Please, play something else...?

I actually don't find the image creepy and, for the most part, Molly has enjoyed this book as it models social rules; but, when pressed for more information, she insisted, "Giraffes don't SKIP!"

The ethical treatment of books

I actually try to keep track of the conversations between Molly and me that I find funny or cute or surprising.

While watching one of her favourite documentary-style shows about art and architecture tonight, I sensed her agitation and then I heard it:

Molly:      That's not right, Mum! That's NOT right.

Me:         What's not right?

Molly:      They're turning unwanted books into works of art... People should respect books!

I know that I was a reader at her age (7), but I don't recall having such a strong sense of justice regarding the treatment of books.

Sure. Why not?

Molly has insisted that I read Frankenstein to her. Though she is well accustomed to the Gothic elements in some nineteenth-century poetry, I worried that Frankenstein would be just too frightening for her; however, I grabbed a tattered, vintage copy of a version adapted for teens and, well, she loves it. It definitely isn't intended for seven-year-old children, but I'm not concerned.

We are slightly more than halfway through, but our reading has been slowed by the fact that she asks me to reread certain chapters that she likes. For example, she truly enjoys the chapter in which Victor Frankenstein successfully imbues the body that he has created with life -- using electricity. (Such an important part for many reasons.)

I like watching Molly, from the corner of my eye, revisiting the chapters that we've just finished.

Super Why?

It's one show that I really don't mind the girls watching (though Devyn is not very interested in it) because, as Molly told me today, "It teaches you about letters and how to spell."

Of tents and tornadoes

from summer art journal

Bases covered

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

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?"

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.

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)

Cats

Art...and just a little more

Molly watches one documentary at bedtime every night. (Devyn would, too, but she tires earlier and wouldn't be able to stay awake long enough.)

Last night, Molly chose art as the subject, so I searched YouTube and proudly announced that we could watch one about Bernini. I wanted to learn, too.

But some documentaries just aren't appropriate for six-year-old art enthusiasts

The period -- 17th century -- would be problematic for her, since time is a difficult thing for children, but I figured that she could well take something good from the experience.

As she lay down and settled in, I finished up some activities. The narrator waxed rhapsodic about the exquisite details of some sculptures, and the end of the evening seemed to be going smoothly. I was wrapping things up while listening along and answering questions.

-- Did they have cameras back then...Then, how do they know what Bernini looked like?

-- What if I lived in that time and didn't believe what everyone believed?

-- How did people get to faraway places?

Then, the subject of Bernini's marriage, which at first seemed benign, quickly moved the documentary in a new, darker direction. The music changed and so did Molly's questions.

-- Mum...Mummy? Why does he have a sword?

Before I knew what was happening, swords and stalking, adultery and betrayal unfolded in reenactment as the story of Bernini, his wife, and his brother culminated in violence and more tragedy. Yikes.

I couldn't move quickly enough to the TV mouse to click the pause button.

Well, in the end, she hadn't witnessed any violence, and she wasn't terribly frightened.

-- Which one got hurt: Bernini or his brother?

Her questions were a relief to me.

-- Mum? Were there cars way back then?

-- No

-- Then...Why were there roads in the documentary?

(The reenactment -- the settings, the dialogue, the acting -- probably hurt the production more than it helped the viewer.)

So, lesson learned. I will want to watch the documentaries beforehand from now on.

Timing is everything - Amended

This morning, I find it necessary to talk to Molly (and remind Devyn) about certain relationship pitfalls, such as claiming a classmate hit you if he did not, actually, hit you.

Besides the obvious annoyance, inconvenience, and injustice for the accused (who will sit in time-out wondering how his life has come to this), there is also the risk that a teacher at school might not believe you should you report a subsequent (this time, actual) injury.

Hurriedly, I help Molly with her coat as Keith prepares to head out the door.

-- I'm sorry, but we really have to go. Now.

Clearly, this is a good time to blurt out what has to be the world's fastest retell of the Boy Who Cried Wolf fable, and I rush, in a single breath, to the end:

-- And that's where the expression 'never cry wolf' comes from. Now. Molly. Do you know what the message of that story is?

-- Yes.

-- Good! Great! What's the message?

-- Stay away from wolves...Right?

Stunned as I am by this unexpected interpretation, I can't help but stare down at her with my mouth agape; my eyes, unnaturally pronounced.

Yet, we are losing precious time, so I force myself to blink and, then, choose my words carefully.

-- Yes, that's...a good. Takeaway. Message. Buh...

At this point, Keith rushes her out the door and I watch as they go. But I am still standing in the hallway, talking (still trying in vain to ask, "But what's the MAIN message?") because I don't want her to leave without it.

There's nothing, however, that I can do at this point as she disappears down the steps -- my five-year-old is going to school now, determined to avoid wolves. And it just kind of sets the tone for the rest of the day.

(written March 27, 2013... / posted April 3, 2013)

Oh, yeah, and if you get a chance...

It's Monday morning, Molly's return to school after a two-week break, and the four of us are getting ready for the day.

She doesn't respond as I announce that it is time for her to leave for school, but Molly often doesn't hear people when she's pursuing an interest. So, I am not surprised when I find her leaning against the princess sofa (our antique chaise longue) as she leafs through a book.

When I see its title, I cautiously ask if she intends to take the book to school.

-- Yes, I think so. For Victoria.

Victoria is a classmate who, it appears, is somewhat fickle in designating BFF status. Something tells me that I lack some critical information about Molly's plans for the day, but she really must leave now.

-- Okay, darling. Let's pack it up, then.

-- I'm going to give it to her at recess and have her read it. Then, she'll know how to behave.

I freeze. My mind races this way and that, searching frantically for a way to dissuade her from the sweet-but-misguided plan while nevertheless lauding this bold attempt to connect with a friend.

-- Well, what if you were to ask Victoria to read the book with you? Then, Victoria could learn about her mistakes without ever being aware of your [intended act of] kindness.

She folds the book under her little arm, furrows her brows, and sets about the task of going to school -- without disclosing her intentions.

I am encouraged by the fact that Molly reaches for books (just as Devyn does) in matters of conflict.

--

How To Be A Friend: A Guide to Making Friends and Keeping Them (Laurie Krasny Brown/Marc Brown)

Bug Inventory

But a kite...?

Molly: How could there be a kite flown in the house?

Me: Well, I guess if you can imagine a big talking cat with a red-and-white striped hat, you can imagine a kite flying in a house...Hahaha!

Molly: (staring)

Me: See, because large talking cats in tall striped hats...don't...Hee..heh...I mean, they...

Molly: (staring)

Me: They're just ima...Hmm.

Molly: (staring)

Me: 'I bet, with my net, I can get those Things yet...'

I get it. Among other things, there's nothing about the house ostensibly preventing a strange, unrealistically depicted talking cat from appearing because if you can imagine such a talking cat, you could just as easily imagine one appearing in a house; but there are walls and a ceiling preventing conditions sufficient for lift, etc. in order to fly a (comparatively) realistically depicted full-size kite such as those in the characters' hands.

Still, she could have laughed condescendingly while avoiding eye contact or something, right? ;)

The Fire Cat by Esther Averill

Molly on Minecraft