, holding out a buttered bagel the boy had just begged him to make, doesn't understand why he's now so upset.
"YOU FRENCHED IT!"
"He didn't want his bagel toasted," I explain. "He likes it hot with butter, but not toasted. The brown bits make him sad. Microwave, 20 seconds."
Everything seems to get lost in translation, especially patience.
"Why does he get to do everything HIS way? Someday he's going to have to put his two feet on the ground even if it's raining," complains his sister, who only recently began wearing her left and right shoes on their proper feet.
"Because, little miss 'I-Don't-Want-To-Wear-Jeans-Because-They-Feel-Ichy,' you know as well as I do that some battles aren't worth fighting.
"And besides, I'm saving my energy for clean pajamas and brushed teeth."
Sunday, June 05, 2011
Attachment disorder in the reverse
I push on the door. It silently protests. It doesn't want to budge. I press harder against its panels, feeling as if I'm trying to move a big, lazy dog who is behind it, fast asleep. Slowly it opens.
Standing on the threshold, I stare into the eye of the disaster.
She's only seven but her room is teaming with a lifetime's worth of things. In the same way Dog Years inflate Earthly time, the Toy Years have a tendency of magnifying tiny collections and making mountains out of MEGA Bloks.
A pile of books leans precariously as it balances a full-sized China tea cup. All of them gifts from the neighbor's garage sale. A herd of stuffed animals, released from their basket holding pen, graze around the dust bunnies that have grown to freakish size in the darkness under her bed. All manner of skirts and shoes and socks, dropped where they were changed, mingle with dolls and drawing pads and greeting cards and bits of paper saved for no discernible reason.
I leaf through a stack that has spilled all askew.
The shiny, colorful postcards are emphatic: "SAVE BIG! TRACTOR SUPPLIES! PORTABLE GREENHOUSES! DOOR BUSTERS!"
So this is where all the junk mail goes. ...
And the cardboard out of the recycling pile. …
And sheets of bubble wrap, with only two cells left to pop. ...
And the plastic tags from the back of Band-Aids.
The shock of pink walls and chalkboard decals are muted by the realization that I can find no evidence of a structural surface below them. Not anywhere. The floors are carpeted with bath towels and blankets an all manner of trip-ables. The window ledges are encrusted with legions of colorful figurines.
I'm raising a hoarder.
Even the dresser is packed to overflowing. There are winter duds stubbornly planted amid the short sleeves and bathing suits. Didn't I pull these out and pack them away? I shrug. I consider culling the clothes again, but I know it's a waste of time. Instead I try to close the drawers, which are stuck open at perfect, stair-like intervals. It is another losing battle. The drawer exacts a fair price in winning, pinching my fingers as I try to tuck and stow its proud contents.
I am here, in her room, because she is not. My motive is spurred not by well-founded fears of fire hazard but a random request for "outgrown princess dresses." ... Dresses she couldn't find if I asked her for them, and wouldn't part with despite being unable to squeeze their size-infant bodices over her growing-girl body.
Attachment disorder in the reverse.
It took some doing, but I found oodles of the lacy, shimmery gowns in a bag at the bottom of her closet. They were big puffs of nylon and net that, by volume, could fill the room but when folded and slipped into a bag would compress to the size of a small pillow.
Mission accomplished, I was standing at the threshold again looking at the room. Satisfied there was no noticeable sign of my having been there. I knew she'd never miss the dresses I'd hauled away. But I wasn't as sure that I wouldn't miss them.
The weight of the bag was so light in comparison to the weight of what I was doing: a thief, in the afternoon, carting away her childhood one donation at a time.
Standing on the threshold, I stare into the eye of the disaster.
She's only seven but her room is teaming with a lifetime's worth of things. In the same way Dog Years inflate Earthly time, the Toy Years have a tendency of magnifying tiny collections and making mountains out of MEGA Bloks.
A pile of books leans precariously as it balances a full-sized China tea cup. All of them gifts from the neighbor's garage sale. A herd of stuffed animals, released from their basket holding pen, graze around the dust bunnies that have grown to freakish size in the darkness under her bed. All manner of skirts and shoes and socks, dropped where they were changed, mingle with dolls and drawing pads and greeting cards and bits of paper saved for no discernible reason.
I leaf through a stack that has spilled all askew.
The shiny, colorful postcards are emphatic: "SAVE BIG! TRACTOR SUPPLIES! PORTABLE GREENHOUSES! DOOR BUSTERS!"
So this is where all the junk mail goes. ...
And the cardboard out of the recycling pile. …
And sheets of bubble wrap, with only two cells left to pop. ...
And the plastic tags from the back of Band-Aids.
The shock of pink walls and chalkboard decals are muted by the realization that I can find no evidence of a structural surface below them. Not anywhere. The floors are carpeted with bath towels and blankets an all manner of trip-ables. The window ledges are encrusted with legions of colorful figurines.
I'm raising a hoarder.
Even the dresser is packed to overflowing. There are winter duds stubbornly planted amid the short sleeves and bathing suits. Didn't I pull these out and pack them away? I shrug. I consider culling the clothes again, but I know it's a waste of time. Instead I try to close the drawers, which are stuck open at perfect, stair-like intervals. It is another losing battle. The drawer exacts a fair price in winning, pinching my fingers as I try to tuck and stow its proud contents.
I am here, in her room, because she is not. My motive is spurred not by well-founded fears of fire hazard but a random request for "outgrown princess dresses." ... Dresses she couldn't find if I asked her for them, and wouldn't part with despite being unable to squeeze their size-infant bodices over her growing-girl body.
Attachment disorder in the reverse.
It took some doing, but I found oodles of the lacy, shimmery gowns in a bag at the bottom of her closet. They were big puffs of nylon and net that, by volume, could fill the room but when folded and slipped into a bag would compress to the size of a small pillow.
Mission accomplished, I was standing at the threshold again looking at the room. Satisfied there was no noticeable sign of my having been there. I knew she'd never miss the dresses I'd hauled away. But I wasn't as sure that I wouldn't miss them.
The weight of the bag was so light in comparison to the weight of what I was doing: a thief, in the afternoon, carting away her childhood one donation at a time.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Not much difference between an Apple and a pear tree
Birthday breakfast made by a seven-year-old and delivered at the crack of dawn with the help of her father.
Check.
French toast and hot coffee in bed.
Check.
A slice of yellowing apple with a bite already missing.
Sigh, check.
Breakfast-skippers be damned. You will eat the delicate little heart-shaped toasts and you will LIKE them. The burned bits, you'll exclaim, are a delicacy.
It's a little daunting, though, when the whole family perches on the end of the bed, staring at you as you lift the fork to your mouth.
Extending my plate I offer samples to those who are salivating.
"Maybe we can go get your mom's present today," says the husband, who is always slightly behind on his special-occasion shopping. "This is a Birthday-Fourth-of-July-Halloween-Thanksgiving-Christmas-and-New-Year's present," he says with a wink and a nod.
I had dropped a hint that I would like an iPad.
"You know ... I think I might actually like an iPad," I said when he asked what I might want for my birthday. "I don't know. ... I'm just thinking that I'd like one for reading books. I read so rarely since the kids were born. And there are so many books being distributed electronically ... I'm just thinking ... maybe it's not as bad as I thought. Maybe I'd actually read more if I didn't worry about collecting books or library fines ... "
It was more of an inner-monologue gone astray than a hint, but he got the message.
He was still smiling at me as I looked at him in furtive horror.
"You got me an iPad?" I asked with the tiniest bit of apprehension.
His answer was all important: If he HAD ordered the tablet computer I would have be “thrilled” and immediately commenced searching the land of electronic libraries for available titles. But if he hadn't gotten the thing I would be … relieved.
"I didn't order it yet. I was trying to figure out whether we should get one that's 3G or not."
"Let's just forget it, OK?” I tell him.” Don't get an iPad. As it is, with the phones and the computer and twitter and facebook and flickr and texts — and all the other made up words that sell gadgets — I'm already distracted enough. I don't want another screen through which the kids have to compete for my attention. You say all the time how much we're missing ... Let's not add to it ... "
I didn’t want to start a war based on the last time we argued over attentions paid to machinery, but there it was.
I knew he agreed with me, yet I could still see a sliver of disappointment. The problem of being without a gift was still at hand.
"I'd be happy with a tomato plant," I said. "We could go to the plant center."
He's a stickler, though. A $4 plant I would likely kill within 48 hours wasn't going to cut it for him.
"Let's go get a tree. What do you think? Wouldn't it be nice to have a fruit tree?"
I was a little skeptical. Trees are expensive ... and you probably need two if you want them to bear fruit. ... And then there's the thing of planting them ... and caring for them. ... "Maybe we should just research this a little before we jump in."
"You Google, I'll get the keys."
Before I knew what was happening, there we were at the apple tree store peering at rows of fruit-bearing plants. As we stood there reading the tags, the kids careened down the stone-covered walkways dragging the garden center's big-wheeled wagon behind them as if they had just been let loose in a theme park.
It dawned on me that the Apple store, with its many sales people and its knee-high computers loaded with games, may have been a less complicated place.
"What I don't get is what's the difference between the apple trees and the pear trees," he said to no one in particular.
I choked back laughter and any hope of a clever response: "Really! Really?"
He just smiled and said he was going to find someone who could help us.
"OK, but please don't ask that question when you get to The Genius Bar."
Check.
French toast and hot coffee in bed.
Check.
A slice of yellowing apple with a bite already missing.
Sigh, check.
Breakfast-skippers be damned. You will eat the delicate little heart-shaped toasts and you will LIKE them. The burned bits, you'll exclaim, are a delicacy.
It's a little daunting, though, when the whole family perches on the end of the bed, staring at you as you lift the fork to your mouth.
Extending my plate I offer samples to those who are salivating.
"Maybe we can go get your mom's present today," says the husband, who is always slightly behind on his special-occasion shopping. "This is a Birthday-Fourth-of-July-Halloween-Thanksgiving-Christmas-and-New-Year's present," he says with a wink and a nod.
I had dropped a hint that I would like an iPad.
"You know ... I think I might actually like an iPad," I said when he asked what I might want for my birthday. "I don't know. ... I'm just thinking that I'd like one for reading books. I read so rarely since the kids were born. And there are so many books being distributed electronically ... I'm just thinking ... maybe it's not as bad as I thought. Maybe I'd actually read more if I didn't worry about collecting books or library fines ... "
It was more of an inner-monologue gone astray than a hint, but he got the message.
He was still smiling at me as I looked at him in furtive horror.
"You got me an iPad?" I asked with the tiniest bit of apprehension.
His answer was all important: If he HAD ordered the tablet computer I would have be “thrilled” and immediately commenced searching the land of electronic libraries for available titles. But if he hadn't gotten the thing I would be … relieved.
"I didn't order it yet. I was trying to figure out whether we should get one that's 3G or not."
"Let's just forget it, OK?” I tell him.” Don't get an iPad. As it is, with the phones and the computer and twitter and facebook and flickr and texts — and all the other made up words that sell gadgets — I'm already distracted enough. I don't want another screen through which the kids have to compete for my attention. You say all the time how much we're missing ... Let's not add to it ... "
I didn’t want to start a war based on the last time we argued over attentions paid to machinery, but there it was.
I knew he agreed with me, yet I could still see a sliver of disappointment. The problem of being without a gift was still at hand.
"I'd be happy with a tomato plant," I said. "We could go to the plant center."
He's a stickler, though. A $4 plant I would likely kill within 48 hours wasn't going to cut it for him.
"Let's go get a tree. What do you think? Wouldn't it be nice to have a fruit tree?"
I was a little skeptical. Trees are expensive ... and you probably need two if you want them to bear fruit. ... And then there's the thing of planting them ... and caring for them. ... "Maybe we should just research this a little before we jump in."
"You Google, I'll get the keys."
Before I knew what was happening, there we were at the apple tree store peering at rows of fruit-bearing plants. As we stood there reading the tags, the kids careened down the stone-covered walkways dragging the garden center's big-wheeled wagon behind them as if they had just been let loose in a theme park.
It dawned on me that the Apple store, with its many sales people and its knee-high computers loaded with games, may have been a less complicated place.
"What I don't get is what's the difference between the apple trees and the pear trees," he said to no one in particular.
I choked back laughter and any hope of a clever response: "Really! Really?"
He just smiled and said he was going to find someone who could help us.
"OK, but please don't ask that question when you get to The Genius Bar."
Sunday, May 22, 2011
It's not fun unless you guess
"Mommy! Mommy! Guess what I found!"
She was gently cupping something in her dirt-ground hands. And I was afraid.
I hope whatever it is it hasn't been dead long, I say to myself with complete disregard for the child who stood before me beaming. I was remembering a first grader from long ago, in the salad days before I was a parent, who lead a parade of preschoolers up a dusty hill carrying a flattened squirrel as a flag.
It took a long time after witnessing that macabre cavalcade before I thought I was up to the job of parenting.
"I can't guess," I tell her hoping to return to pulling weeds from my garden of ...well, more weeds.
"Try. It's not fun unless you guess."
"OK, let me think. ... It's not the neighbor's cat ..."
"MOM! The neighbor doesn't HAVE a cat!"
"Yeah ... that's why I've ruled that out. Smart, right?"
She squints in playful exasperation. "Really? OK ... I'll give you a hint: It starts with an E. What's your guess?"
"I dunno .. an earthworm."
Her mouth twists into the unmistakable expression deflated surprise. "Oh-how-soon-ye-adult-types-cop-out-of-this-very-fun-game-of-guessing."
I take another stab at an answer. "Is it a earworm?"
"An earworm?" She exclaims. “That's gross.”
"Oh, it most certainly is. ... I've had one all day from that ‘Kidz Bop’ CD you've been playing in your room."
We could play at this game all day if I had the patience of a saint. But I barely have the patience of a three-year-old and she knows it.
"So you give up then?"
"I give up."
Her hands open like a flower and inside is a tiny porcelain elephant.
She gives it to me so I can see it better. The elephant is a watery blue color, about an inch tall. It's striking a circus pose, standing with its truck tucked under and its legs evenly placed on a circular dais.
"I found it buried in the garden."
"Wow. That's amazing," I said trying to channel my own seven-year-old self as I handed her back the treasure. "You've found yourself a mystery for sure."
She looked it over more carefully, and read the letters she found embossed on the base. "'WADE, ENG'. ... What do you think that means?"
I slip my phone out of my pocket and start up the search engine. "I'm not sure, but we can find out."
I type the words into the machine and slowly it takes me to a well-known tea company. The figures, made in England, are modern and still given out as premiums with the purchase of tea. I start to tell her about their origins, but she holds up her hand and begs me to stop reading.
She likes her mysteries with fewer facts.
"I need to do more investigation. I have to search for clues," she says running into the house. "Where's my notebook?"
I slip my answers-at-hand back into my pocket and continue my halfhearted attempts at pulling weeds. I wonder if I can find some more of that tea.
She was gently cupping something in her dirt-ground hands. And I was afraid.
I hope whatever it is it hasn't been dead long, I say to myself with complete disregard for the child who stood before me beaming. I was remembering a first grader from long ago, in the salad days before I was a parent, who lead a parade of preschoolers up a dusty hill carrying a flattened squirrel as a flag.
It took a long time after witnessing that macabre cavalcade before I thought I was up to the job of parenting.
"I can't guess," I tell her hoping to return to pulling weeds from my garden of ...well, more weeds.
"Try. It's not fun unless you guess."
"OK, let me think. ... It's not the neighbor's cat ..."
"MOM! The neighbor doesn't HAVE a cat!"
"Yeah ... that's why I've ruled that out. Smart, right?"
She squints in playful exasperation. "Really? OK ... I'll give you a hint: It starts with an E. What's your guess?"
"I dunno .. an earthworm."
Her mouth twists into the unmistakable expression deflated surprise. "Oh-how-soon-ye-adult-types-cop-out-of-this-very-fun-game-of-guessing."
I take another stab at an answer. "Is it a earworm?"
"An earworm?" She exclaims. “That's gross.”
"Oh, it most certainly is. ... I've had one all day from that ‘Kidz Bop’ CD you've been playing in your room."
We could play at this game all day if I had the patience of a saint. But I barely have the patience of a three-year-old and she knows it.
"So you give up then?"
"I give up."
Her hands open like a flower and inside is a tiny porcelain elephant.
She gives it to me so I can see it better. The elephant is a watery blue color, about an inch tall. It's striking a circus pose, standing with its truck tucked under and its legs evenly placed on a circular dais.
"I found it buried in the garden."
"Wow. That's amazing," I said trying to channel my own seven-year-old self as I handed her back the treasure. "You've found yourself a mystery for sure."
She looked it over more carefully, and read the letters she found embossed on the base. "'WADE, ENG'. ... What do you think that means?"
I slip my phone out of my pocket and start up the search engine. "I'm not sure, but we can find out."
I type the words into the machine and slowly it takes me to a well-known tea company. The figures, made in England, are modern and still given out as premiums with the purchase of tea. I start to tell her about their origins, but she holds up her hand and begs me to stop reading.
She likes her mysteries with fewer facts.
"I need to do more investigation. I have to search for clues," she says running into the house. "Where's my notebook?"
I slip my answers-at-hand back into my pocket and continue my halfhearted attempts at pulling weeds. I wonder if I can find some more of that tea.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Mom never warned me about zombies
Ah. Modern times. Or are they Post Modern? We're probably beyond all that at this point. Ah, yes, I checked with Wikipedia. We're staring directly into the face of Hypermodernity.
I'm sure there's an App to figure it all out, but one thing seems clear: History, always repeating itself, seems to have recorded some new tracks as it careens at break-neck speed down the high-speed internet.
Of course we're often wrong about such things. History runs in some strange and asymmetrical loop that can only be figured out by scholars or small children. Certainly not mothers, whose conversations with scholars and small children haven't changed since humanoids first started painting on cave walls.
Until now.
Let me set the scene:
It's the morning commute on a gray, rain-threatening day. The landscape, still crisp with fall colors though it has been spring for some time, rolls past our windows at 45 miles-per-hour. The boy is in his car seat talking non-stop about the things he sees - asking and often answering his own questions. The mother is only half listening.
"Ders a guy with wandry. Where's he going? Maybe to da wandrymat."
"Can we go the wong way? I yike the wong way. It's faster than the short way."
She wonders if she and her mother ever had conversations like this.
"The long way it is."
They drive past school buildings and playgrounds. Past apple orchards and cattle ranches. Past miles and miles of fields.
"Is that a farm?" He asks as they drive past acres of wide open land.
"Yes. That's a farm," she answer absently, momentarily wondering to herself if there will be a train at the crossing up ahead.
"What do they grow there?"
"Oh, I don't know," she says, trying to focus a little more on his conversation. "It's a pretty big field. It could be hay or corn, or something like that."
"Don't they grow zombies there? I bet they grow zombies there."
She starts to laugh. She and her mom never had this conversation, that's for sure. Her childhood nestled safely in an era before smart phone apps provided a crystal clear windows into the agricultural practices of the undead.
"That's just a computer game," she answers. "There's no such thing as zombies."
"Well ... I think it would be fun if they did grow zombies. Because if they grew zombies I could keep one for a pet."
"If zombies were real," she tells him (as if this is the most natural conversation in the world to be having with a three-year-old) you most definitely would NOT want one for a pet."
"I would. too. I would keep him in a cage and feed him every day. I would be a good zombie owner!"
"What would you feed him?"
"I don't know ... maybe Zombie Food. It costs five dollars and you can buy it at the store."
"I don't know how to break it to you bud, but zombies - which are not real anyway so don't go chasing nightmares - eat human brains. And that makes it completely unsafe to own a zombie."
"Well ... If I had a zombie I would train him not to eat human brains. That's what I would do."
She excitedly thinkis of how this moment will look stretched out over the walls of her Facebook page. She can picture the primitive drawings she might use as illustration. And then she realizes history may be on repeat after all. Caves have just gone viral.
I'm sure there's an App to figure it all out, but one thing seems clear: History, always repeating itself, seems to have recorded some new tracks as it careens at break-neck speed down the high-speed internet.
Of course we're often wrong about such things. History runs in some strange and asymmetrical loop that can only be figured out by scholars or small children. Certainly not mothers, whose conversations with scholars and small children haven't changed since humanoids first started painting on cave walls.
Until now.
Let me set the scene:
It's the morning commute on a gray, rain-threatening day. The landscape, still crisp with fall colors though it has been spring for some time, rolls past our windows at 45 miles-per-hour. The boy is in his car seat talking non-stop about the things he sees - asking and often answering his own questions. The mother is only half listening.
"Ders a guy with wandry. Where's he going? Maybe to da wandrymat."
"Can we go the wong way? I yike the wong way. It's faster than the short way."
She wonders if she and her mother ever had conversations like this.
"The long way it is."
They drive past school buildings and playgrounds. Past apple orchards and cattle ranches. Past miles and miles of fields.
"Is that a farm?" He asks as they drive past acres of wide open land.
"Yes. That's a farm," she answer absently, momentarily wondering to herself if there will be a train at the crossing up ahead.
"What do they grow there?"
"Oh, I don't know," she says, trying to focus a little more on his conversation. "It's a pretty big field. It could be hay or corn, or something like that."
"Don't they grow zombies there? I bet they grow zombies there."
She starts to laugh. She and her mom never had this conversation, that's for sure. Her childhood nestled safely in an era before smart phone apps provided a crystal clear windows into the agricultural practices of the undead.
"That's just a computer game," she answers. "There's no such thing as zombies."
"Well ... I think it would be fun if they did grow zombies. Because if they grew zombies I could keep one for a pet."
"If zombies were real," she tells him (as if this is the most natural conversation in the world to be having with a three-year-old) you most definitely would NOT want one for a pet."
"I would. too. I would keep him in a cage and feed him every day. I would be a good zombie owner!"
"What would you feed him?"
"I don't know ... maybe Zombie Food. It costs five dollars and you can buy it at the store."
"I don't know how to break it to you bud, but zombies - which are not real anyway so don't go chasing nightmares - eat human brains. And that makes it completely unsafe to own a zombie."
"Well ... If I had a zombie I would train him not to eat human brains. That's what I would do."
She excitedly thinkis of how this moment will look stretched out over the walls of her Facebook page. She can picture the primitive drawings she might use as illustration. And then she realizes history may be on repeat after all. Caves have just gone viral.
Sunday, May 08, 2011
The day to celebrate hasn’t yet arrived
Where were you when you heard commercial airline planes had crashed into the World Trade Center? Or the Pentagon? Or that that one had crashed in a Pennsylvania field on its way to a Washington landmark, possibly the White House, on Sept. 11, 2001?
The events of that day created a picture you won’t ever forget.
We know where we were and even remember every detail of that day, and the days that followed, because it was more than somber, it was sobering. In our minds that day changed everything.
Now, nearly 10 years later, we mark a new memory in our minds' indelible ink -- the killing of the man largely blamed responsible for the terrorist events that killed nearly 3,000 people on U.S. soil.
When I heard the news of Osama bin Laden’s death I was watching the end of an episode of "Treme," an HBO series depicting another American tragedy -- New Orleans in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina.
As I watch TV these days I find myself a slave to not only the ripped-from-the-headlines dramas, but also my smartphone, obsessively turning it on and off to allow the programs for email and text messages to update. (The latter obsession being the demon my husband would like to cast out.)
As he sees it, it’s not enough that we’re there on the couch, together, that matters anymore. With the constant contact of thoughts and ideas swirling around the ether, it’s what the world has to say about what we’re seeing that adds the spice.
It’s both alarming and amazing: We witnessed revolutions and every manner of revulsion alike, with strangers we know only by their avatars.
It is what it is, I tell myself in a brief sadness for the seeming demise of the simple life. Taking stock of an electronic timeline is just part of our present and probable future:
At 8:40 p.m. My children, just barely ideas before the first anniversary of 9/11, were now peacefully asleep upstairs.
At 9 p.m. we are watching television on the couch.
At 5 minute intervals I check my phone.
Nothing out of the ordinary.
Until 10:43 p.m. when the New York Times email alert read: "Osama bin Laden is Dead."
For a moment I wondered if his previously reported health problems had caught up with him. But opening the email I saw the word "killed" and realized it was not incidental.
I didn't feel anything. Numbness, perhaps. Definitely not the celebratory vibe that took hold overnight and lasted well into the next morning. I didn't even feel a sense of relief.
It's not over. We haven't closed the book on terror, or even finished the chapter. We've just torn out one sheet of paper as the prevailing wind fans all the other pages.
But it's not fear I'm feeling, either. It’s more of a low-grade dread. This interconnectedness we feel online offers the biggest disconnect of all:
As the picture on the television (now changed to a news broadcast) shows celebratory crowds in Washington and New York, I feel even greater dismay.
Not for the first time, I stare down at my phone and realize the crowd streaming into my life via the pound sign, are merely adding noise to my life instead of nuance.
I stop checking messages. I can’t be a witness to spontaneous outbursts of celebration. I can’t help them grow.
As a mother, I’m finding it’s the line I can’t cross.
There is something inherently wrong about celebrating a murder, regardless of how reviled the character.
May 2nd was an historic day, and one that will be pondered well into the infinite future. It was a day of reckoning. But it was not a day for jubilation. The day we all stand together as mothers and brothers and friends in reconciliation; that will be the day to celebrate.
The events of that day created a picture you won’t ever forget.
We know where we were and even remember every detail of that day, and the days that followed, because it was more than somber, it was sobering. In our minds that day changed everything.
Now, nearly 10 years later, we mark a new memory in our minds' indelible ink -- the killing of the man largely blamed responsible for the terrorist events that killed nearly 3,000 people on U.S. soil.
When I heard the news of Osama bin Laden’s death I was watching the end of an episode of "Treme," an HBO series depicting another American tragedy -- New Orleans in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina.
As I watch TV these days I find myself a slave to not only the ripped-from-the-headlines dramas, but also my smartphone, obsessively turning it on and off to allow the programs for email and text messages to update. (The latter obsession being the demon my husband would like to cast out.)
As he sees it, it’s not enough that we’re there on the couch, together, that matters anymore. With the constant contact of thoughts and ideas swirling around the ether, it’s what the world has to say about what we’re seeing that adds the spice.
It’s both alarming and amazing: We witnessed revolutions and every manner of revulsion alike, with strangers we know only by their avatars.
It is what it is, I tell myself in a brief sadness for the seeming demise of the simple life. Taking stock of an electronic timeline is just part of our present and probable future:
At 8:40 p.m. My children, just barely ideas before the first anniversary of 9/11, were now peacefully asleep upstairs.
At 9 p.m. we are watching television on the couch.
At 5 minute intervals I check my phone.
Nothing out of the ordinary.
Until 10:43 p.m. when the New York Times email alert read: "Osama bin Laden is Dead."
For a moment I wondered if his previously reported health problems had caught up with him. But opening the email I saw the word "killed" and realized it was not incidental.
I didn't feel anything. Numbness, perhaps. Definitely not the celebratory vibe that took hold overnight and lasted well into the next morning. I didn't even feel a sense of relief.
It's not over. We haven't closed the book on terror, or even finished the chapter. We've just torn out one sheet of paper as the prevailing wind fans all the other pages.
But it's not fear I'm feeling, either. It’s more of a low-grade dread. This interconnectedness we feel online offers the biggest disconnect of all:
As the picture on the television (now changed to a news broadcast) shows celebratory crowds in Washington and New York, I feel even greater dismay.
Not for the first time, I stare down at my phone and realize the crowd streaming into my life via the pound sign, are merely adding noise to my life instead of nuance.
I stop checking messages. I can’t be a witness to spontaneous outbursts of celebration. I can’t help them grow.
As a mother, I’m finding it’s the line I can’t cross.
There is something inherently wrong about celebrating a murder, regardless of how reviled the character.
May 2nd was an historic day, and one that will be pondered well into the infinite future. It was a day of reckoning. But it was not a day for jubilation. The day we all stand together as mothers and brothers and friends in reconciliation; that will be the day to celebrate.
Sunday, May 01, 2011
Mirror images
"Are we there yet? When will we get there? Are we there yet? "How far have we gone? Are we there yet?"
"Yes! We're there!" I say with eye-squinted sarcasm. "And in a few minutes we'll be there, too."
She looks at me skeptically. She knew as well as I that we'd not yet passed the edge of town and it was going to be a long drive until we reached our destination.
What she didn't know was the exact number of hours in which she could continue making us wish we were rendered temporarily deaf.
"When the clock says ‘3:00’ we will be there," I instruct in my most stern Don't-Be-A-Pest voice.
I don't expect it to work.
It's not as if she were the first child to join the Society for Sapping Parents' Sanity. It's an institution that predates history. I'm sure somewhere, on the walls of a cave, there are drawings of bison hunts in which large stick figures are depicted holding their hands over their ears as smaller stick figures are cushioned by bubbles of text that would loosely translate as: "When do we eat?"
As much as we all complain about being a captive audience in a cross-over vehicle, it's all so tame compared to how it will be once we get to the hotel.
The questions don't stop they are just addressed elsewhere, often embarrassingly so.
"Why does that guy have a towel on his head? Did he forget to hang it by the tub after he showered?"
These are the kind of questions that make you wish you could just keep kids in their car seats and drive them right to the room. In fact you daydream that the entire vacation could be experienced via drive-in:In your mind a visit to the pool would be the same as popping the trunk, filling it with water and handing them swim goggles. Go ahead, kids, splash away.
The big problem we face as parents, though, seems to have little to do with our kids' big-mouthed questions and more to do with our pathetic and shriveled answers.
Often we just don't know what to say so we pretend we don't hear.
And thus continues the never-ending cycle. We avert our eyes and when we raise them again we are always catching the glinty-eyed disapproval of fellow travelers. Perfect strangers, we think, until they scrunch their noses in our direction and wonder aloud about children being seen and not heard.
We are THOSE parents. The ones all the single people hope not to be and newly retired folks have, up until now, successfully avoided. We feel slightly panicked by the notion that our kids could be an annoyance to the childless, but not enough to make us book our destination to Kid Central instead. I can't face that roller coaster just yet.
We just repeat The Rules as often as we can.
“You can not bother the desk clerk. It is not their job to get you a cookie.
“Your seat is next to mine. Do NOT try to sit on lap of the lady at the next table.
“We are not getting room service. Put down the phone. “
Thing is, children will be children wherever they go.
Ittybit strikes up a conversation with another little girl poolside and is delighted to learn they share not only the same grade number but also the same name, spelling and all. After the discovery the pair will be inseparable in their minds if not their activities roster. They call out their own names in novel delight.
The questions become more pointed.
“When can I see her again?
“Can we go to dinner?
“Can I see her room?
“Can we play tomorrow?
“Can we have a sleepover?”
I see where this is going.
"We are not going to stalk this little girl and her family. I am not asking the hotel for her room number. ... We can go to the pool and the lobby and if they're there fine ... but I don't want you to get your hopes up. Families have plans and they're not likely to include perfect strangers you meet at a pool."
She gave me the squinted-eye look again. I knew exactly what it meant.
Somewhere in the hotel was a mirror of the same conversation, being begged by a girl named Ittybit with a different last name. ... And we WERE going to stalk them.
Eventually we'd find each other and know that the really wonderful part about being THAT parent is the realization that we're not alone. And the only reason we gain this wisdom is because our children refuse to stop asking questions.
"Yes! We're there!" I say with eye-squinted sarcasm. "And in a few minutes we'll be there, too."
She looks at me skeptically. She knew as well as I that we'd not yet passed the edge of town and it was going to be a long drive until we reached our destination.
What she didn't know was the exact number of hours in which she could continue making us wish we were rendered temporarily deaf.
"When the clock says ‘3:00’ we will be there," I instruct in my most stern Don't-Be-A-Pest voice.
I don't expect it to work.
It's not as if she were the first child to join the Society for Sapping Parents' Sanity. It's an institution that predates history. I'm sure somewhere, on the walls of a cave, there are drawings of bison hunts in which large stick figures are depicted holding their hands over their ears as smaller stick figures are cushioned by bubbles of text that would loosely translate as: "When do we eat?"
As much as we all complain about being a captive audience in a cross-over vehicle, it's all so tame compared to how it will be once we get to the hotel.
The questions don't stop they are just addressed elsewhere, often embarrassingly so.
"Why does that guy have a towel on his head? Did he forget to hang it by the tub after he showered?"
These are the kind of questions that make you wish you could just keep kids in their car seats and drive them right to the room. In fact you daydream that the entire vacation could be experienced via drive-in:In your mind a visit to the pool would be the same as popping the trunk, filling it with water and handing them swim goggles. Go ahead, kids, splash away.
The big problem we face as parents, though, seems to have little to do with our kids' big-mouthed questions and more to do with our pathetic and shriveled answers.
Often we just don't know what to say so we pretend we don't hear.
And thus continues the never-ending cycle. We avert our eyes and when we raise them again we are always catching the glinty-eyed disapproval of fellow travelers. Perfect strangers, we think, until they scrunch their noses in our direction and wonder aloud about children being seen and not heard.
We are THOSE parents. The ones all the single people hope not to be and newly retired folks have, up until now, successfully avoided. We feel slightly panicked by the notion that our kids could be an annoyance to the childless, but not enough to make us book our destination to Kid Central instead. I can't face that roller coaster just yet.
We just repeat The Rules as often as we can.
“You can not bother the desk clerk. It is not their job to get you a cookie.
“Your seat is next to mine. Do NOT try to sit on lap of the lady at the next table.
“We are not getting room service. Put down the phone. “
Thing is, children will be children wherever they go.
Ittybit strikes up a conversation with another little girl poolside and is delighted to learn they share not only the same grade number but also the same name, spelling and all. After the discovery the pair will be inseparable in their minds if not their activities roster. They call out their own names in novel delight.
The questions become more pointed.
“When can I see her again?
“Can we go to dinner?
“Can I see her room?
“Can we play tomorrow?
“Can we have a sleepover?”
I see where this is going.
"We are not going to stalk this little girl and her family. I am not asking the hotel for her room number. ... We can go to the pool and the lobby and if they're there fine ... but I don't want you to get your hopes up. Families have plans and they're not likely to include perfect strangers you meet at a pool."
She gave me the squinted-eye look again. I knew exactly what it meant.
Somewhere in the hotel was a mirror of the same conversation, being begged by a girl named Ittybit with a different last name. ... And we WERE going to stalk them.
Eventually we'd find each other and know that the really wonderful part about being THAT parent is the realization that we're not alone. And the only reason we gain this wisdom is because our children refuse to stop asking questions.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Reaching the sugar glass ceiling
In the blink of an eye the mystery of Easter was forever mangled by the silver screen: The Easter Bunny (or E.B. as he's known in the diminutive) was sitting on the hood of a Volvo, hunched up his haunches. There was a clattering sound and when he stepped aside ... a pile of candy.
Ewwwwwwwwwww.
"That kind of gives new meaning to 'you're full of beans, doesn't it, mom?" said Ittybit, first as a whisper and then a wall of giggles. "Full of beans."
Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
It was too late. A new understanding had already taken root. "Hop's" jelly bean fountain overflowing with a rainbow of color, which had made us all gasp at its beauty as we sat in the darkened theater, was nothing more than cartoon sewer system for all the animated inhabitants of Easter Island.
Eww.
Shh.
A tub of popcorn accidentally spilt on the floor. Two trips to the snack bar later and the credits started to roll. With them rolled Ittybit's questions: "Mom?" she said cautiously in a whisper: "Is there really an Easter bunny?"
Ah ... the seven-year-itch. The phrase generally accepted to mean the time in a marriage when the strength of fidelity weakens. The magic is gone or maybe it wasn't ever there to begin with.
In my mind that kind of thinking may start at the average age of seven, when we begin to understand that Santa was just a nice old man with whiskers moonlighting at Macy's to supplement his pension.
The gossip was probably all over school.
I knew it was only a matter of time. The fabric of the fantasy was beginning to unravel around the edges ... all those threads that were just at loose ends were now starting to fray.
I was silent. I didn't want my baby to disappear completely. Even as I roll my eyes and wish she could read the pulpy fairy stories by herself already, I didn't want all the magic to vanish.
"Did you hear me? Mom? Is the Easter Bunny real?"
"What do you think? Do you think he's real?" I ask with equal care. I don't want to douse the magic but I don't want to be accused of perpetrating an outright lie."
"I don't think there is one," she said softly, not wanting to tip off her happily oblivious brother to the possibility. Maybe she didn't even want to be right. "I think parents bring the candy."
I shrug my shoulders. What can I say? The story always seemed a little unclear. ... A rabbit, dressed in velvet and silk, hopping around the world delivering baskets of treats to kids as they sleep? ... And doing it all without thumbs?
She's probably been asking herself the same questions.
How would a rabbit even hold the baskets? Why do some children get toys and others get candy? Sometimes he hides the baskets and sometimes he just leaves them out in plain sight. And how does he deliver to all the children of the world in just one night? It takes us two hours just to go to the grocery store. It just doesn't make sense.
And those inconsistencies don't begin to explain the reasons why Hollywood has cast every single bunny as a boy. Ittybit finds it completely unfair, especially seeing as her favorite Easter story is about a mommy bunny with 21 children who defies all odds and is chosen to be The Easter Bunny. There must be a sugar glass ceiling in Movieland's ornate panoramic eggs.
It's all too complicated. There has to be a simple answer: The Easter bunny isn't real.
She takes a deep breath.
"You're the Easter bunny, aren't you?"
I shrug my shoulders.
"I can't explain magic," I tell her. "I just believe."
She smiles and accepts my explanation. But she can tell it's just the icing of denial spread thinly over a bitter-sweet chocolate cake. She only wants the frosting anyway so It's not hard to swallow. Her truth is underneath it still, waiting for her to take a bite.
Ewwwwwwwwwww.
"That kind of gives new meaning to 'you're full of beans, doesn't it, mom?" said Ittybit, first as a whisper and then a wall of giggles. "Full of beans."
Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
It was too late. A new understanding had already taken root. "Hop's" jelly bean fountain overflowing with a rainbow of color, which had made us all gasp at its beauty as we sat in the darkened theater, was nothing more than cartoon sewer system for all the animated inhabitants of Easter Island.
Eww.
Shh.
A tub of popcorn accidentally spilt on the floor. Two trips to the snack bar later and the credits started to roll. With them rolled Ittybit's questions: "Mom?" she said cautiously in a whisper: "Is there really an Easter bunny?"
Ah ... the seven-year-itch. The phrase generally accepted to mean the time in a marriage when the strength of fidelity weakens. The magic is gone or maybe it wasn't ever there to begin with.
In my mind that kind of thinking may start at the average age of seven, when we begin to understand that Santa was just a nice old man with whiskers moonlighting at Macy's to supplement his pension.
The gossip was probably all over school.
I knew it was only a matter of time. The fabric of the fantasy was beginning to unravel around the edges ... all those threads that were just at loose ends were now starting to fray.
I was silent. I didn't want my baby to disappear completely. Even as I roll my eyes and wish she could read the pulpy fairy stories by herself already, I didn't want all the magic to vanish.
"Did you hear me? Mom? Is the Easter Bunny real?"
"What do you think? Do you think he's real?" I ask with equal care. I don't want to douse the magic but I don't want to be accused of perpetrating an outright lie."
"I don't think there is one," she said softly, not wanting to tip off her happily oblivious brother to the possibility. Maybe she didn't even want to be right. "I think parents bring the candy."
I shrug my shoulders. What can I say? The story always seemed a little unclear. ... A rabbit, dressed in velvet and silk, hopping around the world delivering baskets of treats to kids as they sleep? ... And doing it all without thumbs?
She's probably been asking herself the same questions.
How would a rabbit even hold the baskets? Why do some children get toys and others get candy? Sometimes he hides the baskets and sometimes he just leaves them out in plain sight. And how does he deliver to all the children of the world in just one night? It takes us two hours just to go to the grocery store. It just doesn't make sense.
And those inconsistencies don't begin to explain the reasons why Hollywood has cast every single bunny as a boy. Ittybit finds it completely unfair, especially seeing as her favorite Easter story is about a mommy bunny with 21 children who defies all odds and is chosen to be The Easter Bunny. There must be a sugar glass ceiling in Movieland's ornate panoramic eggs.
It's all too complicated. There has to be a simple answer: The Easter bunny isn't real.
She takes a deep breath.
"You're the Easter bunny, aren't you?"
I shrug my shoulders.
"I can't explain magic," I tell her. "I just believe."
She smiles and accepts my explanation. But she can tell it's just the icing of denial spread thinly over a bitter-sweet chocolate cake. She only wants the frosting anyway so It's not hard to swallow. Her truth is underneath it still, waiting for her to take a bite.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
It's a bargain, I tell you
I couldn't sell ice water in hell, and not because my conscience prevents me from profiting from another person's pain.
In fact, I'm fairly certain that were my life to depend upon getting some thirsty soul to pony up a few pennies for a drink, I'd be pushing up daisies in short order.
Weighing the value of time and energy against the perception of a finished commodity has long made me uncomfortable. It might all boil down to the fact that I hate to ask for money. I'm much better at forking it over one paycheck at a time.
My daughter, on the other hand, is at the age where there is no better use of her playtime than selling some chunk of rubbish to an unsuspecting neighbor.
The wily world of finance has her rapt attention: "This lovely piece of crystal can be yours for only five cents," she calls over the fence toward Sunday strollers.
She's always working some angle.
It was a beautiful day; the first in weeks in which people ventured out of their houses on foot. Just the sight of all the people walking past our house gave Ittybit hope that her shop would be a wild success.
Behind the fence ... yards from the road and sidewalk ... she continued to hawk her wares.
"We got rocks. Lots of rocks. ... and crystals ... Pretty crystals for sale. Five cents a pieces. Buy one get one free. Pay no money down ... Just a nickel. That's it, just a thin nickel. Give us a quarter and we'll give you back two dimes. That's 20 whole cents you'll get back. ... It's the bargain of the day."
"Get yer rocks here. We got yer rocks here."
It was all so intoxicating to her as she gathered supplies and readied her shop for the onslaught. She lined up her wares — two dozen ancient wine bottle corks, a handful of gravel and two chunks of driveway sheared off during winter plowing — and set them in neat little rows.
Repetitively she pawed through a tin box full of change and separated each coin by denomination.
"There is so much to do," she fretted, as she taped a few cardboard signs to the fence.
"5 cents per cristal!!!!!" and "Get your rocks here, cheep!!!!"
A few kind souls ventured down the length of driveway where the shop stood a safe distance from traffic. They exchanged a few nickels for rocks.
Emboldened by the transaction, she taped another sign to a pencil and handed it to The Champ.
"Your job is to walk back and forth with the sign. Don't forget to hold it up."
He waved the piece of cardboard in front of my face. Crossed out was: "We have ALL colors" In its place read: "We have RED rocks."
I turned and saw that all the colors of the rainbow had spilled out onto the driveway.
She watches me look at the puddle of paint.
"Sorry. Will it come out?"
Yes. It will come out ... of your profits," I say with a laugh and a faux stern look.
"Ok ... but the rest I'm donating to charity."
Turns out she's not terribly fond of profiting from another person's pain either.
In fact, I'm fairly certain that were my life to depend upon getting some thirsty soul to pony up a few pennies for a drink, I'd be pushing up daisies in short order.
Weighing the value of time and energy against the perception of a finished commodity has long made me uncomfortable. It might all boil down to the fact that I hate to ask for money. I'm much better at forking it over one paycheck at a time.
My daughter, on the other hand, is at the age where there is no better use of her playtime than selling some chunk of rubbish to an unsuspecting neighbor.
The wily world of finance has her rapt attention: "This lovely piece of crystal can be yours for only five cents," she calls over the fence toward Sunday strollers.
She's always working some angle.
It was a beautiful day; the first in weeks in which people ventured out of their houses on foot. Just the sight of all the people walking past our house gave Ittybit hope that her shop would be a wild success.
Behind the fence ... yards from the road and sidewalk ... she continued to hawk her wares.
"We got rocks. Lots of rocks. ... and crystals ... Pretty crystals for sale. Five cents a pieces. Buy one get one free. Pay no money down ... Just a nickel. That's it, just a thin nickel. Give us a quarter and we'll give you back two dimes. That's 20 whole cents you'll get back. ... It's the bargain of the day."
"Get yer rocks here. We got yer rocks here."
It was all so intoxicating to her as she gathered supplies and readied her shop for the onslaught. She lined up her wares — two dozen ancient wine bottle corks, a handful of gravel and two chunks of driveway sheared off during winter plowing — and set them in neat little rows.
Repetitively she pawed through a tin box full of change and separated each coin by denomination.
"There is so much to do," she fretted, as she taped a few cardboard signs to the fence.
"5 cents per cristal!!!!!" and "Get your rocks here, cheep!!!!"
A few kind souls ventured down the length of driveway where the shop stood a safe distance from traffic. They exchanged a few nickels for rocks.
Emboldened by the transaction, she taped another sign to a pencil and handed it to The Champ.
"Your job is to walk back and forth with the sign. Don't forget to hold it up."
He waved the piece of cardboard in front of my face. Crossed out was: "We have ALL colors" In its place read: "We have RED rocks."
I turned and saw that all the colors of the rainbow had spilled out onto the driveway.
She watches me look at the puddle of paint.
"Sorry. Will it come out?"
Yes. It will come out ... of your profits," I say with a laugh and a faux stern look.
"Ok ... but the rest I'm donating to charity."
Turns out she's not terribly fond of profiting from another person's pain either.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
In marriage, some assembly required
The next order of business: The purchase of a ground-based structure resembling an aviation contraption in which many children can play at different altitudes. It comes in a box. A heavy, heavy box. With many pieces.
Who would like to second?
All in favor?
"AYE! WILL VOLUNTEER MY HUSBAND TO ASSEMBLE IT!" I blurted, a little too eagerly, as I registered my vote during the monthly board meeting of the Marilla Cuthbert Academy for Unspeakably Charming Children.
I was angry with him, you see, and could think of no better way to express my true feelings than to sign him up to sift through a-thousand-and-one teeter-totter pieces. I was giddy just imagining him having to fuse the parts all together with a million-and-one bolts ... on his day off.
Oh, I could see it all so clearly: He'd bring all his tools ... except the one that would REALLY help. The first bolt he'd need, the M80-10, would be in a mislabeled packet on the bottom of the pile, and would turn out to be missing two pieces to boot.
The drawings wouldn't look anything like the parts strewn about the play yard, and some frowny-faced emoticon would vex him as the realization set in that some way, some how, he'd managed to install the whole contraption backwards or inside out.
My voice would ring in his head in sing-song annoyance: "You should have read the directions first."
I pictured a black cloud, heavy with his expletives, hanging low over the playground like a cartoon bubble. Unable to be borne by the wind, it would hover there until Monday when the children arrived, hopefully wearing ear muffs.
For him — a fabricator and installer of large scale sculpture — it would be more like a dare than a busman's holiday. He'd do it, of course, because there's nothing that makes a man feel bigger than when his son thinks he's a superhero. And there's nothing that says superhero more perfectly than a shiny new toy assembled out of shapes no mere mortal could ever imagine.
In this crowd of knee-high beings, there are few paths to superherodom: Wearing a suit of all one color, driving trucks that crush solid waste or being responsible for the coolest plaything on Earth.
Oh sure, he'd be swearing under his breath as he turned the directions this way and that; he'd be demanding to see the designer's credentials once the drawing diverged from reality. But that's just part of the fun. The moment his son gazed at the Not-An-Actual-Flying-Toy (Nor to Be Used as a Flotation Device) and realized HIS FATHER had been the man who made it happen, it would all be worth it. There would be a ticker-tape parade in his honor. There would be praise and adulation. There may even be the unsolicited gift of pie. Pecan pie.
Then there would be the let down. The moment when the gift horse is asked to open its mouth. The moment that inevitably reveals the punishment for that particular good deed.
"That's ... uh ... really nice ... but it would look better over on the other side of the playground. Can you just move it, please?"
I was practically salivating at all the myriad ways this simple mission would be miserable.
*Clap* *clap* *clap*
His applause brings me back from my demented daydream.
"That will be great," he answers cheerfully, giving me a sly look. "We can all go to the school on Sunday and work together as a family!"
Turns out my husband has a few bones to pick with me, as well.
Who would like to second?
All in favor?
"AYE! WILL VOLUNTEER MY HUSBAND TO ASSEMBLE IT!" I blurted, a little too eagerly, as I registered my vote during the monthly board meeting of the Marilla Cuthbert Academy for Unspeakably Charming Children.
I was angry with him, you see, and could think of no better way to express my true feelings than to sign him up to sift through a-thousand-and-one teeter-totter pieces. I was giddy just imagining him having to fuse the parts all together with a million-and-one bolts ... on his day off.
Oh, I could see it all so clearly: He'd bring all his tools ... except the one that would REALLY help. The first bolt he'd need, the M80-10, would be in a mislabeled packet on the bottom of the pile, and would turn out to be missing two pieces to boot.
The drawings wouldn't look anything like the parts strewn about the play yard, and some frowny-faced emoticon would vex him as the realization set in that some way, some how, he'd managed to install the whole contraption backwards or inside out.
My voice would ring in his head in sing-song annoyance: "You should have read the directions first."
I pictured a black cloud, heavy with his expletives, hanging low over the playground like a cartoon bubble. Unable to be borne by the wind, it would hover there until Monday when the children arrived, hopefully wearing ear muffs.
For him — a fabricator and installer of large scale sculpture — it would be more like a dare than a busman's holiday. He'd do it, of course, because there's nothing that makes a man feel bigger than when his son thinks he's a superhero. And there's nothing that says superhero more perfectly than a shiny new toy assembled out of shapes no mere mortal could ever imagine.
In this crowd of knee-high beings, there are few paths to superherodom: Wearing a suit of all one color, driving trucks that crush solid waste or being responsible for the coolest plaything on Earth.
Oh sure, he'd be swearing under his breath as he turned the directions this way and that; he'd be demanding to see the designer's credentials once the drawing diverged from reality. But that's just part of the fun. The moment his son gazed at the Not-An-Actual-Flying-Toy (Nor to Be Used as a Flotation Device) and realized HIS FATHER had been the man who made it happen, it would all be worth it. There would be a ticker-tape parade in his honor. There would be praise and adulation. There may even be the unsolicited gift of pie. Pecan pie.
Then there would be the let down. The moment when the gift horse is asked to open its mouth. The moment that inevitably reveals the punishment for that particular good deed.
"That's ... uh ... really nice ... but it would look better over on the other side of the playground. Can you just move it, please?"
I was practically salivating at all the myriad ways this simple mission would be miserable.
*Clap* *clap* *clap*
His applause brings me back from my demented daydream.
"That will be great," he answers cheerfully, giving me a sly look. "We can all go to the school on Sunday and work together as a family!"
Turns out my husband has a few bones to pick with me, as well.
Sunday, April 03, 2011
Cupcakes for dinner and other shared traits
She couldn't keep her hands out of her hair. Or maybe she couldn't extract her hands from her hair. Her knotted, bedraggled hair.
Realizing the finer point of distinction, such as it is, I find it hard to tell. I try to smooth it, saying her hair needs some kind of protein salve or cream rinse or some other product of detanglement that has thus far eluded me, too.
"Leave it be," she says and shoos my hand away.
So I rationalize her smile outshines her lank locks. That's what I tell myself as we are out in the world, just the two of us. My mini me, or so has been marveled by many-a stranger.
"She looks just like you," they'll say with a smile. I wonder if it's the long messy hair that people see in common ... or the clothes that seem to have been selected by covering the closet in kibble and seeing what the dog drags out. It can't be our features or our personalities.
As I look at her, with her easy smile and solid profile, I see each feature in terms of fruit tossed into a salad by the family tree. She has father's eyes and her grandfather's nose. She has one grandmother's hair, and the other grandmother's hands.
I find it curious how all these bits and pieces seem to have played genetic hop-scotch in shaping her, and yet I don't see myself in her at all. Especially in personality, she seems to be my polar opposite.
Yet it's near impossible to put yourself down when someone is comparing you to your child.
She is easy going. Cautious but not shy. Once she's jumped in, I know pulling her out will take all my resolve. "How much do we really need to be home by bedtime?" is a question I've asked myself far too often. We all know who runs the show.
These thoughts and more (like how long can a person go without food before they start to shake and growl and chew at their clothes) were going through my head as Ittybit snaked her way through the crowded Art Center, trying to fill up her passport sheet with stamps from each workshop station.
Drawing, check. Jewelry, check. Printmaking, check. Pottery, check. Swing dance, check. Art installation, check. Music, check.
"Hey, look. ... Cupcakes! Let's go check the kitchen."
I follow her, knowing she is following her own drum beats. And we might get lost along the way.
It's girls' night, after all. And it's a rare event. Time alone with mom usually means bursting into the bathroom unannounced and being shooed out unceremoniously. It might also mean sitting in a darkened room, crying, whilst listening to mom rattle off a laundry list of reasons why playing hide and seek with your brother must include actually going to look for him.
Doing something fun together is as rare as eating cake for dinner.
"Have one," she says, holding up a her creation: A Chocolate Vanilla Delight"
"You'll like it ... it has protein."
I bend down, brush the hair from my own face and take a bite. I don't have to tell her how many times I've eaten cake for dinner.
Realizing the finer point of distinction, such as it is, I find it hard to tell. I try to smooth it, saying her hair needs some kind of protein salve or cream rinse or some other product of detanglement that has thus far eluded me, too.
"Leave it be," she says and shoos my hand away.
So I rationalize her smile outshines her lank locks. That's what I tell myself as we are out in the world, just the two of us. My mini me, or so has been marveled by many-a stranger.
"She looks just like you," they'll say with a smile. I wonder if it's the long messy hair that people see in common ... or the clothes that seem to have been selected by covering the closet in kibble and seeing what the dog drags out. It can't be our features or our personalities.
As I look at her, with her easy smile and solid profile, I see each feature in terms of fruit tossed into a salad by the family tree. She has father's eyes and her grandfather's nose. She has one grandmother's hair, and the other grandmother's hands.
I find it curious how all these bits and pieces seem to have played genetic hop-scotch in shaping her, and yet I don't see myself in her at all. Especially in personality, she seems to be my polar opposite.
Yet it's near impossible to put yourself down when someone is comparing you to your child.
She is easy going. Cautious but not shy. Once she's jumped in, I know pulling her out will take all my resolve. "How much do we really need to be home by bedtime?" is a question I've asked myself far too often. We all know who runs the show.
These thoughts and more (like how long can a person go without food before they start to shake and growl and chew at their clothes) were going through my head as Ittybit snaked her way through the crowded Art Center, trying to fill up her passport sheet with stamps from each workshop station.
Drawing, check. Jewelry, check. Printmaking, check. Pottery, check. Swing dance, check. Art installation, check. Music, check.
"Hey, look. ... Cupcakes! Let's go check the kitchen."
I follow her, knowing she is following her own drum beats. And we might get lost along the way.
It's girls' night, after all. And it's a rare event. Time alone with mom usually means bursting into the bathroom unannounced and being shooed out unceremoniously. It might also mean sitting in a darkened room, crying, whilst listening to mom rattle off a laundry list of reasons why playing hide and seek with your brother must include actually going to look for him.
Doing something fun together is as rare as eating cake for dinner.
"Have one," she says, holding up a her creation: A Chocolate Vanilla Delight"
"You'll like it ... it has protein."
I bend down, brush the hair from my own face and take a bite. I don't have to tell her how many times I've eaten cake for dinner.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
No one really wants to rain on a parade
Ittybit was brimming with excitement. When I got home from work she greeted me at the door holding a familiar drawing, enhanced with new and unfamiliar autographs.
She'd been reticent to go to her after-school program but unable to pinpoint why. With gigantic huffs and theatrical eye rolls, she recants a litany of complaints: "It's no fun. There are bullies. No one plays with me. I can't get to the craft table soon enough. I just sit there. And. Wait."
We didn't want to minimize her concerns, but the four days a week she attends its programs getting her to leave has been similar to extracting a confession from a statue. It's just that Tuesdays, the day after her three-day respite from respite, that seem to be the problem. It's all in the lead up.
So, in an effort to get her past this moment of dread, I offer a vast and changing array of suggestions: "You could bring a game or a toy? You could bring a book and read? "Maybe you could get a game of Freeze Dance going? You love Freeze Dance."
It was plain from the tilt of her head and the diminished distance between her eyelids that I'd grown another head.
I was not deterred.
"How about you bring some drawing paper and pens?"
Her eyes widen and her head balances evenly on her neck. I had her attention.
"You know, we need kids to help us with the parade dragon we've been making. ... Maybe, if you take the drawing with you, you can explain what it is we're doing and recruit volunteers."
She liked that. It appealed to the wee little art director in her soul. And as her face brightens, I can picture her flitting from student to student trying to gain their interest.
As she stood there ... beaming up at me gripping her autographed plans, she wanted me to know the day had been G-R-E-A-T. Everyone loved the idea and wanted to be a part of it. It was going to be the best parade ever and she'd be making flyers and cookies for all who came to dance down the road under a cardboard box trailing a quarter-mile of iridescent fabric.
"Look," she said, thrusting the paper in my direction.
I turned over the drawing and found a list of names neatly printed alongside a column of phone numbers.
Numbers like 555-1234.
"When should we call them?" she wondered. "A month before? A week? How about tomorrow?"
“Next Tuesday in Never” sprang to mind, but I knew I'd need to put it more delicately.
"Honey, these phone numbers aren't real phone numbers. We can't call these. My guess is you asked some older kids who didn't want to say "No" but didn't want to get a phone call either."
"Are you sure?" she asked with a wry little smile. "Would someone really give a little kid like me a phony phone number?" she said squinting at the numbers.
"There's too many patterns. Most real numbers don't go in such clear order," I explained and showed her a listing from a phone book.
She just shrugged her shoulders and skipped off. Every bounce of her being proclaiming it "Their loss."
They won't get any of the special "dragon cookies" she'd been planning to bake for the crew. They wouldn't get to throw candy at the crowds who gather at the edges of their driveways. They would miss the best parade of the year and they wouldn't even know it.
My shoulders weren't as relaxed as I wondered aloud if I should have mentioned the deception. I could have just as easily asked her about all the kids we know well, children her own age, who'd actually LIKE to be in her parade.
My husband just shrugged his shoulders. "I think it's best to tell her the truth. She'll find out anyway. If someone's going to rain on her parade, it's probably better that it's you."
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Worries linger but construction paper fades
I had imagined parents the world over have been quietly slipping their children’s artwork in with the recycling — saving only the most precious for posterity — since the invention of paper thousands of years ago. But I had no idea it was a subject of great consternation until the New York Times in January published a much-shared expose on the most ruthless of all art critics: Mom.
Maybe the stick figure families committed to scrap paper make it to the refrigerator before finding their way into the trash, maybe they don’t. Or maybe the squiggle-made “elephant” of an undecipherable color helps start a fire moments after it is prodigiously praised for the arch of its trunk and the way its girth fills up the page space.
Health care premiums sky high, education budgets in the toilet; taxes up, jobs down – those worries will always be with us while the color on construction paper fades.
First-World problems, perhaps, but serious business nonetheless, and one more reason our kids will end up in therapy. “Mom is throwing out ART WORK? HO-MY-GAD!”
To be brutally honest, there’s only so much construction paper a one-family construction can hold. But how do we know WHAT we should be saving what we can safely toss?
Some parents have told me they save only "original works of art" that come from the child’s imagination, as opposed to a web-site’s step-by-step instructions. We hate these folks (except for my husband) and have crossed them off our Christmas card list.
Others — *cough*NOT ME*cough* — will save only the stuff their kids insist on sleeping with because they know if they take their eyes off it for even a millisecond, their glorious glitter-covered princess will be art napped and never heard from again.
There rest of us fall somewhere in between. We save probably more than we should, push it around our desks for a while. Moving it from closet to closet — maybe even from old house to new house — before we decide to let some of it go.
We know beauty is in the eye of the beholder, so most of us tend to save art work based on our own preferences. In addition to just "liking" something, I tend to save anything that has words used in explanation or that include stories. (Drawings containing misspelled expletives are framed).
But HOW we save it becomes another conundrum.
The following is a list of the most popular methods for saving cherished works of kinderart, which vary by cost and complexity:
Hold the dough, sauce and cheese-y goodness The most cost effective storage: Use a clean, empty pizza box to store artwork by year. Use one box per school: Elementary and Middle school. (High Schooler’s works will probably be off limits. They save what they want themselves). These can easily be stored on closet shelf or under a bed.
Artist Colony You can save all kinds of flat work a handled portfolio case. They are relatively compact but are large enough (if you are discriminating in what you save) to hold most two-dimensional creations a child makes during their entire educational career, unless they plan on going to an art college. In which case they will likely burn all their old drawing and use the case for their "real work."
Artistic Ant Colony This would be similar to the above portfolio case option, but scaled down in size to fit into ordinary office binders. This means parents are limited to keeping only art that conforms to the standard 8 ½” by 11” paper size. Think Origami originals.
Art Recycling Using techniques of collage, create new artworks from old ones: Laminate and make placemats or bookmarks or greeting cards. Use as gift wrap. Or literally recycle by putting lesser-loved works the revolving file ... in the middle of the night ... on the eve of recycling day ... whilst your petite Picasso sleeps. (Then pray the truck makes it to the curb before the bus comes).
The Mother of All Storage Schemes The overachiever parents among us** are digitally documenting each and every work of art Junior makes — from his pencil squiggles to his pipe-cleaner sculptures — and using any one of a growing number of self-publishing sites to turn them into carefully composed coffee table books that can be admired and cherished for generations.
**I have not done this … though I have take pictures of some of my favorites and uploaded them to the photosharing website flickr, where I’ve tagged them as "art" so I can search for them later. (But I pray, perhaps even more fervently than for schools to hold on to their arts programs, that flickr doesn’t go out of business taking all my carefully archived photos with it into the ethosphere).
Now, with the Whats and the Hows solved, the only question left is Why? What will eventually happen to all this pent up creativity?
One day you'll drag it out, dust it off and present it in all its musty glory to the artist, now grown and in possession of piles of his own children's creative genius. What he does with the collection will be the final answer to what has been the real question all along: whether hoarding ... like artistic prowess ... is an inherited trait.
Maybe the stick figure families committed to scrap paper make it to the refrigerator before finding their way into the trash, maybe they don’t. Or maybe the squiggle-made “elephant” of an undecipherable color helps start a fire moments after it is prodigiously praised for the arch of its trunk and the way its girth fills up the page space.
Health care premiums sky high, education budgets in the toilet; taxes up, jobs down – those worries will always be with us while the color on construction paper fades.
First-World problems, perhaps, but serious business nonetheless, and one more reason our kids will end up in therapy. “Mom is throwing out ART WORK? HO-MY-GAD!”
To be brutally honest, there’s only so much construction paper a one-family construction can hold. But how do we know WHAT we should be saving what we can safely toss?
Some parents have told me they save only "original works of art" that come from the child’s imagination, as opposed to a web-site’s step-by-step instructions. We hate these folks (except for my husband) and have crossed them off our Christmas card list.
Others — *cough*NOT ME*cough* — will save only the stuff their kids insist on sleeping with because they know if they take their eyes off it for even a millisecond, their glorious glitter-covered princess will be art napped and never heard from again.
There rest of us fall somewhere in between. We save probably more than we should, push it around our desks for a while. Moving it from closet to closet — maybe even from old house to new house — before we decide to let some of it go.
We know beauty is in the eye of the beholder, so most of us tend to save art work based on our own preferences. In addition to just "liking" something, I tend to save anything that has words used in explanation or that include stories. (Drawings containing misspelled expletives are framed).
But HOW we save it becomes another conundrum.
The following is a list of the most popular methods for saving cherished works of kinderart, which vary by cost and complexity:
Hold the dough, sauce and cheese-y goodness The most cost effective storage: Use a clean, empty pizza box to store artwork by year. Use one box per school: Elementary and Middle school. (High Schooler’s works will probably be off limits. They save what they want themselves). These can easily be stored on closet shelf or under a bed.
Artist Colony You can save all kinds of flat work a handled portfolio case. They are relatively compact but are large enough (if you are discriminating in what you save) to hold most two-dimensional creations a child makes during their entire educational career, unless they plan on going to an art college. In which case they will likely burn all their old drawing and use the case for their "real work."
Artistic Ant Colony This would be similar to the above portfolio case option, but scaled down in size to fit into ordinary office binders. This means parents are limited to keeping only art that conforms to the standard 8 ½” by 11” paper size. Think Origami originals.
Art Recycling Using techniques of collage, create new artworks from old ones: Laminate and make placemats or bookmarks or greeting cards. Use as gift wrap. Or literally recycle by putting lesser-loved works the revolving file ... in the middle of the night ... on the eve of recycling day ... whilst your petite Picasso sleeps. (Then pray the truck makes it to the curb before the bus comes).
The Mother of All Storage Schemes The overachiever parents among us** are digitally documenting each and every work of art Junior makes — from his pencil squiggles to his pipe-cleaner sculptures — and using any one of a growing number of self-publishing sites to turn them into carefully composed coffee table books that can be admired and cherished for generations.
**I have not done this … though I have take pictures of some of my favorites and uploaded them to the photosharing website flickr, where I’ve tagged them as "art" so I can search for them later. (But I pray, perhaps even more fervently than for schools to hold on to their arts programs, that flickr doesn’t go out of business taking all my carefully archived photos with it into the ethosphere).
Now, with the Whats and the Hows solved, the only question left is Why? What will eventually happen to all this pent up creativity?
One day you'll drag it out, dust it off and present it in all its musty glory to the artist, now grown and in possession of piles of his own children's creative genius. What he does with the collection will be the final answer to what has been the real question all along: whether hoarding ... like artistic prowess ... is an inherited trait.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
All roads lead to the highway ... except the ones that lead to oatmeal
I took a left when I should have taken a right.
I was out of my element, more than an hour from home and it was dark.
As I turned I'd had the feeling I'd gone in the wrong direction, but continued on just for confirmation.
I thought about turning around.
One street. Two streets. A mile of streets. Another mile of streets.
Might as well keep going, I tell myself. Eventually I'll find something I recognize.
In a day in age when gasoline prices are eating into food budgets and car exhaust is poisoning the planet, other motorists might retrace their steps and cut their losses. I motor on through. I tend to think there are only six streets of separation from me and any major highway, and that all roads eventually lead to some place I'll recognize. I reason, maybe the drive will, at the very least, help my over-stimulated children, bickering side by side in their car seats, fall asleep.
I can hear my husband's voice in my head ...
"What are you doing? This is crazy. Turn around."
Even when he's not in the car, he tells me how to drive.
In fact I'm sure, were I to think on it any further, he'd intervene with some form of pocket-sized salvation designed to contradict my fabricated understanding of the universe.
"Being lost isn't the worst thing. Sometimes it leads you to places beyond your wildest dreams."
The bickering stops for a blessed moment. I checked the rear-view mirror. Ittybit's eyes were wide.
"You don't KNOW where we ARE!?!"
"I said some of that out loud, didn't I?"
"We're LOST!?"
"We're not lost, really. I know generally where we are, I just don't know exactly where we are."
"You know what this means, right?"
"It's going to take us longer to get home?"
"No. We are going to have to sleep in our car, and in the morning we'll have to go to one of these houses and beg for food. ... Only they probably won't give food to you, because nobody will give food to an adult ... so I'll have to go up to the door and you'll have to hide in the bushes. ..."
"I am not hiding in the bushes," I say emphatically. "We are not going to pull a bait and switch on a homeowner. Besides, we are NOT going to be lost for long ... I'll find the highway and we'll be home before you know it."
"You know," she continues as if I hadn't spoken. "If they have oatmeal you will have to eat it. Beggars can't be choosers."
"We are not going to have to beg for food. Look, there's a sign for the highway. We're almost back to where we started. Why don't you just relax and listen to the radio."
She's quiet for a while as I turn onto the highway.
"Ah ... mom?"
"What, hon?"
"We're on the highway?"
"Yep. We are. It's the highway alright."
"You know what this means, right?"
"We'll be home soon?"
"No. It means we are going to STARVE! There are no houses on this road."
Sunday, March 06, 2011
Putting out small fires is just part of the job
We can tell ourselves "parenting isn't a job it's a relationship" and other philosophical truths. But we all know it's work. And work can be exhausting. Vacations, on the other hand, are supposed to be refreshing. Yet, while the family may be doing something different for a week at a time, someone still has to do the laundry. And dispose of kitty litter. And put out small fires.
You may plan to be a tourist in your own town, sit poolside or read The Weekly World News to your heart's content, but when the junior miss and mister are bickering over who gets the last pretzel, and the boy sprays purple grape juice over the girl to make his point, it's likely to be you who is called to put out the fire.
It's just a fact. Similar to the understanding marriage is work, though no one would ever call it a job.
Now I'm not trying to create a gender war, here. Mom isn't the only one separating skirmishing siblings and scrubbing purple from duds. Although many-a-smart man has had the laundry duties removed from his Honey-Do List permanently if for no other reason than to ensure that her favorite cream-color wool zippered cardigan doesn't end up doll-sized and pink.
Let's just call it a matter of drathers.
I'd rather fold laundry than shovel sidewalks.
He'd rather shovel than have me drive his tractor into the house.
I'd rather scoop kitty litter than trap mice.
He'd rather be hung by his toenails and drained of blood than deal with the cat's recycled Nine Lives.
I'd rather clean bathrooms than cook dinner.
He'd like to eat.
So it's really not a he-said, she-said kind of fight I'm picking.
It's more of a everyone's going to be blind after we get done getting our eye for an eye.
For instance. Let's just say a certain person -- HIM -- discovered the kitty litter had been disposed of improperly.
Dumped unceremoniously into the backyard with the dog poo.
Now, to the dump scofflaw -- ME -- it's all poo, and it will be cleaned up in the spring.
However the dump discoverer -- HIM -- figures .. it's gross and I'm the one who's going to get the shovel job.
Commence the launching of arms:
Don't you know the dog sees this as a delicacy? It's gross. What will the neighbors say? It's gross.
Counter attack:
It's poo. I will clean it up in the spring. There's a fence. I said I would clean it up.
Fight, fight, bicker, bicker. Fight some more.
It's never really the thing you're fighting about that's the problem. It's the WAY you both do it.
Poke. Eyes. Poke. Eyes. Until each of you sit there blinking back blinding rage.
Eventually the argument ends and you try and put it behind you. Chalk it up to stress and short tempers. It's only kitty litter. Even the name of the stuff sounds funny. Kitty litter.
But some piece of it stays with you like sand from the beach.
Hurtful words that can't be taken back easily.
I'm still thinking about it as I load the wood stove, improperly. And the log I now realize won't fit completely into the stove is catching on fire. The gloves aren't where they should be. Nor is the fire extinguisher.
I calmly tell the kids to get on their coats and go outside to wait for me to call them back inside. And then I call him in a panic, yelling the words no one wants to hear after they sing-song a happy "Hello."
"WHERE IS THE FIRE EXTINQUISHER?"
What? Huh? What's going on?
Long story made shortened by another JUST TELL ME WHERE IT IS ... A log is on fire and I can't shut the stove door.
Just throw the log out into the snow! He says.
THERE'S NO GLOVE!
Use my good gloves. They're leather. They'll work.
I find them, return to the stove and the log still balanced precariously, and quickly open the door to the backyard.
But I'm standing there, now with the flaming log securely in his dress gloves ready to toss it into the snow, I can't help but laugh at what I see.
The Christmas tree he disposed of in late January is just a few paces from my little pile of improperly discarded kitty litter.
I toss the log between the two.
As the hiss of snow extinguishes the log, my shoulders release their grip on my ears. I won't say a word to him about this epiphany, or my feeling of victory. I'll just tell the neighbors.
You may plan to be a tourist in your own town, sit poolside or read The Weekly World News to your heart's content, but when the junior miss and mister are bickering over who gets the last pretzel, and the boy sprays purple grape juice over the girl to make his point, it's likely to be you who is called to put out the fire.
It's just a fact. Similar to the understanding marriage is work, though no one would ever call it a job.
Now I'm not trying to create a gender war, here. Mom isn't the only one separating skirmishing siblings and scrubbing purple from duds. Although many-a-smart man has had the laundry duties removed from his Honey-Do List permanently if for no other reason than to ensure that her favorite cream-color wool zippered cardigan doesn't end up doll-sized and pink.
Let's just call it a matter of drathers.
I'd rather fold laundry than shovel sidewalks.
He'd rather shovel than have me drive his tractor into the house.
I'd rather scoop kitty litter than trap mice.
He'd rather be hung by his toenails and drained of blood than deal with the cat's recycled Nine Lives.
I'd rather clean bathrooms than cook dinner.
He'd like to eat.
So it's really not a he-said, she-said kind of fight I'm picking.
It's more of a everyone's going to be blind after we get done getting our eye for an eye.
For instance. Let's just say a certain person -- HIM -- discovered the kitty litter had been disposed of improperly.
Dumped unceremoniously into the backyard with the dog poo.
Now, to the dump scofflaw -- ME -- it's all poo, and it will be cleaned up in the spring.
However the dump discoverer -- HIM -- figures .. it's gross and I'm the one who's going to get the shovel job.
Commence the launching of arms:
Don't you know the dog sees this as a delicacy? It's gross. What will the neighbors say? It's gross.
Counter attack:
It's poo. I will clean it up in the spring. There's a fence. I said I would clean it up.
Fight, fight, bicker, bicker. Fight some more.
It's never really the thing you're fighting about that's the problem. It's the WAY you both do it.
Poke. Eyes. Poke. Eyes. Until each of you sit there blinking back blinding rage.
Eventually the argument ends and you try and put it behind you. Chalk it up to stress and short tempers. It's only kitty litter. Even the name of the stuff sounds funny. Kitty litter.
But some piece of it stays with you like sand from the beach.
Hurtful words that can't be taken back easily.
I'm still thinking about it as I load the wood stove, improperly. And the log I now realize won't fit completely into the stove is catching on fire. The gloves aren't where they should be. Nor is the fire extinguisher.
I calmly tell the kids to get on their coats and go outside to wait for me to call them back inside. And then I call him in a panic, yelling the words no one wants to hear after they sing-song a happy "Hello."
"WHERE IS THE FIRE EXTINQUISHER?"
What? Huh? What's going on?
Long story made shortened by another JUST TELL ME WHERE IT IS ... A log is on fire and I can't shut the stove door.
Just throw the log out into the snow! He says.
THERE'S NO GLOVE!
Use my good gloves. They're leather. They'll work.
I find them, return to the stove and the log still balanced precariously, and quickly open the door to the backyard.
But I'm standing there, now with the flaming log securely in his dress gloves ready to toss it into the snow, I can't help but laugh at what I see.
The Christmas tree he disposed of in late January is just a few paces from my little pile of improperly discarded kitty litter.
I toss the log between the two.
As the hiss of snow extinguishes the log, my shoulders release their grip on my ears. I won't say a word to him about this epiphany, or my feeling of victory. I'll just tell the neighbors.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Mommy intuition not included
I could see it in the doctor's eyes as he wondered what symptoms had brought us in.
I was wasting his time.
No fever? No sore throat? No runny nose?
No. No. Um, no.
I was worried about the rash-y skin.
But up until the moment I decided I couldn't wait until Monday to call their regular doctor, I had been holding off, applying cream and hoping for spontaneous healing.
Winter skin. Chapped, dry, over-licked, eczema skin.
It's just a rash, I tell myself. The little voice in my head, though, the one that listens to pharmaceutical ads as if they were horror movies come to life, clucks at my rational self and starts tossing words around like streptococci and Methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus … more commonly known as MRSA.
Don't jump to conclusions, I tell myself. You always jump to the worst-possible-scenario.
It's just my natural response ever since pharmaceutical companies started to cast their nets for potential patients, turning every ache or pain into the the beginning of the end. Even if you would rather have the disease than the cure, you listen unblinkingly to the laundry list of potential side effects that have rarely, though sometimes, been associated with the unpronounceable chemical cure.
I tend to switch channels as fast as I can so I don't end up calling the doctor to see if I shouldn't be taking something for whatever dysfunction their selling.
But having lunch with parents from Ittybit's class, who casually noted this was the year of symptom-less streptococci infection, I started thinking. …
She's in their classes …
Been on play dates.
She had a fever when all their kids were coming down with strep.
She had a headache.
I worried about it a little at the time. But it went away.
And then I didn't worry about it. There had been no sore throat. No excessive coughing. No lethargy or listlessness. The kids were their usual selves.
98.6 degrees of normal.
I never said anything to my friends they recited a commercial-sized list of symptoms that can be overlooked, I just listened with wide eyes.
It's just unusual, they said. They don't always exhibit classic symptoms. They sometimes get rashes. Strange coloring on their faces. Sometimes nothing at all. …
Which lead me to obsessing …
Which then lead to Googling …
Which ultimately lead to a Sunday morning visit to an Urgent Care.
It's just a simple swab to put my mind at ease, I tell myself.
Negative.
Funny, though It doesn't put my mind at ease.
It just proves the instincts I thought came with the job are nowhere to be found.
Worry for nothing, and the waste of a perfectly good afternoon. The kids are starving and tired, and look at me with faces that could have done so many other things beside play Angry Birds and wait.
I was wasting his time.
No fever? No sore throat? No runny nose?
No. No. Um, no.
I was worried about the rash-y skin.
But up until the moment I decided I couldn't wait until Monday to call their regular doctor, I had been holding off, applying cream and hoping for spontaneous healing.
Winter skin. Chapped, dry, over-licked, eczema skin.
It's just a rash, I tell myself. The little voice in my head, though, the one that listens to pharmaceutical ads as if they were horror movies come to life, clucks at my rational self and starts tossing words around like streptococci and Methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus … more commonly known as MRSA.
Don't jump to conclusions, I tell myself. You always jump to the worst-possible-scenario.
It's just my natural response ever since pharmaceutical companies started to cast their nets for potential patients, turning every ache or pain into the the beginning of the end. Even if you would rather have the disease than the cure, you listen unblinkingly to the laundry list of potential side effects that have rarely, though sometimes, been associated with the unpronounceable chemical cure.
I tend to switch channels as fast as I can so I don't end up calling the doctor to see if I shouldn't be taking something for whatever dysfunction their selling.
But having lunch with parents from Ittybit's class, who casually noted this was the year of symptom-less streptococci infection, I started thinking. …
She's in their classes …
Been on play dates.
She had a fever when all their kids were coming down with strep.
She had a headache.
I worried about it a little at the time. But it went away.
And then I didn't worry about it. There had been no sore throat. No excessive coughing. No lethargy or listlessness. The kids were their usual selves.
98.6 degrees of normal.
I never said anything to my friends they recited a commercial-sized list of symptoms that can be overlooked, I just listened with wide eyes.
It's just unusual, they said. They don't always exhibit classic symptoms. They sometimes get rashes. Strange coloring on their faces. Sometimes nothing at all. …
Which lead me to obsessing …
Which then lead to Googling …
Which ultimately lead to a Sunday morning visit to an Urgent Care.
It's just a simple swab to put my mind at ease, I tell myself.
Negative.
Funny, though It doesn't put my mind at ease.
It just proves the instincts I thought came with the job are nowhere to be found.
Worry for nothing, and the waste of a perfectly good afternoon. The kids are starving and tired, and look at me with faces that could have done so many other things beside play Angry Birds and wait.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Let's pretend ... to like each other
I wish we could all share in the true sentiment of primary school Valentines.
When we are in primary school the beauty of its simplicity is wasted on us. A little past primary and we get caught up in the emotion of romantic love … mostly the complexity of it … and in the confusion the whole thing tends to leave a bad taste in our mouths.
Somewhere between this angst-y state of desire and some version of mature fulfillment we decide Valentine's Day is just some ridiculous notion cooked up by marketers to relieve us of our hard-earned cash.
So, we dust our hands of it, happy to be rid of its fakery.
That is … until our kids reach the age when paper hearts and printed confections are as exciting as the sunrise on a brand new day. Then, like it or not, our hands become soiled again in glitter and glue.
I know a lot of folks would like to see the tiny hearts of this holiday shrivel up and blow away. I'm sure at one time or another I was one of them. No thing is the same for any one of us, after all. Some of us can't be bothered, others are bothered beyond belief.
But it wasn't until I helped Ittybit make a class-load of valentines that I understood what I'd been missing all those years.
She selected a project that seemed easy enough. She'd draw pictures of each of her classmates using the class picture as a reference. Taking some advice from the internet, I drew the chins, necks and ears to make the sizes similar. She drew the hair, faces and wrote in the names.
It took us two days and a slew of do-overs until she was satisfied with the results.
In those two days we talked about each of her friends. What made them unique. What made them special.
She didn't like Isaac's nose. So she erased it … made it better. More like the nose she was used to seeing on him.
Corrine's hair was all wrong. She wore it loose, not in pig tails. Erase, erase, erase. Sweep, sweep, sweep. Scratch, scratch, scratch. That's better.
She asked me how to spell "sweet" and "treat," and wondered if we could include some with the cards.
I nodded.
I could never have imagined this scene only a few years ago. I would have railed against the idea that children should be conduits-of trumped up emotion in all its lace-doily artifice. I would have wondered if maybe all this forced friendship wasn't the beginning of some soul-crushing lie.
We spend hours laboring over some sweet nothing that is destined to be tossed in the trash.
"What's the point?" We ask our selves. "It means nothing." Or maybe the opposite, it means too much.
We try to reason that we can't like everyone, so why should we pretend we can? Don't our problems as adults come from stuffing these feelings of discord so far down in our psyches that the pressure of it eventually threatens to blow a hole the size of a heart in our souls?
For whatever reason, we think this false holiday fosters the potential for dashed hopes and unrealistic dreams.
Wouldn't it be better to celebrate any one of the OTHER manufactured holidays that fall on February 14?
There would be no hard feelings over Clean Out Your Computer Day, League of Women Voters Day or Library Lovers Day. Who wouldn't go all in for National Ferris Wheel Day or Race Relations Day? Because, certainly, if there was no Valentine's Day no one would have to create a Quirky Alone Day, or National Call In Single Day.
Yet, instead of throwing Valentine's Day away, I find myself wishing we could boil it down to its purest form and bottle it.
Even if we have to pretend, liking each other seems so much better than the alternative.
When we are in primary school the beauty of its simplicity is wasted on us. A little past primary and we get caught up in the emotion of romantic love … mostly the complexity of it … and in the confusion the whole thing tends to leave a bad taste in our mouths.
Somewhere between this angst-y state of desire and some version of mature fulfillment we decide Valentine's Day is just some ridiculous notion cooked up by marketers to relieve us of our hard-earned cash.
So, we dust our hands of it, happy to be rid of its fakery.
That is … until our kids reach the age when paper hearts and printed confections are as exciting as the sunrise on a brand new day. Then, like it or not, our hands become soiled again in glitter and glue.
I know a lot of folks would like to see the tiny hearts of this holiday shrivel up and blow away. I'm sure at one time or another I was one of them. No thing is the same for any one of us, after all. Some of us can't be bothered, others are bothered beyond belief.
But it wasn't until I helped Ittybit make a class-load of valentines that I understood what I'd been missing all those years.
She selected a project that seemed easy enough. She'd draw pictures of each of her classmates using the class picture as a reference. Taking some advice from the internet, I drew the chins, necks and ears to make the sizes similar. She drew the hair, faces and wrote in the names.
It took us two days and a slew of do-overs until she was satisfied with the results.
In those two days we talked about each of her friends. What made them unique. What made them special.
She didn't like Isaac's nose. So she erased it … made it better. More like the nose she was used to seeing on him.
Corrine's hair was all wrong. She wore it loose, not in pig tails. Erase, erase, erase. Sweep, sweep, sweep. Scratch, scratch, scratch. That's better.
She asked me how to spell "sweet" and "treat," and wondered if we could include some with the cards.
I nodded.
I could never have imagined this scene only a few years ago. I would have railed against the idea that children should be conduits-of trumped up emotion in all its lace-doily artifice. I would have wondered if maybe all this forced friendship wasn't the beginning of some soul-crushing lie.
We spend hours laboring over some sweet nothing that is destined to be tossed in the trash.
"What's the point?" We ask our selves. "It means nothing." Or maybe the opposite, it means too much.
We try to reason that we can't like everyone, so why should we pretend we can? Don't our problems as adults come from stuffing these feelings of discord so far down in our psyches that the pressure of it eventually threatens to blow a hole the size of a heart in our souls?
For whatever reason, we think this false holiday fosters the potential for dashed hopes and unrealistic dreams.
Wouldn't it be better to celebrate any one of the OTHER manufactured holidays that fall on February 14?
There would be no hard feelings over Clean Out Your Computer Day, League of Women Voters Day or Library Lovers Day. Who wouldn't go all in for National Ferris Wheel Day or Race Relations Day? Because, certainly, if there was no Valentine's Day no one would have to create a Quirky Alone Day, or National Call In Single Day.
Yet, instead of throwing Valentine's Day away, I find myself wishing we could boil it down to its purest form and bottle it.
Even if we have to pretend, liking each other seems so much better than the alternative.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Just a little something to stuff in the suggestion box
There is nothing more loathsome than that note home from school ...
You know the one. It's sitting in your kid's bag just waiting to reveal your failure as a parent.
Oh sure, it's usually disguised as a suggestion ... an easy way to make learning fun and to reinforce all the hard work they're doing in school. You know, pretty much all the stuff you are undoing on weekends and over the spate of recent snow days by letting them watch TV and play video games until their eyes cross.
But when you read it you almost wish it was a bad grade or a notice of expulsion.
Anything is better than the three words that top the list of contributions we could be making to society via parenting: Family. Game. Night.
Now, I don't know what happens in your house, but you take one competitive and rules-obsessed dad, a fun-loving but slightly devious first-grader, a strong-willed and impishly sly preschooler, a mother who'd rather smooth the waters than ride a wave and mash them around a table to play a game of Monopoly Junior and you are just asking for the war to end all wars.
In fact the only reason I can even fathom why a teacher would suggest such a thing is if he or she had a couple of brothers named Parker, or the kids in their family skipped the ages of three through six.
"Well that's the point, really," you imagine them saying over your objections. "It helps children learn rules and sequences. It gives them practice reading, counting and taking turns," they'll explain. "Everyone can have fun together. And what a memory you'll be making."
All the happy well-adjusted people in the world add on that last one just rub your face in the fact that they're pretty sure your kids will spend their adulthood trying to blot out all their childhood recollections.
And you can't really disagree if the game of Dora the Explorer Chutes and Ladders you played in the falls, winters and springs of 2008, 2009 and 2010 were any indication.
They all kind of blur together in my memory, but the scenes have an uncanny similarity: The dad, sitting on the ground, legs all knotted in a pretzel, tries to keep an eye on his game piece (Boots the monkey) while objecting to the willful disregard of simple rules; The Champ takes every opportunity to move Boots around the board, knocking over his sister's Dora piece, who is screaming her objections until the room erupts into an irritating series of squawks. "Hey, dude. You are Diego. Where's Diego?"
The boy shrugs his shoulders.
"Great," I groan. "Now I'm going to get to scour the house looking for a two-inch plastic explorer or accept the fact that none of our games will ever be yard sale worthy."
The eyes upon me after that remark reveal that I have won the Bad Sport Award, and it doesn't matter that I took one for the team by selecting the cootie-filled Backpack as my game piece.
I know eventually it will be fun to play a game of Crazy 8s or Apples to Apples with the apples of my eye, but right now feels a little like tooth extraction: one kid makes up her own rules, which are designed to bring her a win while the other is putting the dice down his pants or trying to deal cards all over the living room. Add in a husband who using Parliamentary Procedure to interpret the game outcomes. They're all taking turns being sore losers and bad winners.
We'll spend a few more minutes trying to bring the game into earnest play, before we hurl the remaining pieces back in the box and trade it all in for Family Movie Night ... a choice that has yet to appear on any lists of scholarly suggestions.
Seriously.
If the makers of boardgames were legally bound to show a Your-Results-May-Vary representation of the gaming experience on the box top, Monopoly money would be everywhere, the families would be crying, whining, showing pouty faces (one parent would be screaming), and a tiny, besmudged little hand would be tossing the game pieces as far as their little arm could throw.
I'm guessing if that scene were plastered all over game boxes Family Movie Night would have a shot of getting into the teacher's suggestion box.
You know the one. It's sitting in your kid's bag just waiting to reveal your failure as a parent.
Oh sure, it's usually disguised as a suggestion ... an easy way to make learning fun and to reinforce all the hard work they're doing in school. You know, pretty much all the stuff you are undoing on weekends and over the spate of recent snow days by letting them watch TV and play video games until their eyes cross.
But when you read it you almost wish it was a bad grade or a notice of expulsion.
Anything is better than the three words that top the list of contributions we could be making to society via parenting: Family. Game. Night.
Now, I don't know what happens in your house, but you take one competitive and rules-obsessed dad, a fun-loving but slightly devious first-grader, a strong-willed and impishly sly preschooler, a mother who'd rather smooth the waters than ride a wave and mash them around a table to play a game of Monopoly Junior and you are just asking for the war to end all wars.
In fact the only reason I can even fathom why a teacher would suggest such a thing is if he or she had a couple of brothers named Parker, or the kids in their family skipped the ages of three through six.
"Well that's the point, really," you imagine them saying over your objections. "It helps children learn rules and sequences. It gives them practice reading, counting and taking turns," they'll explain. "Everyone can have fun together. And what a memory you'll be making."
All the happy well-adjusted people in the world add on that last one just rub your face in the fact that they're pretty sure your kids will spend their adulthood trying to blot out all their childhood recollections.
And you can't really disagree if the game of Dora the Explorer Chutes and Ladders you played in the falls, winters and springs of 2008, 2009 and 2010 were any indication.
They all kind of blur together in my memory, but the scenes have an uncanny similarity: The dad, sitting on the ground, legs all knotted in a pretzel, tries to keep an eye on his game piece (Boots the monkey) while objecting to the willful disregard of simple rules; The Champ takes every opportunity to move Boots around the board, knocking over his sister's Dora piece, who is screaming her objections until the room erupts into an irritating series of squawks. "Hey, dude. You are Diego. Where's Diego?"
The boy shrugs his shoulders.
"Great," I groan. "Now I'm going to get to scour the house looking for a two-inch plastic explorer or accept the fact that none of our games will ever be yard sale worthy."
The eyes upon me after that remark reveal that I have won the Bad Sport Award, and it doesn't matter that I took one for the team by selecting the cootie-filled Backpack as my game piece.
I know eventually it will be fun to play a game of Crazy 8s or Apples to Apples with the apples of my eye, but right now feels a little like tooth extraction: one kid makes up her own rules, which are designed to bring her a win while the other is putting the dice down his pants or trying to deal cards all over the living room. Add in a husband who using Parliamentary Procedure to interpret the game outcomes. They're all taking turns being sore losers and bad winners.
We'll spend a few more minutes trying to bring the game into earnest play, before we hurl the remaining pieces back in the box and trade it all in for Family Movie Night ... a choice that has yet to appear on any lists of scholarly suggestions.
Seriously.
If the makers of boardgames were legally bound to show a Your-Results-May-Vary representation of the gaming experience on the box top, Monopoly money would be everywhere, the families would be crying, whining, showing pouty faces (one parent would be screaming), and a tiny, besmudged little hand would be tossing the game pieces as far as their little arm could throw.
I'm guessing if that scene were plastered all over game boxes Family Movie Night would have a shot of getting into the teacher's suggestion box.
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