Girl Detective

Knuffle Bunny Too is a worthy sequel to Mo Willems’s Knuffle Bunny, and a welcome addition to his impressive oeuvre. While I don’t consistently love all his books (such as Leonardo and Edwina) my kids, 4yo Drake and 21mo Guppy, are gaga over Pigeon, Knuffle Bunny, Elephant, and Piggie.

As in its predecessor, KB2 meshes photos with Willems’s illustrations to great effect. Trixie is back, and she’s gone on to great conversational lengths (if not heights) from the conclusion of KB1. She is disturbed to learn that her beloved Knuffle Bunny (pronounced Kuh-nuffle, as it is in German) is not unique. Rivalry and hijinks ensue. Dad gets bossed about; happiness is restored in the end.

Careful observers can detect the slight differences in the bunnies, as well as three appearances of Pigeon. Like Hitchcock, the Pigeon appears somewhere in all of Willems’s books.

Looking for toys that will bring joy? Both The Pigeon and Knuffle Bunny now are in plush form!

Want to feel loved by a child? Wear velvet pants. They are hug magnets.

I brought the Sound of Music soundtrack home from the library for 4yo Drake. He plays it over and over, start to finish, morning till night.

I think I’m going to have to have it surgically removed from my brain.

Ergh.

My husband and I hope to make the upcoming holidays about joy and wonder for our 4yo and almost 2yo sons. An article I received in one of my parenting classes has some good ideas.

Star Tribune 12/24/89 - Pat Gardner “Tender Years”

The weeks of hectic preparation are coming to a close. Within days, the magic will begin to unfold for our children and, vicariously through them, for us. Just as we remember those wonderful Christmas Eves and mornings long ago, our children will one day look back on these days. How will they remember them? What are you giving your children this year?

I know one family of modest means that makes a great effort to celebrate Christmas in the best way possible. Their children always find five gifts under the tree. And more than that, the gifts are always accompanied by a parent. Here’s how they do it.

The children always receive a gift to hug and love. Sometimes it’s a doll or maybe a stuffed animal. Every Christmas each child has something to care for, to carry along and finally at night to share a bed, secrets and dreams.

The wise parents know that the children will themselves learn to care for others by practicing on dolls and stuffed animals. Mom and Dad demonstrate rocking the stuffed bear and wiping the doll’s face. They talk about being gentle and giving care.

More important, they treat their children tenderly. They make a special effort at this busy time of year for a little more lap time, more frequent hugs and all the physical care and attention their young children need.

The children in this family always receive something to read. The parents know that to give them books is to give them wings. The little ones get books, and the big ones get books. Books aren’t foreign to any member of this family. Books are treasures. And more than that, they become a daily connection between parent and child.

The wise parents know that the best way to raise a reader is to read to a child….They share curiosity. They take the time to listen patiently to their beginning reader. They share discoveries. Through books, these parents explore worlds within their home and beyond their front door with all of their children.

The children receive toys and games. These parents are concerned about each child’s skills and find fun ways to enhance their present capabilities and encourage further development. For a grasping baby, a crib gym; for a beginning walker, a push toy; for a pre-schooler, a shape and color sorter; for a beginning reader, a game of sequence and strategy.

The parents know that play is the work of childhood. They understand that to meet a child at her level of accomplishment is to encourage success in play. Success stimulates motivation and interest in a challenge. So the parents judge their toy and game choices carefully. Not too easy, but not too hard.

They they do the most important thing. They play with their children. The children see that learning is a toy, that it’s fun to challenge oneself, that play can be a very social activity, that it’s OK to win and also to lose and that Mom and Dad wholeheartedly approve of play.

The children in this family always receive a gift of activity. From a simple ball or jump rope to a basketball hoop or a pair of ice skates, they always have one gift that encourages action.

The parents know that those children who, by nature, are very active may need to be channeled into acceptable and appropriate activities. And they know that those children who, by nature, are very passive may need to be encouraged to move with purpose. But their message to their children is that physical activity is important and good.

These parents make their message clear by joining their children in physical play. They skate and play catch. They’re on the floor with their crawlers and walk hand in hand with their toddlers. They get bumped and bruised and laugh and shout. They sled and they bowl. And many times in the next few weeks when resting on the couch sounds much more inviting, these parents will give their kids one more gift. They’ll get up and play with them.

The children always receive a gift of artistic expression. They might find crayons, paints or markers in their stockings. It might be a gift of clay this year or rubber stamps or scissors and glue. The materials change, but the object remains the same: create with joy.

These wise parents aren’t terribly concerned about the mess of finger paints. They’re more concerned about the exposure to unique sensations. They want their children to use their imaginations. They want their children to approach life in a hands-on fashion. And they want them to express themselves through their artistic activities in ways that exceed their vocabularies.

Everyone in our family is in some stage of whatever virus is going around. Today, I stayed indoors with 4yo Drake and 21mo Guppy, so we could keep quiet and rest. But whenever I sit still, I look around and see something that needs to be done. I either go do it, which isn’t restful, or I fret that I’m not doing it, which isn’t really restful either. I think the solutions are either to be too sick to notice anything, or to lie in bed with an eye mask. The latter doesn’t seem like a sensible choice, what with two small kids and all.

At last week’s “Adventures in Parenting” class we talked about giving children choices so they feel in control. Drake long ago twigged that a “choice” usually meant two variations on something he didn’t want to do. I offered him zig or zag. He would pick zog.

Yesterday, in a sleep-deprived parental lapse of judgment, I told him he needed to go to the bathroom before we left for preschool. Then I turned that into a choice: go to the bathroom, or stay home from preschool. He dug in his heels, and continued his refusal to use the bathroom for over an hour. He then got angry when I wouldn’t take him to preschool, which was half over, plus 21mo Guppy was then napping.

So Drake and I had a power struggle, which I clearly lost, he missed preschool, and I didn’t get an afternoon break that I desperately needed. The only winner was Guppy, who got an uninterrupted three-hour nap.

Today, I more wisely gave him the choice of going to the bathroom at home, or at preschool, and we made it to school on time.

A few years ago, my husband G. Grod and I saw a commercial for Chex cereal. A woman rhapsodized how her mom had made it at the holidays, and now SHE was the mom, so she made the Chex mix. I can’t remember what the emphasis was–that becoming a mom allowed her the privilege of making the mix, or if making the mix somehow cemented her identity as a mother, but the commercial strongly tied the two together. Chex Mix pretty much equaled motherhood.

So it was with my tongue in my cheek during last week’s homemaking frenzy that I made cereal snack mix for the first time. I used a different brand of cereal (less expensive and not as ethically challenged as Chex), and a recipe from the Dec/Jan 2008 issue of Cook’s Country for an Asian variation with dried ginger and soy sauce. 4yo Drake promptly nicknamed it Snarf Snacks, after something we’d read about in The Fabulous Bouncing Chowder. But he and young Guppy took offense at the wasabi peas, so G. Grod and I have been happily munching it all week.

If my child refuses to eat it, do I still get mom points for having made “Chex” mix?

#51 in my 2007 book challenge was Marrit Ingman’s Inconsolable: How I Threw my Mental Health out with the Diapers.

To borrow her phrase, reading this book made me wonder if Marrit Ingman had been reading my mail.

A good friend, and post-partum depression survivor, lent it to me in the wake of my own struggle with PPD after the birth of Guppy, now 21 months old. Ingman is smart, funny, and often brutally honest about the often ugly underbelly of new motherhood. From a birth that deviated from plan to a rash-y, colic-y infant, Ingman’s experience was so physically and emotionally exhausting that I can’t imagine anyone going through it and NOT becoming depressed. Shifting hormones, sleep deprivation, and the bewilderment of breastfeeding are just a few of the circumstances that make new motherhood less than idyllic.

Ingman details the exhaustion, the ambivalence, the recurring regrets, the suicidal thoughts, and the waves of anger that were all part of her experience. I empathized, I laughed, and I cringed at various points. The book sometimes felt a little disjointed; it’s more a collection of essays than a linear memoir. But the insights into the struggle, and the importance of surviving, are present throughout.

It is taboo for mothers to confess their anger, their confusion, their frustration, their resentment…Looking back now from a place of relative sanity, I see maternal anger everywhere, bubbling through the veneer of politesse, reaching out from inside the platitudinous language we turn to when we are confounded: “I thought I was going to lose my mind.”

I kept taking the Paxil. I started writing and here I am. I woke up to a rash and a screaming kid this morning at 3:30. It’s more manageable most days. You could say it’s better.

I’d discovered from my own experience socializing with other mothers that we could talk about just about anything other than mental illness. We could eat braised puppy and defecate on each other before the topic of PPD would come up.

You have become the person you sneered at when you were young and single and knew everything. You are That Mother.

“You’re very judgmental, you know,” The Good Therapist had pointed out one time. “Do you realize how critical you are of others? You think you’re smarter than everyone else.”

In the end, she reminds us of something I’ve written about many times. Mothers don’t need judgment, especially from other mothers; we need help. When you feel that snarky comment coming on, ask if there’s anything you can do, instead.

Mothers of the world, we’ve got to have each other’s backs. Without working together, we literally cannot survive. Because we are divided–into “working” and “stay-at-home” parents, into “natural” or “attachment” parents and “mainstream” parents–we remain marginalized as a group. We just haven’t noticed because we’re too busy shooting each other down, trying to glean little nuggets of self-satisfaction from an enterprise that is still considered less significant than paid work

Drake’s Aunt Sydney got him The Muppet Show dvds for his birthday. It has become one of his favorite things to watch in his TV time.

Here are some of Drake’s comments: Kermit lives in the O! No, Mom, it’s FUZZY Bear, not Fozzie! No, Mom, his name is Puppy Dog, not Rolf!

Me (to myself): Why are all the women wearing wigs? Why do all the stars look like they have dentures? Isn’t Connie Stevens a little old to be singing “Teenager in Love”? What made Sandy Duncan get famous? Which eye is her glass one? Who ARE most of these male guests: Charles Aznavour, Bruce Forsyth, Avery Schreiber? Why is this sketch set in a bar, and the star pretending to get drunk?

Perhaps Drake won’t grow up to be a critical cynic like his mom.

This one is so ridiculous that it sounds like the writers of The Daily Show might be moonlighting during their strike. I’m sure they’d have a field day with this one:

Millions of toys recalled; contain ‘date rape’ drug

Read through it all, because many more toy recalls are detailed.

I’m thinking of buying US-made toys this year, how about you? A Toy Garden has a good selection of these.

We had a playdate with a friend of 4yo Drake’s scheduled week before last that got cancelled that day. He was disappointed, but I was secretly relieved.

Oh, canceled playdate
All that housecleaning for naught
Yet I’m glad for peace

Today I made cherry chocolate-chip banana bread with 4yo Drake. Here are some things I tried to teach him:

1. Dip and sweep
2. Pour
3. Whisk
4. Fold
5. Sneeze AWAY from the mixing bowl
6. Lick the spatula AFTER the dough is out
7. To lick a bowl, sweep with a finger, then transfer to mouth. Do not stick head in bowl, which results in dough in hair.

Here is something he taught me:

8. Do not plan to serve boy-helped baked goods to guests, only family.

Sigh.

Today I took 4yo Drake to the theater to see The Sound of Music. I had realistic expectations. He started to cry minutes into the last movie I tried, Ratatouille. He loves music, though, so I a nearby showing would a reasonable gamble. Things started off well, since there was an old-time organ concert of the movie music beforehand. I hadn’t known that the showing was a benefit, though, so there were several long speeches after the music but before the film. Drake began to get antsy, but then the movie began. In the olden days when this movie was made (1965) the credits were at the beginning of the film. The considerable list of names ran on, and Drake asked, “Is the movie over, Mom?” I didn’t think that boded well for the 2 hour 54 minute movie. But when the credits finished and the movie began with the panning shots over the mountains, Drake was enthralled. He stayed mostly still for almost two hours, nodding when I asked if he liked it, and shaking his head no when I asked if he wanted to go. Eventually, though, he said he wanted to go home. This happened at a good break in the movie–right after the kids go to bed at the party.

I can’t remember how long it’s been since I’ve seen the movie. Probably not since I was a kid myself. But the welcome familiarity of the story, music, and lyrics was a comfort, and sharing it with Drake was a joy. I even found my grinchy old self tearing up, incongruously during “Do-Re-Mi.” Drake says he wants to get both the CD and the DVD.

So, to borrow a trope:

Movie tickets: $13
Popcorn with real butter, plus drink: $5
Introducing childhood classic to my music-loving child: incalculable.

I broke down this year and scheduled a sitting for 4yo Drake and 21mo Guppy with a friend who’s a photographer. I can probably count on one hand the photos we’ve managed to take of both of them looking simultaneously happy. Much more typical is one of them in the foreground running away, only one or neither looking at the camera, or one of them hollering in response to some abuse visited upon him by the other one.

We had a very tense morning as I tried to get the boys dressed. Drake’s T-shirt would not stay tucked in. His hair needed lots of spritzing and combing to settle down. The photographer, C, took the boys outside, where they had a good time running around, often near one another. After about an hour, we returned inside, where I hoped to get some shots of them in front of our built-in buffet and stained-glass window. They were having none of it. They demanded snack. After a copious administration of goldfish, they were not sated. They wanted lunch. I tried to placate them by perching them on top of the furniture. Drake took this as carte blanche to climb to the ceiling. Guppy just cried; he’d spotted the post-Halloween candy dish of dark chocolate. Nothing could sway him from his misery. Eventually I just let them have chocolate, which wrung a few sequential grins from them. Naturally, during all of this I was more and more tense as it went less and less well, so I’m sure that didn’t help.

In the end, though, I feel both affirmed, and hopeful. Affirmed that it’s not just me who has trouble capturing the cuteness of my boys at the same time. And hopeful that with all the photos she took, we have a greater chance than ever before of dual cuteness.

Further, I’ve learned some lessons if there’s a next time. One, feed them up before hand. Two, don’t spend an hour outside. Three, don’t put a size 5 T under a size 4 button down and expect a 4yo to leave it tucked in. And finally, hide the chocolate, no matter what time of year it is.

Last night was one of those nights that parents of older children never told me about. It shouldn’t have been so surprising. My naive expectations of parenthood were that it would be tough at the beginning, and gradually get easier. So with perseverance and good intentions, I expected to surmount the initial difficulties, and coast from there. As I said, I was naive. Instead, raising two small children has proved to be a microcosm of life, with the difficulty upped at least two levels. Sometimes things are easy and joyful, sometimes they are difficult and challenging, even torturous, like last night.

21mo Guppy woke crying sometime after midnight, less than two hours after my husband G. Grod and I had gone to sleep. I went into comfort him and offer him water. Each time he settled down, I’d stumble back to bed, then ten to fifteen minutes later he’d cry again. G. and I took turns. I think it was on the third round that I brought in the Tylenol. This normally clears up nighttime difficulties pretty quickly. Alas, Guppy did not go back to sleep till long after two, and after several long comfort sessions.

G. and I stumbled around this morning, haunted from our hours of interrupted and jangled sleep. Another reminder that parenthood is like life–it goes in cycles. Everything passes, both good and bad. It’s a linear progression only in age.

Some friends were recently discussing their bribe of choice–Jelly Bellies–now that their 3yo sons had started learning to use the toilet. That spurred me to offer 4yo Drake a treat if he’d stop doing something that was causing me distress. (Behavior not included, as it might someday cause embarrassment.) I was very careful. I said that if he did the thing I wanted (phrased positively rather than as “not X”) then I’d give him a small piece of chocolate (dark, which has antioxidants and iron) after he’d eaten healthy foods for breakfast.

My husband G. Grod took issue with me offering him candy for breakfast. But to Drake’s credit, the positive behavior has continued. Also, I don’t remind him of the reward in the morning. If he asks for it, I give it to him; if he doesn’t, I don’t. Is it manipulation, or savvy parenting? Bribing my child with candy to do what I want sounds terrible. Yet offering him a small reward to do a good thing and thus reinforce a positive behavior, does not. I think they’re different aspects of the same thing, and it’s how I handle it that can make it good or bad.

On my recent trip to NYC with friends from high school, the moms were talking about Santa Claus and their kids, and their experiences. One friend asked if I was going to encourage my kids to believe in Santa. I hadn’t thought about it much. At 3yo last Christmas, Drake didn’t really “get” it. This year, though, he would.

I’m torn. I remember loving the idea of Santa as a kid, and being excited about Christmas night. I also remember getting suspicious because my dad had clearly filled out all the “from Santa” tags. And it was a big bummer for me to learn the truth by reading an article in my mom’s Women’s Day about whether or not, and how, to tell kids about Santa and the Tooth Fairy.

My first response to my friend was that I would do Santa. But as they other moms talked, it became clear that the Santa story was a slippery slope that required fib upon fib to maintain. It brought to mind a bumper sticker I notice every time I drive to the grocery, which is usually twice a week: “Don’t Lie to Kids.” Right now, I think I’m in the “if he doesn’t ask, I’m not going to say.” But I’m definitely leaning now to talking about Santa as a story, not a reality. Perhaps only because I’m not a talented liar.

Is it just me, or?

Perma-wash: Items to be laundered that sit perpetually in the bottom of the laundry basket, since newer items pile so high on top. AKA LIFO (Last In, First Out) laundry management.

Perma-snot: The dark, hard crust that forms under a child’s nose during winter cold season. Unsightly, but not a breathing hindrance. Attempts at removal will be met with screams of anguish, flailing limbs, accusing glares, and dramatic prostrations.

Pre-school started last month. 4yo Drake got a fever, sleep troubles, and a bad cough week before last. 20mo Guppy had a fever followed by a lingering case of croup.

Virus season in Minnesota lasts from October to April. I think we’re in for a long, snotty winter.

Oh, I do rather miss the childish phrase, “No, duh!” I read a few things recently that brought it to mind.

1. Children need sleep.
2. Boy children shorten their mothers lives. (What? Only 34 weeks? I swear it feels like more than that already.) (Links from Arts and Letters Daily)

And, finally, one not-so-obvious thing that wasn’t at all surprising. I felt chagrined that I hadn’t intuited it between the lines:

3. Dumbledore was gay.

I am enchanted at how J.K. Rowling has the entire complicated backstory of her universe rattling around in her head. She could probably just do Q & A events for the rest of her life.