From Maus II: A Survivor's Tale...

I just sped through Maus (I), and loved it: high contrast art, richly used texture, and wonderful dialogue. I enjoyed it for many reasons, but I don't feel like writing about it yet.

I started Maus II directly afterwards...

It's nice to be catching up on my To Read list over the holidays.

Of tents and tornadoes

from summer art journal

The need for cytotoxic therapies...

After Molly falls asleep, I stop her documentary -- whichever it happens to be -- and prepare to watch one of my favourite shows: BBC's Doc Martin. I'm halfway through the 5th (and awaiting the 6th) series.

It's set in Cornwall, England, and tells the story of a prominent surgeon whose development of hemophobia leads him to the quieter life of a country doctor in a familiar village.

Martin Ellingham is a middle-aged, humourless professional who does not suffer fools gladly. In turns he is bluntly honest, oblivious to social expectations, and too impatient to indulge anyone in meaningless chatter. In contrast to his arrogant demeanour, he bears the public truth of his aversion to blood with quiet humility.

This surgeon hails from a family of physicians and a circle of colleagues who practice serious medicine, so we can well sense the embarrassment in his predicament. (The cliches -- that it underscores the seeming randomness with which misfortune can suddenly attend any one of us as well as the frailty that connects us -- hold true.)

He demonstrates his competence as a general practitioner beyond question. Much of the show's humour surrounds the unique complexities of the role of physician in the dual agency that providing rural health care often requires: such doctors daily encounter patients in social settings, friends and foes appear, and professional boundaries blur. In the case of a village, the details of a doctor's private life are held no more privately than those of its other residents.

While the doctor's annoyance at the villagers' intrusive familiarity ought to be checked by the villagers' reaction to his gruff exterior and unmannerly conversational style of delivering his precise diagnoses and in managing relationships, it is not. Ellingham fits in because there is just as much pressure upon him to forge this new life for himself as there is pressure upon the villagers to tolerate him -- they need each other.

To the surprise of all, he manages to develop an intimate relationship with a local woman (Louisa) whose wavering tolerance for brash, unexpected behaviour allows her to find a quasi-comfortable role as his significant other and, eventually, as the mother of his child. 

Some weeks after the birth of their baby, Louisa prepares to go out for the night with a friend for the first time since giving birth. As she leaves, she instructs Martin to read to the baby. Martin agrees but mildly protests considering the obvious cognitive limitations of an infant.

Yet, upon Louisa's return, she quietly observes Martin reading to their baby from a medical journal -- on the need to focus on cytotoxic therapies for cancer patients.

It is such a wonderful scene. The doctor's stiff, arm's-length 'cuddle' that we have seen several times since the baby's birth has been replaced with an earnest attempt to connect -- in his own way -- with his smiling, clearly responsive son.

Bases covered

Chapter book, reader, picture book -- for the My Little Pony enthusiast.

The time has come

My girls enjoy listening to me read poetry. Initially, it was Molly who wanted me to read a number of poems to her; then, Devyn gradually joined us. For the past four years or so, I have granted repeated requests for our repertoire of poems while content in the understanding that they enjoyed the oral tradition or the musicality of the works being read. It wasn't important that such young children interpret poems or listen with an academic ear: Molly was just two years old when our tradition began.

This afternoon, we settled into the movie of my choice: Harriet the Spy (which is based upon the book of the same name by Louise Fitzhugh). The girls were unenthusiastic. It wasn't until the character of the nanny (played by Rosie O'Donnell) began to recite, "The time has come, the Walrus said..." that Devyn and Molly smiled, their little faces glowing with the recognition of a poem.

Not only did the girls recognize The Walrus and the Carpenter and speak it line for line, in the context of the movie the poem made sense to them, and they wanted the movie to continue. They were delighted as our poem appeared again throughout the story. In fact, the nanny repeated the first stanza in at least two different contexts, and both girls understood why the recitation was appropriate each time.

And it was merely a flash, this initial convergence of myself, the girls, the movie, and the poem, but it illuminated something about our togetherness that I greatly value: what connects us is never fully captured in any one piece of writing that we read together, but every work that we read fully connects us in some way.

*The Walrus and the Carpenter from Through the Looking Glass and What Alice Found There (1872) by Lewis Carroll

Ouch -- sure -- whatever

So, I put aside pressing matters to make a birthday hat for Molly -- template / trace / cut / paper / trace / cut, etc. -- and lined it with vintage sewing materials. 

It took a long time, and I was pretty pleased with myself.

A few moments later, just as I applied counter pressure to my pinky finger (blistering from a glue-gun burn), the kid popped up beside me: 

"Can mine be just plain white paper?"

Cooling off in Canadian way

at Tim Hortons

Favourite things

On Monday of last week, the girls and I were in a used-book store. Devyn slumped in a comfortable leather chair because she was tired; Molly walked around, looking at books and asking questions while I tried to decide whether or not I should buy Stuart: A Life Backwards in trade paperback or look for an ebook copy.

"Mummy?"

"Hmmm?"

"What's this?" She pointed to a window display.

"That's a typewriter." 

I quickly added more information when I realized that, of course, she would not know what that strange-looking letter box was. "It's what people used before computers..."

The typewriter -- such an iconic image -- had figured prominently in my past. My grandmother had been a secondary school teacher of business arts; she owned many over the years.

At any rate, I played with grandma's fancy electric typewriters over the years: first in her condo when I would have to wade through ill-fitting or upended furniture in her home office; and, then, later when she moved into a house with me, my sister, my mother, and my stepfather.

I remember receiving my own manual typewriter for Christmas one year; I think I was eight years old. Now, I can't be certain: had it been a gift from my grandmother?

We always had typewriters around our house, too, even as my mother signed me up to take a computer programming course in the summer after I'd turned thirteen.

Then, my mother even sent me off, five years later, to university with an electronic typewriter; it didn't occur to anyone to buy me a computer at that point in the late 80s. But, then, the instructions on my near-weekly batch of essays that year invariably bore the words: "must be typewritten" very clearly.

But, to my little girl who had recently turned six, the typewriter was a foreign object that did not suggest the functions that would be easily passed on to, and which were vastly exceeded by, the personal computer. 

                                              

It had letters on buttons that Molly really wanted to push. She had never heard the click-click, click-click-click-ding that I remember so clearly.

"Can I play with it?"

"No, I'm afraid that would not be a good idea."

"Why?"

"Well, it's very old...And it's a display in a bookstore."

Would that I could have produced one for her, right there, on the spot.

That's when I remembered a dear friend with whom I had worked in a law office just about a lifetime ago. She was forty years older than I and very much a mother figure to me. She always seemed healthy and strong, as if she had just been outdoors in the fresh air for a long time. 

She sat across the hall from me, and I can still see her: getting up from her desk, walking over to the already-ancient typewriter (as some real estate documents or sections thereof still had to be typewritten in the mid-90s).

"We had to type up mortgages in my day," she told me at least once. "But you weren't allowed to make corrections on the documents; so, even if you were just at the end of the page and you made a mistake, you would have to start all over again."

Another powerful association with that machine! I enjoyed seeing Judy again, even if only as a memory... to see her as she was before cancer took her mind and body and left someone whom I did not know in her place...to see her as I think that she would have been had she lived long enough to meet my children.

I added 'find a typewriter' to my list of things to do with the girls this summer: they would hear click-click, click-click-click-ding, and learn about a time when fixing a mistake wasn't as simple as pressing the BKSP button.

I am happy that "the typewriter" has acquired layers of meaning for me --  memory upon memory -- resulting in a quest for an object that will bear an emotional density that is greater than, say, the first car that Keith and I had.

As they age, the girls are likely to hear the cultural refrain that objects are just material things: they aren't what's important. At least one person at some point in their lives will say that they "can't take 'em" (their material things) with them.

When I wrote about difficulties that the girls and I had encountered with figurative language recently, I wasn't even thinking about the hidden guilt-laden messages that cliches, idioms, and euphemisms often harbour.

Molly and Devyn will discover objects/mementos that they will wish to keep, and it is my hope that they will surmount the cultural expectation of shame in doing so. After all, I trust myself and Keith -- in helping our girls to understand what we consider to be important in this world -- to include respect, integrity, and all the other virtues.

But, given our track record with figurative language, now is probably a good time for me to draw attention to a life lesson about the sense in which objects aren't just things, and the sense in which you may actually "take them" with you. You really can like your objects as mementos, and that's okay. 

Last week of June

Molly's parents: still married.

Wait!

 
I can explain...

(1) Devyn and Molly asked me to take them to the McMaster Museum of Art.

(2) I insisted that we go to the bookstore first (because it's a bookstore).

(3) At some point between (1) and (2), on the matter of going to the museum, I casually said , "Okay, girls. Take notes because there will be an exam at the end." What I meant was, "I hope that you will pay attention, girls."

(4) At the bookstore, they asked for notebooks and pencils; this request is common enough for us that I didn't even think twice about it.

(5) At the museum, they both started taking notes.

(6) Anyone looking at the three of us could well assume that I had dragged my girls to a museum of art, and that I was forcing them to behave as obedient, little scholars.

(7) For 6- and 10-year-old children, they truly were well behaved, engaged, and enthusiastic -- and they took notes (albeit due to the confusion created by my use of figurative language).

It was a great excursion, but we couldn't spend the whole day at the museum: Devyn wanted a snack; Molly began trying to climb on furniture. Understandably, they were ready to enjoy one of my favourite features of the McMaster campus: its vast, green spaces populated with beautiful, old trees. That's what we did. 

We had been on the campus for other reasons last month, and they both wanted to sit under trees: Devyn to read and Molly to do math. They spoke of wanting to attend McMaster University in the future. But this visit? It was noisy. They screamed, shrieked, and darted between trees; Molly repeatedly threw her small bears up into those stately trees. 

This lengthy, outdoors portion of the day ended on a wth-are-you-kidding-me kind of note when I had to search for a pair of beige, two-inch Critter bears all around the vast, green-and-treed space that was -- by the way -- dotted everywhere with beige leaves. Yes, I decided that it was time to go when Devyn took her iPod out of her purse, and I had finally found the bears in one (damn) final survey of the area -- clearly, I was losing containment.

A short while later, as we snacked in the hospital common area, they were shocked (as was I) and overjoyed when a candy-bearing employee approached to compliment them on their behaviour. She even offered them more candy after overhearing them ask me if they could eat the candy yet. She might have had some hearing loss, I reasoned, as the girls had just been arguing over some intolerable similarities recently discovered in their respective birthday parties that we are planning; anyone around would have heard.

So, see? They're still kids.

Periodically, I wince with regret at both my use of figurative language in that instance and at the thought that their literal interpretation could have induced stress (though they did undertake the activity with enthusiasm). 

I am always impressed by the power of language. I can still recall the flash of an image while reading aloud from the Merchant of Venice in grade 9, when Antonio says, "Mark you this, Bassanio": a man making a mark on a stone with another stone. I knew at the time that the character was saying something akin to "beware" or "watch out" or "heed", but the impression of the act of making a mark on something was immediate. (According to the Online Etymology Dictionary, the two senses of the phrase "take note" -- as in to observe/as in to set in writing -- date to around the 12th and 14th centuries, respectively.)

In the end, Devyn and Molly -- so young -- could not have had the life experience to understand the expression. Of course, they do now.

Same issue, different year

When Devyn was pretty much the last child of her class out of the school today -- as she usually is -- I worried this time. Report cards were going home, and I didn't want her to look at hers.

She worries about report cards every year, though she does not yet have the work-for-good-marks drive. (At this point, school is all about the social environment and the physical activity for her, and I'm okay with that.)

So, we have the same conflict every year: she wants to see the end-of-year report; I do not yield.

Today, I wanted her to understand the basis of my decision, to reveal my opinion. 

Me: Do you know why I didn't let you read your report card?

Devyn: No...

Me: Because whether you have all As or all Fs, a report card can't tell us what you know or what you don't know, whether or not you can do something...

Devyn: (angry stare)

Me: It can only tell us what your teacher reports that she observed or was able to observe. And that's not the same thing, is it?

Devyn: No. (forgiving smile) 

Finally, after all these years, the conversation went as I'd wished. If I should someday decide that report cards are an objective measure by which my kid's self-esteem should be calibrated, I will let her read them and then have her tweak her self-evaluation accordingly. Until then, the report will represent a school-teacher-parent channel of communication only.

But ours is a personal, parenting decision. This means that some or many of Devyn's peers may read their report cards and have probably already done so. I am hoping that Devyn will remember that parents make decisions that are best for their own families.

A place for everything...

Housewives have no time for philosophy after breakfast.

Mrs. Mifflin,

The Haunted Bookshop

(Christopher Morley, 1919)


(image: Wikipedia)

Big questions

Devyn and Molly told Keith, as we were driving to get ballet tights this evening, that I had shown them buildings on the campus of our alma mater recently. 

The girls got around to asking what we studied. When it was my turn, the following.

Molly: What is philosophy?

Devyn: Ya, what is that?

Me: Well, it's a discipline where you ask the big questions: What is time? What is knowledge? How do we know what we know, and how do we know if we really know it? Hahaha...

Nobody laughed. 

Honestly, I should have told them that those are actually examples of the serious-yet-fun questions because, last night, a question that is harder for me to ask arose:

When does the character of Barbie become less annoying to parents of daughters (if we're going to keep this real)?

Answer: 

When parents are truly exhausted, and the word count is lower.

I was so tired that I actually asked Molly if we could read this the following night...

                        

and opted instead to read this:

                          

      

Not that there's anything wrong with Barbie or with books starring Barbie. If it inspires a child to read, I'm usually fine and, ordinarily, I try not to influence their reading decisions; but, let's face it: the culture of Barbie has made a lot of parents uncomfortable for a long time.

I told Molly the truth: I was too tired to read the Magic School Bus with the degree of enthusiasm that it deserved. She didn't fuss or complain.

What...? There's more?

I keep thinking back to that post by Jen Hatmaker* that went viral on Facebook -- the one I chose to read whilst sitting among all the ballet moms that I've never paid much attention to, the one that caused the laugh-choke-spray water reflex -- because it's that time of year.

My older child is still bringing home math homework, and has been almost every day these past two weeks or so.

I don't have five children, but I'm tired. There are, I think, about five days left of school for Devyn and, as much as I know that I am a role model, I can't help it. I hear myself saying, "Don't worry, report evaluations would have been submitted before the middle of June. It's not like she's going to mark it..."

Last night, Devyn's eyes rounded, her eyebrows lifted up to her hairline, and she practically whispered, "Mum, are you saying...I shouldn't do it?"

"Yes...No! I mean I'm saying not to get too stressed out about it."

But, hell, I'm stressed out about it. It bewilders me that the grade 4s are still doing anything important at all: the booklets look more like catch-up than review. 

"Uh, Mum? Are you telling me not to do my best?"

"No...Give me a minute."

Damn. At least, I know that she has been listening all these years.

I should think that Devyn's teacher would know better than anyone that it's JUNE, which isn't just the end of the school year; it's the end of ballet season, piano, theory, and vocal lessons (x2) for our children. Last month, we started recitals, end-of-year performance classes, rehearsals, dress rehearsals, costume fittings, music exams, and so on.

Finally, our last recital is on Saturday -- it's the big one that pretty much sells out the local convention centre -- and I can't get Molly's ballet slippers clean or find a passable pair of ballet tights for her to wear to the first dress rehearsal that is this evening. I realize that this doesn't sound like a huge deal, but to all involved, it actually is. On top of this, I keep putting laundered clothing in my bedroom only to find it in the unlaundered-clothes pile, so I will be doing laundry just to look for the one remaining suitable pair of tights that we have.

So, no, I don't want any more math homework this academic year. If my reaction to the tights is any indication, I need the summer break. Now.

But is there a silver lining, a bright side? I think it must be that I get to see that other mothers aren't perfect either because a lot of us are looking pretty harried.

It's all I can do now to sign the agenda every evening. I've only missed two days of signatures this week (which is half the total for the full year, I think) so if the teacher today leaves an empty little reminder circle where my initials should be...I swear, I just might cry.

--

*http://jenhatmaker.com/blog/2013/05/30/worst-end-of-school-year-mom-ever

The garden

And after school, a storm

Whether the weather is warm, 

Whether the weather is hot, 

We have to put up with the weather,

Whether we like it or not.

(Traditional rhyme)

While on the back patio, I notice that the wind picks up and the sky darkens. The girls stop playing; we all look up.

I yell, "Run for it!" and the girls, the cat, and I -- in that order -- all sprint for the door. Before I reach the door, the sky opens up and, within a second or two, I am drenched.

Malibu the cat, who has been behind her, suddenly overtakes Molly. But even as I hear a very loud bang and shattering glass, I don't yet know the extent of her mischief until I discover Devyn, under whose feet Malibu had run, on the kitchen floor. She is rubbing the elbow on which she'd landed (after banging into the trolley). Malibu is nowhere to be found...

I wish that I'd taken a photo of the sky

and of the storm.

At any rate, before bedtime, Molly inspects the front yard for damage.

Loving spring...

The resident philosopher speaks...

Molly: Are Devyn and I more than you could imagine?

Me: Yes...

Molly: But you can never know more than you can imagine...So, why did you say that!?

Molly, at six years old, keeps me on my feet.

Logic abounds

It's Sunday morning, and Molly has slept in. It occurs to me that there is something happening that is even more unusual than sleeping late: she's lying down and talking to me. She hasn't attempted to get out of bed. At all.

As still as she lies, she calmly tells me that she doesn't think that she can get out of bed...Before I leave her room, I turn around to speak:

Me:   I'll be right back -- I'm just going to do some research. I need to find out why you're having trouble getting out of bed.

Molly:   Because my NECK is stiff.

Me:      Sure. I just want to see why your neck is stiff.

Molly:   Because it HURTS.

Me:      Yes, of course. But I just need to find out why it hurts.

Molly:   Because I have a SORE THROAT.

Me:      Okay, yes. You're right. Um, I need to find out why your throat is sore.

Molly:   Because I had my TONSILS out, remember?

At this point, palm to forehead, I can't even recall why I want to leave the room in the first place; and I have to hold my head to stop the spinning sensation.

But I need to press on -- the research -- and then it hits me: the urge to giggle because it's so damn cute, because only Molly could have said it, because it speaks to this facet of her personalty that we who admire her know so well.

She is intensely logical, even with a very infected lymph node in her throat, and the puzzled expression that looks at me as I stand in the door assures me somehow (even more than Google will) that she will be okay.

(Back-posted)

Not a light lunch...

Devyn: I like the idea of being born over and over again. So the world never ends...

Molly: But, wait! You would have to be born first.


(Back-posted)