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!"
Showing posts with label conversations. Show all posts
Showing posts with label conversations. Show all posts
Tuesday, June 24, 2014
Sunday, May 26, 2013
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)
Wednesday, April 03, 2013
Timing is everything - Amended
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)
Thursday, November 15, 2012
Wakeful
When Molly stirred slightly this morning and woke me, I had a sinking feeling that I had just had my night's sleep. Unfortunately, it was 3:00 a.m....and she is still going!
On the way to her school this morning, she really had to know why the sun exists -- I could hear myself attempting to talk about gravity and nuclear fusion while sleep deprived and I knew that she would not get the detailed explanation that she required; thankfully, Keith was there.
After a half-day of field-tripping at the city's only eco/green house, I signed her out of school early and went home hoping to nap. If you've never had a highly inquisitive, highly active and easily bored child of five years, then you don't know that I am going to say that I did not, in fact, nap.
There were some things that she had yet to invent and there were books that she had been intending to read. Her mind is never on a break: know, know, know! Do, do, do!
I am told that she is like this at school, too, always figuring out how things work and hopping from one activity to another -- very rapidly -- to this end. This is why she is not a great sleeper -- getting to sleep is the difficulty.
I do try to remember that our nocturnal wakefulness can be quality time though sometimes I need a little convincing.
So, what did we do in the early hours of today? Well, mostly, we read books and then she looked at books while I doodled. Oftentimes, I am working on a specific project when doodling but just as often I am being plain silly.
And, too, there are those moments when I think of what's in store in raising a nine-year-old tween girl and certain realizations hit me: that 'talk' we often have about growing up has to continue to be positive...
On the way to her school this morning, she really had to know why the sun exists -- I could hear myself attempting to talk about gravity and nuclear fusion while sleep deprived and I knew that she would not get the detailed explanation that she required; thankfully, Keith was there.
After a half-day of field-tripping at the city's only eco/green house, I signed her out of school early and went home hoping to nap. If you've never had a highly inquisitive, highly active and easily bored child of five years, then you don't know that I am going to say that I did not, in fact, nap.
There were some things that she had yet to invent and there were books that she had been intending to read. Her mind is never on a break: know, know, know! Do, do, do!
I am told that she is like this at school, too, always figuring out how things work and hopping from one activity to another -- very rapidly -- to this end. This is why she is not a great sleeper -- getting to sleep is the difficulty.
I do try to remember that our nocturnal wakefulness can be quality time though sometimes I need a little convincing.
So, what did we do in the early hours of today? Well, mostly, we read books and then she looked at books while I doodled. Oftentimes, I am working on a specific project when doodling but just as often I am being plain silly.
And, too, there are those moments when I think of what's in store in raising a nine-year-old tween girl and certain realizations hit me: that 'talk' we often have about growing up has to continue to be positive...
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Filling my mind up
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.
---
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
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.
Me: No.
Molly: Can you go if you're invisible?
Me: I don't know.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
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.
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
Monday, March 14, 2011
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) shedecided 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.
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
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.
Tuesday, March 08, 2011
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.
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.
Saturday, February 05, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, August 09, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, July 08, 2010
Time flies
I happened upon an online journal entry from almost three-years-ago to the day.
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!
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!
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
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."
"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."
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
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.
Monday, May 10, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, May 08, 2010
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."
Monday, May 03, 2010
David, Goliath and Molly (Age 3)
Molly, this morning, announces that she wants to look at science books. I explain that the book nearest us is about art. It's called The Art Book and we inherited it from Uncle Walt a few weeks ago.
She flips deliberately through the pages until she lights upon Castagno's The Young David which has a picture of Goliath's head lying beneath the legs of a victorious David.
"Why is the man in the mud?"
I try a number of explanations avoiding certain words until I find one that's most comfortable to me: Goliath was a monster and David was a hero for confronting the monster. I honestly consider giving her the details and using the conventional words to describe what happens in the story but it seems too soon, too harsh.
"Why was David a hero?"
"Why was Goliath a monster?"
"Why is he in the mud?"
Then, I manage, for the moment, to divert her to other pages but she wants to return to The Young David. She likes Mary Cassatt's Woman Sewing in a Garden. She loves Cezanne's La Montagne Saint Victoire Barnes and traces a mountain with her finger as she describes climbing up and then down it and I can't help but wonder if she'll love art as she grows.
I love these moments together and our mornings and Molly's learning. She directs me and asks me and wants me to know things so that I can teach her. I know nothing about art history or art but I learn. I learn for her.
Molly lives through pictures and I have an image of her sitting in her stroller at about 7 or 8 months and for the first time purposely turning back through pages in a book to revisit something she liked. Here, too, she is taking in each detail with equal significance: the green hills, the brown mud, the wavy lines, the sky that could hold a rainbow like the one she saw at her grandmother's house a few weeks ago.
The sun lights up the dining room, exposing motes of dust, and warms the room. The pages are warming, too. I look up from the book for a moment. Across the table, the keys on Devyn's laptop are hot -- she told me so earlier. Behind this, windows bear evidence of little hands. Through these, I see a dozen or more old-looking balloons on the floor of the porch, left over from Molly's birthday celebrations last week.
Everything today reminds me that Molly is growing up. We move on to the living room.
"Here," she says, handing me a CD cover of Prokofiev's Romeo & Juliet. "Why is he lying on the stairs?"
I'm suddenly struck by how much attention she pays to her environment. I start to consider all of the cultural information that she could gather from this living room alone and it seems a bit overwhelming . . .
"Uh, well, Romeo & Juliet is a story about two young people who wanted to be together but their parents wouldn't allow them to be together."
"Why?"
"Well, they had their own ideas about who should be together and why." I don't know why I avoid talking about the conflict between the families. I guess I'm caught off guard.
"They were very sad," I explain, "about not being able to be together . . ."
She flips deliberately through the pages until she lights upon Castagno's The Young David which has a picture of Goliath's head lying beneath the legs of a victorious David.
"Why is the man in the mud?"
I try a number of explanations avoiding certain words until I find one that's most comfortable to me: Goliath was a monster and David was a hero for confronting the monster. I honestly consider giving her the details and using the conventional words to describe what happens in the story but it seems too soon, too harsh.
"Why was David a hero?"
"Why was Goliath a monster?"
"Why is he in the mud?"
Then, I manage, for the moment, to divert her to other pages but she wants to return to The Young David. She likes Mary Cassatt's Woman Sewing in a Garden. She loves Cezanne's La Montagne Saint Victoire Barnes and traces a mountain with her finger as she describes climbing up and then down it and I can't help but wonder if she'll love art as she grows.
I love these moments together and our mornings and Molly's learning. She directs me and asks me and wants me to know things so that I can teach her. I know nothing about art history or art but I learn. I learn for her.
Molly lives through pictures and I have an image of her sitting in her stroller at about 7 or 8 months and for the first time purposely turning back through pages in a book to revisit something she liked. Here, too, she is taking in each detail with equal significance: the green hills, the brown mud, the wavy lines, the sky that could hold a rainbow like the one she saw at her grandmother's house a few weeks ago.
The sun lights up the dining room, exposing motes of dust, and warms the room. The pages are warming, too. I look up from the book for a moment. Across the table, the keys on Devyn's laptop are hot -- she told me so earlier. Behind this, windows bear evidence of little hands. Through these, I see a dozen or more old-looking balloons on the floor of the porch, left over from Molly's birthday celebrations last week.
Everything today reminds me that Molly is growing up. We move on to the living room.
"Here," she says, handing me a CD cover of Prokofiev's Romeo & Juliet. "Why is he lying on the stairs?"
I'm suddenly struck by how much attention she pays to her environment. I start to consider all of the cultural information that she could gather from this living room alone and it seems a bit overwhelming . . .
"Uh, well, Romeo & Juliet is a story about two young people who wanted to be together but their parents wouldn't allow them to be together."
"Why?"
"Well, they had their own ideas about who should be together and why." I don't know why I avoid talking about the conflict between the families. I guess I'm caught off guard.
"They were very sad," I explain, "about not being able to be together . . ."
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
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."
"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."
Saturday, January 09, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, December 28, 2009
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.
"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.
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