Once again I barely make it to the EST deadline for qualifying as Monday. In my two weeks away from the inter-tubes, I came up with a grand plan for this week's post, involving a discussion of how our interests as children can grow from the tiniest seeds. Of course, my road to hell is well-paved. Not to mention, the 5yo has been sick for the past two days.
My favorite book as a child was The Magic Friend Maker [one googled site lists it available for $53 and Amazon says starting at 39 cents, but the bad news is no one's posting a picture of the cover]. I tell myself that my romance with New York City was started with this book. I still have my copy, which I have read to the girls and planned to read here, but remember that dark road to hell??
Anyway, when I was pregnant with the 7yo, I found this book
at the local Unitarian Society book sale and loved the beautiful city-inspired illustrations.
So here is a messy, raw version of One Monday Morning, by Uri Shulevitz.
So far I have only taken the girls to the city once--to see Christo's Gates in Central Park. We'll see if they are as drawn to the city as I was...
Trifecta's post about his son's chanting made me think of my own kids' peculiar speech patterns and habits ... my favorite one right now is how Jrette. (age 2½), after seeing the movie Alvin and the Chipmunks (which, I must point out, her mother took her and her brother to see), goes around saying "bow chicka wow wow" all the time. Let's hope she grows out of that one. Of course, she still says "Daddy" like "Daddily," which is also very cute. I've always wanted to be an adverb.
Meanwhile, Jr. (age 8½) still has trouble pronouncing his r's. He's been in speech therapy at school for a while, and it's definitely improving. Fortunately, he doesn't seem to be self-conscious about it, nor does he seem to be passing the habit on to Jrette. If it were me, I'd look for ways to avoid the letter "R" altogether:
Hi! How goes it? I was listening to the ... um, I tuned into NP ... National Public ... ah, scwew it.
When he was very young, Jr. had an endearing tendency to repeat initial syllables of polysyllabic words. Example: singing "Twinkle, Twinkle," he would always say, "Like a die-dime in the sky." Or his dad's favorite football team would be the "Buh-Bucs" for "Buccaneers." I never did figure that one out ...
Both children have been astoundingly articulate with enormous vocabularies for their respective ages. I'm convinced that it's because their mother and I never really talked to them in "baby talk." First thing I said to Jr. after he popped out was a detailed explanation of the infield fly rule, and it's just gone from there.
I look at it this way: it's all going to give them a lot of fodder for their therapists someday.
For some reason, the toddler chants this every time he drags his big truck on a race around the house. He also has decided that D and E suck as letters and just omits them from the alphabet, acting morally offended if we correct him.
Monday Book Blogging will be on temporary leave until Monday, 11 February.
A friend of mine got arrested for drunk driving and has to go to a 14 day rehab. He isn't allowed a computer there, so in solidarity, I'm giving up the internet for two weeks. I'm keeping email, 'cause I need it for work. But otherwise, it's meatspace for me, babe.
We don't really know what to do about this: solutions already attempted include bribes, punishments, really cool sheets, really cool games, really cool everything.
We're at our wit's end. If we close our bedroom door, he opens it and sleeps at the foot of the bed. If he gets busted doing that, he sleeps on the floor near the foot of the bed. If we lock the door, he sleeps on the floor of the hall outside. In any of these scenarios, it's entirely likely that he will get kicked or stepped on, completely accidentally, by a bleary-eyed adult without spectacles in the dark.
On the rare occasions that we can actually get him into his bed, he insists on every light being left on all night. The light clipped to the head of the bed, the closet light, and the overhead, all burn brightly. If we turn them off once he's asleep, he will wake and turn them on.
When asked about this, he says, quite simply, "I'm afraid to sleep alone." While his honesty is touching, it also makes us feel like bums. After all, *we* don't sleep alone.
This morning, courtesy of jurassicpork, the girls and I watched some of Martin Luther King's I Have A Dream speech. Though she asked a few questions, I could not hold the 5yo's attention. I got a few minutes further with the 7yo, but even she lost interest after determining that Grandma was, in fact, not there. So it was just Martin and me, and those hundreds of thousands, dreaming of a world of peace and justice.
For today's book, I've chosen a Navajo legend, How the Stars Fell into the Sky, written by Jerrie Oughton, illustrated by Lisa Desimini.
I guess we've been trying to figure out how we made such a mess of things for a long time. And with a spoiler alert, let me say that this is as good a reason as any.
As the pulse of the second day brought it into being, the people rose and went about their lives, never knowing in what foolish haste Coyote had tumbled the stars...
...never knowing the reason for the confusion that would always dwell among them.
I don't know where to go in discussing such a big topic with the girls, so we take it in small pieces. My ever-reliable, "some people believe," line gets me some mileage, but I can't explain to them why the values of the people in power are so different from my own. I can't explain how hatred just keeps getting reborn. Over at the crack den the other day, Phila got a good laugh at my naivete when I commented that I was shocked that the 7yo had heard someone on the schoolbus say to one of the few black kids at the school, "I hate black people." Phila assured me that this is impossible, for there no longer exists racism in our society. It's alright, Ma, I'm only dreaming.
Once again, the 'Blue's Clues' book was the choice of the toddler for night night story. We went through the clues for the umpteenth time, and had settled in on the story of Blue going to school. One picture in the book revealed a dog holding some letter blocks.
Taking this as an opportunity, I started reading out P-L-A-Y spells play. The boy told me, "No Daddy, it's my turn! A! Y! L! P!!!"
He then correctly described the full palette of colors from the painting scene from the next page.
Okay. Here it is again, just barely still Monday. I put the girls to bed, put some laundry in the machine, and now I've got the Monday book blogging to do. This is still the germ of an idea, I suppose. So I don't actually have to use a tripod or lights yet, right?
In celebration of the Liberal Mountain teen graduating from high school, I've chosen another inspirational story about being yourself, My Head Is Full Of Colors, text by Catherine Friend, illustrations by Kiki Oberstenfeld de Suarez.
When I have taught painting and drawing classes to adults, I've struggled with how much to correct someone's work. It seems important to help them recognize that their style could help convey their ideas, while at the same time making sure they acquire the skills to make active choices.
As I watch my daughters develop, I feel a similar push and pull. I want them to have the confidence to be who they are, yet as their only parent, I'm very aware of my influence on their choices. The three of us spend a lot of time together, just us. Both girls are already great visual artists and budding musicians. Would they love those things if I didn't already? Will I be as supportive if one of them wants to start gymnastics or ballet? When I look at my girls as they grow, will I be able to see what's in their heads--who they are--or only what I want to see? Taking the ego out of parenting is hard when you have an ego as big as mine.
The mom in this book is damn supportive, but reading it tonight, she seemed a bit stiff!
