Writer at work

I am usually very insistent that the girls only play after school because I don't want them to watch television (or to use an iPod, iPhone, or iPad); however, after school, Devyn wanted to transcribe the notes of the first chapter of her story. I just can't be responsible for derailing a writing career!

Of tents and tornadoes

from summer art journal

Cooling off in Canadian way

at Tim Hortons

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.

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

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)

Gee, thanks.

Me: Do you have homework tonight?

Devyn: Yes, math...

Me: Okay, then, let's get started.

Devyn: Um, I always do it with Daddy...because it's very hard.

The Eleventh Plague - Jeff Hirsch

Wakeful

When Molly stirred slightly this morning and woke me, I had a sinking feeling that I had just had my night's sleep. Unfortunately, it was 3:00 a.m....and she is still going!

On the way to her school this morning, she really had to know why the sun exists -- I could hear myself attempting to talk about gravity and nuclear fusion while sleep deprived and I knew that she would not get the detailed explanation that she required; thankfully, Keith was there.

After a half-day of field-tripping at the city's only eco/green house, I signed her out of school early and went home hoping to nap. If you've never had a highly inquisitive, highly active and easily bored child of five years, then you don't know that I am going to say that I did not, in fact, nap.

There were some things that she had yet to invent and there were books that she had been intending to read. Her mind is never on a break: know, know, know! Do, do, do!

I am told that she is like this at school, too, always figuring out how things work and hopping from one activity to another -- very rapidly -- to this end. This is why she is not a great sleeper -- getting to sleep is the difficulty.

I do try to remember that our nocturnal wakefulness can be quality time though sometimes I need a little convincing.

So, what did we do in the early hours of today? Well, mostly, we read books and then she looked at books while I doodled. Oftentimes, I am working on a specific project when doodling but just as often I am being plain silly.

And, too, there are those moments when I think of what's in store in raising a nine-year-old tween girl and certain realizations hit me: that 'talk' we often have about growing up has to continue to be positive...

Filling my mind up

"I have a story that's really going to fill your mind up: Jack and the Beanstalk. Will that really fill up your mind?"  (Molly, 4)

Molly's use of language often makes me stop and think. What does the expression "fill your mind up" mean? I had to wait for her to use it a few times to learn that she uses it in two senses: to become completely interested or absorbed in something; to restore the mind to its natural state, as she sees it, maintaining an intellectual homeostasis of sorts.

I have been trying to fill my mind up in more than one sense, too. Procrastination takes many forms and mine is usually black, rectangular, and has at times a sluggish WiFi connection; recently, however, thinking about Molly's words caused a tinge of guilt because I would have happily set aside my Kobo Vox for a while just to watch some television.

Luckily, instead, I found Dani's Story: A Journey from Neglect to Love (by Diane and Bernie Lierow with Kay West) the other day while browsing on my ereader though I should have been more concerned about a deadline.

Dani's Story  traces the relationship between a family hoping to adopt and an eight-year-old girl so seriously harmed by her upbringing that she functions at the level of an infant. Definitely, this is heavy subject matter and might not work its way easily into casual conversations that begin with, "So, read anything interesting lately?"

It sounded so promisingly similar to books that I had read as a teen* which usually dated back to the late 60s, 70s or early 80s, were written by a sociologist, social worker, psychologist or psychiatrist, a teacher, a parent...and which told a story about life/work with a child that had special needs. I devoured those books! (And I only just recently thought to ask myself: why were these books scattered throughout my childhood home?) 

Generally, in these books the trajectory started at a poor/devastating prognosis and ended at an against-all-odds reversal of a condition but not always. There was oftentimes a bittersweet ending and, less often, a very sad one; but each book that I read (and the number must be in the dozens) required some sort of emotional commitment that I did not mind (and, admittedly, that can be a deal-breaker because reading decisions are often mood-linked for me).

Because I was unaware of Dani's story through the media, I am glad that I stumbled upon this book because it speaks to the remarkable qualities of fragility and resilience that can be found in a human being in equal measure and by which I have always been both bemused and amazed. I was engrossed from the outset--the description of the initial meeting of everyone involved in Dani's story--until the topic of the eventual media coverage that culminated in appearance on Oprah.

At any rate, I think that I can seen why Molly enjoys the story of Jack and the Beanstalk. Among others, it contains a very apt message: what appears to others to be an unwise or incomprehensible decision can actually yield wonderful, unexpected results.

Think about it. Jack sold his impoverished family's cow for beans but ended up restoring his family's rightful material status, and he lived happily ever after with his mother.

I laboured at the last minute to meet a deadline because I had chosen to read when I should have been working, but the book reconnected me to the nonfiction of my youth; it also unburied memories of discovering the books around my home. My ostensibly unwise decision enabled me to experience the story of Dani and her family. I spend so much of my reading life these days absorbed in the details of the human body that it is great to be reminded of life itself and of the powerful surge of admiration that the sheer mental strength of another such as Dani can inspire.

Naturally, the Lierows' decision was by far more important than my own. They chose to adopt a child with different needs than they had originally imagined for their family, and, as they note, the decision was met with skepticism at best or outright discouragement by some unexpected sources. Certainly, the details of Dani's past are horrifying and unfathomable but in the details of her recovery there are so many rewards.

In Dani's case, the Lierows watched a child come to life as her world filled with love and light. Where others saw only futility and tragedy, the Lierows saw potential and happiness; where others assumed Dani could not form attachments, the Lierows recognized that their initial meeting with Dani established a connection. As a result, they all ended up with the family that they wanted and, it appears, needed.

At several points, the Lierows mention that their other children helped throughout the adoption process because their behaviour was unencumbered by prejudice and bias. Coincidentally, shortly after I had finished reading Dani's Story, Devyn said, "Why can't everyone just see that everyone is different and then help whenever someone else needs it?" I then realized that Devyn, at eight years old, is so very strong. She defends others on the playground even if it means losing friends; she, too, sees ability where others see disability.

How easy it is to forget that children are great teachers! After reading Dani's story, I paused to gather my thoughts before jumping into another book. I realized that it is impossible to keep track of just how much and how often I learn from my children, but I do, in fact, learn: from Molly because she thinks outside the box, has her own special language that causes me to think, and reminds me that the veil of common sense sometimes distorts; from Devyn because she becomes the voice and the strength of others when they need it on the playground and because she instinctively is the change that she would like to see in the world. So, problem-solve creatively, express yourself, and trust your judgement; help others and don't preach about it--just do it. I like those messages. Thanks, girls.
---

All around the Magic Tree House

While Keith and Devyn continue their nightly Harry Potter club meetings, Molly and I are at an impasse.

It isn't that I don't want to read or that we've run out of material -- we don't agree about which book it is that we should be reading.

It all started at the beginning of September when the girls and I visited a bookstore while waiting for Devyn's evening ballet class. Molly discovered The Magic Tree House: Midnight on the Moon (Mary Pope Osborne), brandished the book before me, and declared it The.Next.Book. that we just had to read.

Well, we started it that week but, by Friday, Molly had discovered a book about ninjas from the selfsame series -- and didn't look back.

(You need to know that she did not know what a ninja is (probably because I didn't know) yet she had decided that it would be far more interesting than the book that I REALLY WANT to read.)

"But," I protested, "we're on the fourth chapter! We can't just leave the story where we left it."

"Yes, we can," she giggled. "We just won't pick it up."

I was frustrated and bemused. (And, hey, did she just engage me in wordplay?) Here we were at the end of the month and we weren't moving forward. Each night since we'd read the third chapter, Molly had chosen a different book -- really, any other book -- to make her point that we would not be reading Midnight on the Moon.

"I thought you love the Magic Tree House?"

"I do love it and we can read it . . .If it's about ninjas."

I had to think about it for a while: what kind of reader was she? I reminded myself that I was dealing with the kid who -- I'm not joking -- used to refer to her alphabet books as nonfiction. Then, it occurred to me and I knew why she had lost interest in the book about the moon (a subject close to her) and I've mentioned it before: Molly loves nonfiction and she loves fiction but she's not terribly keen on the mostly fiction-some fact hybrid. The facts (obviously positioned) in the titles that I've read so far in the Magic Tree House lack sufficient detail to quench her thirst. Put another way, the books contain either too much or too little of the factual to keep her reading.

But, why ninjas? Like any four-year-old, the kid loved and still loves mystery and learning. The world of the ninja had yet to be explored at that point, but I sense that, just as she dismissed both Dinosaurs Before Dark and Midnight on the Moon, she will grow bored and we won't finish the book about ninjas.

After weighing the options, I don't think I should interrupt this emerging pattern because she gets something from her approach-retreat relationship with the series even if I don't know just what that would be. (It may be that she has yet to figure out that each book in the series will be similar in style; maybe she is optimistic).

On the other hand, I recently picked up one of the companion research guides that is available in the series which, I'm confident, would provide the missing facts that Molly wants. Then, the next time that she dismisses a Magic Tree House book, I could reach for a guide and see if that sustains her interest.

Who knows? I just want to avoid the mother-child morass of guidance vs. intrusion because I've learned my lesson with Devyn. Please note that I am patting myself on the back because I haven't pushed the issue of reading these books in sequence (though I really, really want to) because that's my thing, not theirs.

It ain't nothin' . . .

I'm pleased to announce that Devyn spent most of Family Day weekend with her head in a book.  I wondered if that was ever going to happen because she seemed uninterested in reading on her own beyond leafing through works of nonfiction (and, yes, books of the Star Wars franchise). That particular weekend marked a change in Devyn's relationship to books.

As glad as I am that Devyn's appreciation of reading has deepened, and that I can pinpoint a dot on a graph and say where and when it happened, I'm disappointed that it's the Junie B. Jones series that she has chosen. (Coincidentally, I'd been searching earnestly for a series that might be a good fit for her and I think I found one, but more about that later).

Why the distaste? Junie B.'s command of English grammar is awful. It's not to say that I'm incredulous of a six-year-old actually speaking or writing without knowing or using every rule of grammar; it's just that Junie B.'s language seems unbelievably poor. I've tried to recall Devyn's use of language at this time last year; except for the use of "good" in place of "well" at times and a tendency to use adjectives in place of adverbs in general, Devyn (and her friends) spoke as if they grasped most of the rules. (Ironically, I objected very strongly to the clipped, precise, use of language in the dialogue of Beezus and Ramona, which Devyn and I read a few months ago).

At any rate, issues of suspending disbelief aside, my just-more-than-slight concern with the series has been that my daughter would get the message that it's fine to speak like Junie because it's funny or because it seems like a viable alternative to what Devyn has learnt to this point . So, I've been hoping that Devyn -- who is bright and clever and has a good sense of humour -- would find Junie B.'s manner of speaking funny but unacceptable.

Wouldn't you know!  During the time -- long ago -- when I'd started this post, as luck would have it, Devyn bounced into the room and I had to take the opportunity to ask her:

-- So, what do you think of the Junie B. book? I see you've been reading it.

-- I really like it.

-- What do you like about it?

-- I like her dictionary; it's black. I like the pictures. I like the glasses. I like the writing, too. I think it's great, even better than mine. [Ed. By writing, I'm pretty sure she means the child-like printed text of Junie's diary.]

-- What do you think of the language?

-- What do you mean?

-- Do you think that she uses words properly?

-- No, not at all!

Here, fortunately, she laughed while furrowing her brows (which seemed to mean "As IF!") and I could breathe again because, in fact, she did find the character's use of grammar funny and unacceptable.

Then she skipped out of the room trying to decide how to wear her bangs the next day as I shook my head and smiled. I'd worried for nothing. As she was leaving, I looked at her pigtails -- at the back of her head, not at the sides, and lower down her head, too -- and I realized how much more mature she seems these days.

Each stage of the girls' lives, though predictable as developmentally-appropriate achievements, is unique and brings with it a refreshing newness that I sense in nuanced behaviour: it promises greater, unforeseeable things and delivers self-knowledge on my part as well as excitement about the future. I love the small but greatly significant changes that I see in Devyn. I love the surprises like the one just described. That one just made my day.

Aliens have invaded my house!

Molly loves the idea of outer space and all that our ideas and images of it in popular culture and science entail: stars, planets, aliens, and rocket ships . . .  She has even, over the past year, discussed her notion of an afterlife (though why or how she was thinking about what happens after death is beyond me): we are all going to end up in outer space at some terminal point.  There's even such a thing as a baby planet, she tells me.

Just a few days ago, out of the blue, she informed me that it's perfectly safe to go to outer space, to ride in a rocket ship, without your mother.  I agreed.

Still, I was surprised a few weeks earlier when I thought I could hear Keith reading aloud and, when I peeked around the corner, there he was, cuddled up with both girls, in his office. He was reading, My Teacher Is An Alien by Bruce Coville.  So, she had succeeded! I concluded.  Such interest and determination! Molly had finally convinced someone to read that book to her because she realized that I had been stalling. 

I did indeed stall on more than one occasion by asking her to tell me what she thought the book was about, what do the (few, black-and-white) pictures mean, etc. and then proposing some really exciting activity that could have us leave the book until another time.  I hadn't fooled her.  I just didn't think the book was appropriate for her yet I've always had a pretty liberal stance in that regard.  The target audience was 9-12 year.  It pushed the limits of my own belief that books shouldn't be off-limits.

As she and Devyn were both enjoying it nightly, calling repeatedly for "just one more chapter", I saw no reason to intervene or to object.  But I was still a little uncomfortable.

Fast forward to last week's Friday movie night.  Aliens in the Attic was the decision but I immediately grew uncomfortable with  the idea. This state was only exacerbated by almost everything said and done in the film up to the point that I, finally, convinced Molly to come upstairs with me.  I was drawing a line.

"Come on, Molly. This movie's not for you.  Let's go upstairs."

"It's fine. I'm OK."

"Molly, I'm telling you that the movie's not appropriate. I'll read a story and we'll cuddle."

"No, Mummy. The movie is just fine. Please, stop."

"Molly, the movie is NOT fine.  There is violence and . . ."

"It's not violent. I'm going to be OK."

"There's a gun!"

"It's a paintgun!"

"But it is for shooting with, so it's a weapon of violence."

"It just shoots orange stuff on somebody and it doesn't even hurt.  It's not a REAL gun."

"Molly, I'm not comfortable with you watching this and I've made my decision."

"Here," she says, getting to a standing position on the sofa. "Maybe if I cuddle in your lap, you'll feel better."

I'm holding her at this point.

"I get to make these decisions because you're only three," I speak into her copious hair.

"I'm not three! I am 3 and 3/4's!"

Well, folks.  I did win.  It wasn't lost on me that, if she could argue so well, she would probably have been just fine watching the movie.  Grey areas.  Gotta love 'em.

Happy Family Literacy Day!

Today, Devyn left for school dressed as her favourite character -- the cute kid from "I Like Myself" by Karen Beaumont.

And the winner is . . .

Pippi Longstocking.

Having finished Mary Poppins -- and enjoying the solitude afforded me by my weekly babysitter for Molly -- I intrepidly approached the basement stairs a few Wednesdays ago.  At the bottom lay one of dozens of bins containing children's books and I had the enjoyable yet daunting task of selecting a range of books from which Devyn (mostly) would choose our next read. My pile included:

Pippi Longstocking
Beezus and Ramona
The Prince and the Pauper
The Littles

So, as I sorted through the now dusty lot, it occurred to me that I hadn't read many of the classics in grade school. Why not? Why weren't they in the curriculum from year to year? They were available in the school libraries and we could discover them or be directed to them occasionally; but they weren't emphasized in my primary classes.

Just as importantly, why weren't the classics read to us on a regular basis? Etched into my brain somewhere is an image of myself as a grade one student sitting cross-legged in the library while listening to the outrageous behaviour of the Herdman children in The Best Christmas Pageant Ever (Barbara Robinson). I later revisited that book over and over again (though I sometimes mistakenly remember it as The Worst Christmas Pageant Ever, and, if you've ever read it, you'll know why). Only a couple of other periods of being read to in school -- once in grade five, another in grade ten -- really stand out.  I want my children to end up with more memories than I have in this regard.

I want to foster an appreciation of reading but I also want to give the girls a literary foundation before they enter secondary school. It doesn't have to take the fun out of reading; fun is built into the experience: Devyn speaks about and looks forward to our reading sessions before bed; the end of one book promises the beginning (and selection) of another; we spend one-on-one time together which is very special to us.

What I really like is the idea that, over the years, story after story, the girls will recognize that books tend to "speak" to one another long after they're read: associations arise, alternative interpretations occur to us, light shines on areas that we hadn't noticed before. I've found that while reading Middle Eastern/South Asian literature, The Arabian Nights (and all the variations of the title) has been of great value to me.

And doesn't narrative just seem to work its way into our lives? How much of our reading to this point in our lives is affected by our early exposure to, for example, Alice in Wonderland? The expressions in popular culture that derive from this story abound. (I fondly recall that the parallels between Homer's Odyssey and the Star Wars phenomenon, as well as other cultural events, was a favourite topic of one my late professors.) I hope that this endeavour of mine to ensure that the girls inherit many of the classics enriches their lives as adults.

In general, and not that Dora doesn't have her place, I want the girls to have more sources of cultural information in addition to what they receive via media, school, and peers.  Clearly, I can't control the messages that they receive through media and peer exposure (though I firmly believe even stemming the flow and limiting sources is possible and that it helps), but I can exchange one channel of information for another and mitigate the influences. So, this summer, but for a few isolated events, I turned off the television and introduced Devyn to another form of entertainment that went beyond the few minutes of bedtime stories that children expect; and, we often read for hours because we just can't wait to find out what happens in the next chapter . . .

So, my resolve strengthened, I realized, after carrying my little pile of books upstairs:  Devyn and I (and later, Molly and I) would read the classics of children's literature; not exclusively, not consecutively, but consistently.

So, Pippi.  One of my favourite childhood characters.  I actually remembered little of her except the lopsided braids.  How appropriate, considering the time of year, that, tomorrow, Pippi goes to school.

__

Astrid Lindgren - Official site (English)
Astrid Lindgren - Wikipedia
Pippi Longstocking

Astrid Lindgren's World

Mary, Mary . . .

Despite time constraints, Devyn and I have almost finished Mary Poppins.

The omniscient third-person narration is divided into chapter-sectioned anecdotes. She's a woman who has access to the unwritten laws of the world; she really does know more than the average nanny and more than the average person; she is exciting, if not a little intimidating, to be around. 

In her presence, animals and infants can speak with each other; actual journeys into pictures occur where imagination is tangible; relationships that require little conventional conversation transpire.

She may be an efficient nanny but Mary P. is also arrogant and possesses a sharp tongue.  This surprised me.  I think we'll have to watch the movie this week once we've actually finished the novel.

And so we've decided . . .

As soon as the shape was inside the gate the wind seemed to catch her up into the air and fling her at the house. It was as though it had flung her first at the gate, waited for her to open it, and then had lifted and thrown her, bag and all, at the front door.  The watching children heard a terrific bang, and as she landed the whole house shook.

Devyn loved the magic of Mary Poppins once she realized that the woman could slide up railings and pull endless items out of an ostensibly empty bag.

What enhanced my experience of the reading was that we have a particularly old copy of the book.Plus, serendipity being what it is, I found a packet of Certs (original flavour) just as I was about to read and gladly allowed her to have her first one.

She cuddled me, watched me as I read, closed her eyes and allowed herself to be drawn into the narrative. 

But today wasn't about Mary Poppins until the end.  Before this, as Devyn attended a pottery day camp at the local art school, Molly and I headed to the library.  There, she pulled book after book for me to read; in all, there were 19 books most of which were pretty short. Her selections aren't always so short but today I was pretty grateful that they were and, thankfully, as I grew tired, she decided to play and didn't choose a 20th title.

I thought it funny that people commented on the number of books that Molly wanted me to read to her since the place was crowded with children and parents participating in some sort of read-for-prizes club. But it might have been the rapid-fire pace with which the process of choosing, sitting, and reading, took place that drew attention to us.

At any rate, I declined to participate in the reading club this year, not knowing if I would actually have to list each book then and there and have Molly recount all 19 stories.  She gladly would have done it but it was, as I say, crowded, noisy, and chaotic to the degree that even Molly remarked on this and asked if we could leave.

Jon, Flora and the Odd-Eyed Cat by Stella Pevsner

Devyn and I love reading novels together.  Last night, we finished Jon, Flora and the Odd-Eyed Cat.

I loved reading with Devyn.  The book itself was disappointing, especially the end.

But Devyn loved it. I recall that, as we were selecting a book to read from one of our bins, she wanted to read it because she adored the cover.  She now thinks it is the most interesting story she's ever read. She especially enjoyed the variety of characters. She wishes she herself could be Flora.

I've proposed reading Mary Poppins next but Devyn would like to examine our options before agreeing.  Fair enough.

Bob Marley and Ballet

It’s a typical Saturday: Keith has already taken Molly for her short ballet and music classes; Devyn and I have done music theory homework and practice. Now, we’re on our way to the school again for the other half of the day.

It’s a pleasant, relaxed drive. Bob Marley is playing loudly – Devyn is singing along to her favourite song, Buffalo Soldier.

-- Where does he live?

-- Who?

-- Bob Marley.

-- Well, he’s not alive anymore, but he used to live in Jamaica.

-- Where’s that?

-- It’s a country in the Caribbean, an area like where Granddad and Papa come from, like Barbados and Trinidad. We should go there sometime and learn about the culture.

-- He’s dead? When did he die?

-- Yeh, he died when I was a little girl, around 11.

-- How did you know he died?

-- My mum, Nana, came home from work and told me. She said Jamaica was mourning. There’s a day now to celebrate him, called Bob Marley Day. People want to remember what he did for his country, for music, for people . . .

We’ve parked the car in the rear lot of the school and we’re now walking ahead of Keith and Molly. It’s cold; I hold her closely as we walk.

-- How did he die?

-- Uh, he died of cancer.

-- What kind of cancer was it? Was it in his arm, his leg, his head . . . ?

-- It was in his lungs. He had lung cancer.

I adjust the bag on my shoulder. I see the double doors of the reclaimed Victorian building; I hate these doors. There’s nothing wrong with them but traffic flows both ways and it’s uncontrolled. On top of that, I always have to maneuver a headstrong three-year-old up the side of the stairs that I’m on and keep her from darting up the other side where a quickly opened door would send her flying backwards down the steps. All this and carry all the bags; but, at this moment, Keith has Molly and I don’t think they’re very near us.

As I walk up the steps, I hear the voices of several parents trying to speak to the school’s administrator or trying to prepare them for lessons or trying to get them to listen. Devyn’s voice, at times strong and full of confidence, is so quiet or, at least, it’s lost in the bustle of Saturday-morning craziness.

-- How did Bob Marley get lung cancer?

-- Huh? Oh, he smoked.

-- Smoked? That’s awful. How much did he smoke?

-- He smoked A LOT.

A mother walking past hears us. She looks at me and we both laugh. There’s the sense that she and I are both aware of what I’m not saying, that the legendary Bob Marley smoked pot. Thankfully, I don’t have to have that conversation today!

-- Come on, luv. Let’s go.

She’s walking ahead of me, my hand on the back of her blue leotard. I can see her bun. I watch her bounce confidently down the stairs – she has taken ballet classes here since she was newly three years old. She's almost seven.

I have images of her as a teenager. Maybe she’s tall and wearing jeans with colourful Converse sneakers. Maybe I’ve allowed her to have dreads. Maybe she plays bass in a reggae band. Maybe she knows traditional Jamaican dancing.

-- Mum! Mum!

Ten years might fly by. But she’s calling me. She’s calling me at this moment because she can't wait to get to her ballet class.

-- Come on!

-- OK, go on. I’m right behind you.