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

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. 

Being and wellness

We visited the library, Molly and I, last week. I was able to see marked changes in her social development. Whereas she used to tell everyone that she was "unavailable" to play with them—even issuing directives through me in advance of social activities—she now plays easily, comfortably, with others.

She does insist that she doesn't often like other children very much but concedes that playing with some of them can be fun. She refuses to designate someone a friend unless she, among other things, clearly knows and likes the person, but she will not necessarily turn someone away from play now in the absence of her strict criteria. She may not make eye contact but we know that she can and will do so. She is also quite, er, given to leadership and has the strength of her convictions, too.

In conversation, for example, with a clerk in the children's section, this was amply demonstrated as he was just about to get rid of an empty tissue box.

"What are you going to do with that?" she asked, as she walked over to him.

"This? I was just going to recycle it."

"You shouldn't do that. You don't need to do that. You should reuse it first."

"Uh, really?" He cast a glance at me. "What should I do with it?"

"Well, you could put it on your desk right here on the corner or there," she pointed, "and put things in it."

"Yes," he conceded. "That's a good idea."

"You could also hang it on the wall for decoration."

"That's true. Wow, you have a good imagination."

"That's not imagination," she asserted, her brows furrowing to create an expression that, I swear, I first observed in the hospital nursery almost four years ago.

"I mean that you have a good imagination to come up with those ideas."

"That's not imagination," she persisted. "Those are facts."

He raised his eyebrows, looked at me, and I shrugged my shoulders. What could I say?

But as happy as I am that Molly is developing socially—at least, she isn't holding up her hand as she has for the past two years and stating, "I'm not available" as often—there is a discerning guardedness about her, a fearlessness as well as an enviable certitude that remains, and which makes her the little girl that I know.

While being able to watch her interact with others is always enjoyable and interesting to me and the library seems to be one of the best ways in which to do this, there is always a worry that I have when I'm there and as I'm leaving: germs. For no matter how many times I wipe hands and toys, my children usually end up with a cold within a week.

Predictably, then, Molly became ill last week with what I think is the 'flu—not gastroenteritis, but actual, flat-on-your-back influenza. I've suffered from a true, diagnosed case maybe once in my adult life and the aches, lethargy, difficulty breathing, etc. are not easily described (my new grasp of medical terminology notwithstanding). I watched Molly as she lay listlessly, eyes sunken, with a high fever and a cough that caused scream-like cries of distress each time it occurred.

Gone was the "say this! say that!" kind of, er, leadership. Gone, too, were the thirst for knowledge and firm resolutions; no furrowed brows, no "reporting".  This absence of "Mollyness" disturbed me as much as the physical symptoms and signs of the 'flu.

So, last night, after almost a week of worry and sleeplessness, I had an inkling that things were finally changing for the better: her fever was disappearing; there had been only one wakeful period during which she irrationally insisted that I fetch her a juice box (and not that of the ordinary, plastic-container-bound variety), set it on the bedside table, and then she steadfastly refused to drink it. Were her leadership tendencies returning? I wondered.

Today, however, I absolutely knew that she was on the mend when (1) she insisted on "the perfect outfit" of her choosing; (2) she decided on asked me for her favourite snack of boiled eggs and apple; (3) she requested 15 books be read to her before 10:00 a.m., and (4) I walked into the living room and found her curled up beside the library bin like this:

She's coughing, doesn't look like her old self yet, but, at least, she's starting to behave as she usually does. I have to wonder, as the world of medicine becomes less mysterious to me, to what degree is the absence of what we recognize in our children, and in our loved ones in general, part of the actual fear and ordeal of illness? But, as I close this very paragraph, a book lands on my keyboard and Molly says, "Read that!" and I realize that I'll have to muse about this later.

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

Damage control . . .

I'm reading a magazine right now. (It's a Royal Conservatory of Music concert brochure.)

That's good, Molly.

Is this a big girl book?

Yes. But I'm not a big fan of telling you what you can or can't read.  If you like it, that's good.

Grandma says little girls should read books for little girls.

Yes, well, as I told you yesterday, Grandma knows some things but I know more.

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!

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.

The World of Michelangelo . . . by Molly

"Here," she says, bringing me a book we'd just inherited on Michelangelo. "Read me the words."

"Uh," I manage, trying to figure out where and how I'd start.

I flip to an image of La Pieta. 

"Who is that woman?"

"That's the man's mother."  Carefully sidestep religion -- check!

"What's she doing?"

"She's holding her son . . . Does she look sad?"

"No."

"Does he look sad?"

"No."

"What does he look like?"

"He looks like a bunch of clay."

Notable conversations

Last night, after school, Devyn was speaking French and one word in particular was said with such perfect pronunciation that it put both Keith and myself to shame as far as our French goes! It's the "r" sound that follows "par". Being around someone speaking French consistently has really helped her.

That being said, I want to make note of some conversations of the past week that either caused shock, laughter or both. Because Devyn is at school all of the day, her teacher gets to hear all the great things that Devyn has to say -- one unfortunate consequence of having your child in school full-time -- so I only have Molly's words until the summer.

**

It's getting close to the girls' bedtime and our guests are still here. We're seated around the dining room table eating delivered pizza and, somehow, the subject of monsters comes up. Devyn didn't worry about such things -- she was mostly concerned about ghosts but monsters were definitely the stuff of imagination to her.

For Molly, however, it is monsters and, recently, she has taken to hiding Poe -- a cute 'Ugly Doll' stuffed animal -- under her bed before going to sleep. (Technically, Poe is an Ugly Dragon.) During the day, it's a special stuffed toy because Keith bought it for her in NYC last year. They were all the rage.


"I don't like scary green monsters," Molly says.

"Well, there are no monsters here," we reassure her.

"Do you think that Mummy would allow monsters in the house around her children?" I seek to further reassure her.

"Yes," Keith adds. "We would never allow monsters around our children."

Molly looks confused and, without skipping a beat, points out: "But YOU bought POE."

**

On the way to the car after preschool on Thursday, I ask Molly repeatedly to hold my hand and she refuses. The last time I ask, she says,

"Don't embarrass me!"


With just four months or so to go until her birthday, I'm getting a little nervous about what "three" is going to look like!

**

Molly says - after reaching the potty, "What a minute, wait a minute! There's no toilet paper!"

Oh, the drama . . .

**

The kids have been asked to watch cartoons as Keith and I eat an early supper while preparing supper for the girls. When Molly asks if she may stay, I say 'no':

"No is not nice, Mummy. No is not nice!" Molly yells angrily at me and slams the kitchen door. A minute or so later, she is back in the kitchen, I give her some of my meal and ask her to return to the living room. She leaves. This time, as she opens the kitchen door, she turns and says, "I'm sorry for bossing you, Mummy. I'm sorry for bossing you."

**

Molly has become really fascinated by volcanoes. She speaks of them often everyday. On the way back from a doctor's appointment yesterday:

"Can we see a volcano?" She asks as always.

"Yes, we can. Well, maybe not a live volcano; maybe one that has been quiet for a long time." This is my usual answer, too.

"But I want to see a scary volcano. A volcano with molten lava."

Now, it may be time to bring out the volcano kit I bought years ago.

Molly and the Middle East

I'm lying in bed with my latest book propped up against my knees. A sickly Molly is lying beside me because her illness has been concerning despite antibiotics. I'm exhausted but she's not tired.

"Molly, you need to go to sleep. I'm doing research."

She loves to "do research" with me. So, really wanting her to go to sleep, I realize I shouldn't have said this but, oh well. You can't unring a bell.

"So, tell me about that fancy pen of yours," she says, smiling up at me. It's often easy to forget that she's only two but, at this moment, the fact that she's only two has hit me. Hard.

"It's a highlighter," I explain, a sense of dread creeping up on me because I have taught her not to write in or otherwise destroy books. Could I really end up unravelling a couple of years' worth of her learning in this regard, end up changing her relationship with books?

"How does it work? How do you draw with it?"

"Well, you don't draw with it. Sometimes, in special circumstances, in special books, for special reasons like research, you use it to mark words that you want to remember."

She's really happy to learn, I think, that she may one day be able to write in books and she asks me to show her what highlighting a word actually means.

It's not a "dry" read by any means -- a memoir of travels in a Middle Eastern country -- but I can't imagine a two-year-old enjoying it or that I may be able to edit effectively as I read. But she wants me to read aloud.

"It's about a country called Iran," I tell her. "It's part of the Middle East."

"Could we travel to there?"

I pause. I don't want to tell her about visas and the difficulties one apparently encounters while trying to secure them. She is, after all, only two.

"Yes, we can one day."

She smiles and hugs me. For a moment, I imagine the two of us travelling to the far reaches of the globe together.

"We can travel there now, tho', in our imaginations. We can pretend we're there. Books help us do that. You can go all over the world by reading books."

And I start reading to her. There's really nothing obviously inappropriate in the passages I've reached thus far and, when something questionable arises, I omit it. If she notices, she doesn't let on. She listens attentively as the narrator recounts how his faith in humanity has been restored following an act of kindness by locals.

Time has stopped for a brief period. I'm no longer thinking that it doesn't feel like 8:30 at night; I no longer feel exhausted. As the story escapes my mouth and the words fall and settle between us, there's a calm sense that she and I have started something that we'll always love to do together.

Mother and Child

Though I've tried and failed to keep an accurate count and I can't remember the content of all, I've read several hundred children's books over the past three or so years. This morning, I actually had pause to think of some that I've held while cuddled up to my babies.

Some have been too didactic for my tastes while others have been set to rhymes that have made me cringe. But I think I've enjoyed most of our repertoire, especially those that illustrate some poignant, universal qualities of the parent-young child relationship and wherein the expression or acknowledgment of which usually culminates in the mother reassuringly saying, "I love you."

I'm thinking of such titles: The Runaway Bunny; Olivia; Goodnight, My Duckling . . .

Very sweet. Every mother can recognize her own relationhip in the narrative and everyone feels warm and fuzzy at this point. Even a memorably difficult parenting day depicted in Harriet, You'll Drive Me Wild by Mem Fox ends with this tacit understanding of shared affection.

So, what prompted the memories of these books?

Just moments before, after joining my family in the tornadic swirl of activity that has become breakfast, I looked at my loving little 21-month-old as she reached for a piece of waffle:

"I love you, Molly." I said in a syrup-y, sing-song voice.

"I know."

Because she usually says "too" in this game, everyone laughed at the unexpected, matter-of-fact response.

But I was also stunned as well as amused. A sharp contrast to the content of those books was definitely not what I'd been set up for over the past few years, yet her first two-word response to "I love you" was really very funny.