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)

Mother's Day weekend

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)

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.
---

Just wondering...

Molly: Can you go to university when you're dead?

Me: No.

Molly: Can you go if you're invisible?

Me: I don't know.

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.

The Three Little Pigs: In, Down, Over

We have a number of versions of The Three Little Pigs and, with each version that I read to her, poor Molly becomes frustrated beyond belief.

Why? Because the wolf blows the house in and not down or over. 

Little pig, little pig, let me come in. 

'No, no, by the hair on my chiny chin chin.' 

Then I'll huff, and I'll puff, and I'll blow your house in.*

Surely, she has asked me, there is a version that has the correct word? In fact, she can recall that I've read it to her in the past but I have no such memory. I have explained, while stifling a laugh, that the word is used because it rhymes with "chinny chin chin" but it's to no avail. She anticipates, at each sitting, the first huffing-and-puffing episode with hope and, looking up at the ceiling, expresses her disappointment and frustration when the wolf threatens to blow the house in.

Why is she hung up on a preposition? I've wondered. Well, in her world, as I've come to understand it, perfection is something you should expect and which you should want to expect. I'm not exaggerating. Despite all my efforts to explain that perfection is not attainable, that striving towards it leads to strife, that everyone has to accept degrees of imperfection and accommodation, the child will not believe me. YOU may settle for imperfection, but she will not.

That many things come easily to her only reinforces her drive. As such, we had the following conversation on May 6:

– Why do you like everything to be perfect? 

– Because everything is boring if it isn't perfect.  

– What does being perfect mean?  

          – Getting things perfect.

– How can you make mistakes if everything has to be perfect?    

– I won't. 

– I make mistakes and I'm not perfect. Is that OK? 

          – I'm perfect.

It not only extends to conversations but to interactions in general. She exacts perfection from the world. Honestly, I didn't quite know what to say the other day when, as a friend of hers expected a gaming device to be charged immediately after plugging it in, Molly, in a world-weary kind of way, snapped: "Just let it suck up some electricity first!"

She also has an adorable, if perplexing, habit of telling you to say something:

– Is this a good idea, Mum? Say, 'That's a good idea'.   

– That's a good idea.

In this way, she constructs the world as she likes it. Lately, we've taken to imitating her in a very affectionate way:

– Is this a good idea, Mummy? Say, 'That's a good idea.' 

– That's a good idea, Daddy.

But, as you might expect, she doesn't like this at all as, we've discovered, she has a proprietary attachment to this manner of speech:

– Hey! You can't say that, Daddy! 

– Why not? 

– That's MY expression.

Of course, we find her adorable as everyone finds their children adorable. Devyn, however, has another approach which is completely understandable:

– Devyn, why didn't you repeat what she said to say?   (I asked, out of curiosity, one day.) 

– Oh. I never say what she commands me to say.

And, that, I've concluded, is how the rest of the world is going to react to our little perfectionist; so we don't correct Devyn's behaviour and, surprisingly, Molly doesn't ever press the issue with her.

This disposition of hers may be advantageous in the area of computer games. Unfortunately, she gets upset when a computer game doesn't behave in a way that she would like it to: If she thinks a snowman should be able to be increased to 2x its size but the game only allows 1.5x, then Molly gets emotional. She used to throw tantrums at two and three years old and each session invariably ended with me telling her that, if she was going to play a game, she would have to follow its rules and not get upset; otherwise, she'd have to turn to another activity.

Keith explained it to her this way: "The only way that you will ever get a game to do exactly what you want is to program one yourself." She seemed to understand this but it was little consolation.

Thankfully, she is obsessed with The Magic School Bus cartoon and books and the teacher, Ms. Frizzle, in the cartoon always says, "Get out there and make some mistakes" or some such thing, which emphasizes my own words that sum up the we-learn-by-making-mistakes approach to life. She takes it all in--over and over and over again--but she doesn't agree.

So, when I correct her behaviour, she quickly points out, "This is MY way of doing something." Frankly, this is fine if she's drawing or creating but not if she's doing something dangerous or unacceptable.

Molly will ask me—or her father—to please use the word "down" if we're going to read the story of The Three Little Pigs to her. I don't see anything wrong with doing so and she doesn't care about losing the rhyme scheme.

Perhaps she'll create computer games one day. Last year, she wanted to be a "brain doctor" or a "muffin maker"—it was all so unclear to her. She tells me these days that she will, in fact, be a doctor; but, no matter how capable she becomes of creating things or of fixing people, the wolf will always blow the house in, and not down or over, as long as she's reading somebody else's work. Life's just like that. Of course, she could decide to write her own version of The Three Little Pigs. . .
__


Attributions:
 Illustration by Leonard Leslie Brooke. 1904 adaptation. (source: Wikipedia)
*Jacobs, Joseph (1890). English Fairy Tales. Oxford University. pp. 68–72. (source: Wikipedia

The Perils of a Good Book - 1

Distraction

(Or, Why I may have to walk Molly to university when the time comes . . . )

I bit my tongue so that she could see, in a safe way, just how dangerous such a budding skill can be. At this point, it is best reserved for the park with your mummy. 

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 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.

Time flies

I happened upon an online journal entry from almost three-years-ago to the day. 

The growth of my girls - July 9, 2007

"I didn't want to have my face painted today."

"No?"

"No. I was scared."

"Oh, I can see how that might be scary."

"Nobody else, just me."

"Nobody else was scared?"

"No."

"How did that make you feel?"

"Sad."

Devyn's aware of herself in the context of others. She compares herself to others.

She's also shot up another two inches in the last couple of months. She has a tiny waist, so her pants are long enough but she needs to wear a belt. (It's surprisingly difficult to find a belt for a preschooler.)

At her last Well Baby appointment (June 29th), Molly was 10lbs 8oz (I won a bet with K about how much she weighed) and 23 inches long. Funny, we didn't know how long she was at birth because that measurement isn't routinely sought.

We've had a difficult month, I'd say. Devyn's feelings about having a sibling aren't always positive and this is to be expected.

She's told me that she's disappointed that I can't spend as much time with her, so I spend as much as I can.

She's told her father that she doesn't always like being a big sister.

She's asked if we have to take Molly along on drives, etc. One day last week or so, while at the kitchen table, she asked:

"Why do we have to have Molly?"

"Because she's part of the family," I struggled. Begging the question, I know.

"Why was she born?"

So, she's struggling with big questions, too.

This might explain why, a couple of weeks before her 4th birthday, she is extraordinarily defiant, argumentative and generally difficult. This makes for long days.

One funny expression lately: when asked if she's ready, Devyn will say, "Ready as a liver bee!"

At least, Molly sleeps through the night. The breastfeeding clinic told me a few times that she's too young to miss feedings and that she needs to be awakened in the middle of the night. Everyone else, including my family doctor, told me to allow her to sleep and that demand-feeding is perfectly fine at this age (10 weeks). I've stopped going to the clinic.

We're continually amazed by Molly, just as we have been amazed by Devyn. She's started kicking and making sounds other than crying. She smiles easily and raises her arms up and down quickly when she's pleased with her toys, etc. She kicks now, lifts her head (but she has since the first week) and always has a pacifier in her mouth.

She's so calm, never cries anymore unless we let her go beyond the hand-sucking stage of hunger. Colic only lasted a few weeks.

Finally, my concentration has returned and I finished reading the first book since becoming pregnant (I'd been averaging about one per week prior to pregnancy) on July 7th.

Purple Hibiscus by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. I haven't collected my thoughts about this coming-of-age story set in a strife-ridden Nigeria. I do know that it made me long for some fiction by Uwem Akpan.

Pregnancy -- and then sleep-deprivation -- really affected my concentration and made reading impossible.  Considering thatI was on bedrest for much of the latter part, this was a problem. 

Devyn is now very comfortable with being a sister and they're usually the best of friends.

What a pleasant surprise it has been to look back!

OK, she can watch TV

I'm just about to walk down the stairs when I hear a bang: something has hit the floor outside the girls' room.  Molly appears.

"They DO roll, Mummy.  Rocks roll.  That's what they do."

"Really?"

"Yes. Taury from Dinoworld says 'Rocks don't roll'."

"And what do you think?"

"They DO roll."

Molly's Lexicon, Age 3 years + 3 weeks+

Validator

noun. a vehicle that takes you where you want to go and which makes you feel good.

"I took the validator but I didn't get trapped inside."


Me:  Why do you call it a validator? You know it's an elevator.

Molly: (giggling) I just love that word SO MUCH!

So, we aren't allowed to use the word 'elevator' around here. Ever.

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.

Molly's Lexicon, Age 3 years + 2 weeks

Polka dot ear-ness:

Acute condition of unknown etiology. Characterized by tears and sudden need for attention, relapses and remits in direct relationship to presence/absence of older sibling receiving attention. Refractory to treatment that does not include the application of ice.

"I have polka dot earness."

Sunday

I manage to steal a couple of hours away from everyone and go to the mall.  While there, I happen upon a bargain table of books.  The collection is by no means impressive but one book catches my eye. Its sole subject? The trapdoor spider.

Devyn -- who casually dines next to enshrined, dessicated insect carcasses on the breakfast table -- finds spiders and insects interesting and I want to learn for her and to connect with her and I'm going to be that mother -- the one who picks up books about spiders to feed her daughter's curiosity even when said child is not around.  But, I need to be casual. 

OK. So, I'm casual.

I should have taken off my jacket.

I look around slowly before I turn the page.

What's the problem, right? They're morphologically different from us and from any other creature crawling on the earth but, really, they're just different.

The red page.  It has a nice green border and its photos are finely detailed and OMFG! I'm looking at a hideous creature -- an alien, repulsive, one-might-as-well-be-crawling-up-my-arm monster of a spider!  Forget it -- I can't be casual.  I know people hear me yelp; I drop the book and head for the exit.

But I did look, I tell myself . . . I guess that's a start.

Morning

As soon as it felt like morning to me, I went into the girls' room.  I hadn't spoken to them since supper the night before and the babysitter had mentioned a Molly meltdown.  As usual, they were both wide awake.  Devyn was pleased to announce that she had been able to comfort her sister in my absence.  I climbed onto the bottom bunk and covered up to get warm.

"I missed you so so much, Mummy," Molly told me. Then, she reached over me for something.

"Well, what did you girls do last night while I was out?"

"Here," Molly said, shoving a book into my neck. "Read this."

"OK," I croaked through neck pain. "I will, but I want to know how your night was first."

"Read this! Read Olivia! I want you to read Olivia."

It wasn't just Olivia; it was Olivia Saves the Circus and probably my least favourite Ian Falconer book.  I groaned inwardly.

Molly opened the book to the first page. "Please read Olivia, Mummy."

She wouldn't be deterred.

So started our day.  Then came the usual requests to go to the library but we both have trouble understanding why it's closed on Mondays. Tomorrow, however, is Tuesday and I promised we'd go right after my training session.

It was great to see Devyn reading after school.  Instead of becoming frustrated when encountering unknown words, she actually welcomed help from me.  She was very excited about two nonfiction readers -- one about cats, the other about dogs -- that she'd signed out of the school library.  We read the book on cats at bedtime.  Molly, who refuses to nap during the day, was exhausted from a late night and preferred to take things apart today though we did thumb through some volcano books.  She didn't even request that I spell words for her and help her print them!

An Experiment

I've been trying to decide how to keep track of the girls' reading. This blog is not simply about their reading but I think it ought to be included:

(1) Devyn, 6, in French Immersion, needs to read in French; but, I also wish to make sure that she can read in English as well, long before it's introduced as a subject in school. Posts about her will include both French and English titles.

(2) Throughout an average day, while Devyn's at school, I often guess at how many books Molly, 2, has requested that I read; keeping track gives me that, and other, information.

In both cases, I will be able to track developing interests and gain a deeper understanding of their personalities.  I want to see exactly how much I've learnt and how much they have changed by the end of December 2010.

So, there will be posts that contain nothing but lists of books which may bore the reader to tears; but, hopefully, other posts will compensate. I won't publish the list-of-books posts to the feeds.