Nicholas Kristof is an incredible reporter for the Times, and he tells stories of those who often can't speak for themselves, either because they lack the means or because no one listens.
He often reports from places like Darfur, or the headquarters of a sex trafficking ring, where negative news outweighs the positive. In fact, I'm not certain he has ever reported from somewhere I had been or had a burning desire to go.
Until a few weeks ago.
I found myself at a beautiful intersection between my personal life and my professional one on the day Kristof published hes editorial, Poverty's Poster Child. I also happened to be in Pine Ridge, South Dakota on the Red Cloud Indian Reservation, which coincidentally was the subject of his editorial.
Kristof is right. Unemployment on the reservation is about 70%, poverty is everywhere, and the complicated history of the Native population and the colonization of the United States only increases the challenges faced by the residents. As I heard the history shared by our hosts, I couldn't help be feel guilt for the way the Native populations were treated by the settlers and the U.S. government, and of course, empathy for their current state. The museum at the Red Cloud Heritage School was particularly poignant, and included an incredible section devoted to Wounded Knee that brought me and others to tears.
But there's more to it than that, and an entire piece of the story was missing from Kristof's piece: Optimism.
The passion and the history of those at Red Cloud Heritage School is overwhelming. More overwhelming, in fact, than the poverty. The positive changes in recent times, mostly since self-determination began countable decades ago, are real, and they are celebrated by those at the School and on the Reservation.
Yes, things are bad. Yes, the economic and health problems found on the reservation shouldn't be found in our country, or anywhere really.
But as the leaders of Red Cloud Indian School taught us, the period of self-determination officially began only in 1975 (not long after Wounded Knee). And not everyone has plumbing, but everyone has a well courtesy of an aqueduct system they built. It's a vast improvement over not so long ago when kids walked to a nearby river to collect water for consumption, cooking, and bathing. Now, the water is convenient. And the population is justifiably proud of the accomplishment.
It's hard for us to fathom viewing the current state as one of progress, and to be sure, there is infinitely more work to be done.
But it is equally hard for us to imagine assigned religion, which is exactly what happened in 1872 under President Grant when various Christian sects were assigned exclusive domain over tribes. (You can re-read that if you need to -- I had trouble digesting it as well when I first heard it on the reservation.)
1872 wasn't that long ago in the grand scheme of things, and this tidbit certainly wasn't covered in my American History class in grade school.
And yet, the spiritual meld of religions and culture on the Red Cloud reservation was beautiful.
It is sort of an open secret that I have a complicated point of view on religion. And having ED only complicated things further.
I worry that she will miss the structure of religion in her life, a structure I appreciated growing up. I worry she'll fail to appreciate the ritual and history of religion in general, especially since it is so central to the development (and often the demise) of various civilizations and worlds throughout time (even the time that predates what many Christians who believe in a literal reading of the bible acknowledge).
I cannot bring myself to impart on her the rituals and structures of something I no longer believe. And yet, I worry she'll miss out on all the positive attributes of religion in general.
It almost makes me feel like President Grant, assigning a religious structure (or lack thereof) to my daughter... without her consent.
Make no mistake -- I'm not comparing ED to a civilized, independent population of people any more than I am comparing the Native peoples to my toddler.
It just made me think.
While I was on the reservation, I was struck by how seamlessly the Catholic faith was blended with the Native culture. Our tour of the church started with a performance of traditional dance and music by students of the Red Cloud Heritage School, and the stained glass windows reflected the designs and heritage of the seven native tribes. The stations of the cross depicted native peoples in the biblical scenes, and a beautiful award-winning portrait in the cafeteria depicted a Native woman in white in a pose that evoked the Virgin Mary. I found it all very moving.
And perhaps that is the lesson worth celebrating as my own stars aligned in South Dakota and my personal and professional lives intersected: It will all be okay.
We as people -- as natives, as whites, as believers, and non-believers -- do our best and focus on the traditions, culture, and spiritual foundations that move us. And we share those with our children in the hopes that they will figure everything out and impart their own wisdom onto their children, and their children beyond that.
And that, perhaps, is the most delightful optimism of all.
Monday, May 28, 2012
Monday, May 21, 2012
CSI Meets FAO Schwarz
ED has a habit, and I'm trying to decide if it is endearing, strange, or both.
She covers up her stuffed animals.
If she tucked them in gently with blankets and read them stories, mimicking the bedtime ritual we instituted years ago, I'm pretty sure it would be endearing.
And it is. Sort of.
She very lovingly tucks all of her animals in, telling each one she loves it. But then she covers it completely, as though it has died. It is not uncommon to see a dozen or more mounds in our living room or ED's bedroom, all carefully arranged. All completely covered.
It sort of looks like a mass grave of stuffed animals, each covered with an eerily cheerful blanket. Sometimes she uses towels or old burp cloths if she has exhausted her supply of blankets and there are more animals to cover.
I know the intent is endearing. But the execution is a little strange.
I worry one day this will make perfect sense. Perhaps ED will grow up to be a forensic medical examiner, or a crime scene investigator. Or a mortician. Or, as SF unhelpfully suggested, a cult leader.
I'm starting to worry that we may be unknowingly encouraging this strange behavior, and not just in ED. Our beloved dog Archie killed a chipmunk yesterday.
We don't exactly live in the wilderness, but you'd never know it to look in our backyard on any given day. Three deer roam the neighborhood, bunnies occasionally hop from flower bed to flower bed (courtesy of the previous homeowners, not us -- we're still trying not to kill all the plants), and a chipmunk has run from one end of our deck to the other twice a day for the duration of our time in Ohio.
Archie occasionally pretends to chase one of Cinderella's friends or another, but I never thought he'd actually catch anything.
I was wrong.
Chip (or was it Dale?) met his demise at the hand (paw?) of our endearingly gentle, sweet dog yesterday.
Archie was thrilled. And so was ED. She watched the chase unfold, as did SF. Apparently, it was quite exciting, like the Disney version of Mortal Kombat. When Archie emerged victorious from the flowerbed battleground, ED clapped and shouted gleefully, "He got it!"
And he did. He had the poor chipmunk dangling from his mouth. SF disposed of the remains respectfully (thankfully, without covering it with a pink polka-dotted blanket), and he, ED, and Archie all rushed to tell me about it when I got home a few minutes later.
The excitement was palpable, from all three of them. I was a little less thrilled, partially because I had to step over a series of covered animals to get outside, only to discover the backyard had become its own crime scene.
And then it happened again.
I recall reading that once a queen bee dies, the other bees in the hive roam around sort of lost, and they make easy prey for whoever it is preys on bees (bigger bees? I have no idea). Apparently, the same is true for chipmunks. Alternatively, the weakest one in the group may have sacrificed himself so the rest could move to safer ground.
Either way, Archie killed another chipmunk in our backyard yesterday. We had some friends over for dinner, and as the adults laughed over the story of Archie's heroism amid a group of covered animals lining the deck, ED came up and announced, "He got another one!"
Convinced she was mistaken, I innocently asked "Can you show me?"
Sure enough, ED took me to the edge of the deck and pointed to another chipmunk carcass. Archie -- exhausted apparently by his efforts -- slept nearby. ED and her friend covered him up.
I think I am going to choose to see her habit as endearing instead of strange. At least until the covering starts to include stories about the fate of the chipmunks.
She covers up her stuffed animals.
If she tucked them in gently with blankets and read them stories, mimicking the bedtime ritual we instituted years ago, I'm pretty sure it would be endearing.
And it is. Sort of.
She very lovingly tucks all of her animals in, telling each one she loves it. But then she covers it completely, as though it has died. It is not uncommon to see a dozen or more mounds in our living room or ED's bedroom, all carefully arranged. All completely covered.
It sort of looks like a mass grave of stuffed animals, each covered with an eerily cheerful blanket. Sometimes she uses towels or old burp cloths if she has exhausted her supply of blankets and there are more animals to cover.
I know the intent is endearing. But the execution is a little strange.
I worry one day this will make perfect sense. Perhaps ED will grow up to be a forensic medical examiner, or a crime scene investigator. Or a mortician. Or, as SF unhelpfully suggested, a cult leader.
I'm starting to worry that we may be unknowingly encouraging this strange behavior, and not just in ED. Our beloved dog Archie killed a chipmunk yesterday.
We don't exactly live in the wilderness, but you'd never know it to look in our backyard on any given day. Three deer roam the neighborhood, bunnies occasionally hop from flower bed to flower bed (courtesy of the previous homeowners, not us -- we're still trying not to kill all the plants), and a chipmunk has run from one end of our deck to the other twice a day for the duration of our time in Ohio.
Archie occasionally pretends to chase one of Cinderella's friends or another, but I never thought he'd actually catch anything.
I was wrong.
Chip (or was it Dale?) met his demise at the hand (paw?) of our endearingly gentle, sweet dog yesterday.
Archie was thrilled. And so was ED. She watched the chase unfold, as did SF. Apparently, it was quite exciting, like the Disney version of Mortal Kombat. When Archie emerged victorious from the flowerbed battleground, ED clapped and shouted gleefully, "He got it!"
And he did. He had the poor chipmunk dangling from his mouth. SF disposed of the remains respectfully (thankfully, without covering it with a pink polka-dotted blanket), and he, ED, and Archie all rushed to tell me about it when I got home a few minutes later.
The excitement was palpable, from all three of them. I was a little less thrilled, partially because I had to step over a series of covered animals to get outside, only to discover the backyard had become its own crime scene.
And then it happened again.
I recall reading that once a queen bee dies, the other bees in the hive roam around sort of lost, and they make easy prey for whoever it is preys on bees (bigger bees? I have no idea). Apparently, the same is true for chipmunks. Alternatively, the weakest one in the group may have sacrificed himself so the rest could move to safer ground.
Either way, Archie killed another chipmunk in our backyard yesterday. We had some friends over for dinner, and as the adults laughed over the story of Archie's heroism amid a group of covered animals lining the deck, ED came up and announced, "He got another one!"
Convinced she was mistaken, I innocently asked "Can you show me?"
Sure enough, ED took me to the edge of the deck and pointed to another chipmunk carcass. Archie -- exhausted apparently by his efforts -- slept nearby. ED and her friend covered him up.
I think I am going to choose to see her habit as endearing instead of strange. At least until the covering starts to include stories about the fate of the chipmunks.
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
The Jig Is Up
ED's latest obsession is with the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. She plays the theme song (the original one from 1954) on repeat for hours on end, marching and cheering along with the kids on the recording. And thanks to slightly more modern technology, she can watch current episodes of the show on demand for 24 uninterrupted minutes of bliss (for both of us).
Her favorite episode right now is Sleeping Minnie in which Mickey, Donald, and Goofy quest after a golden harp to wake Minnie up. Minnie, of course, has accidentally picked a sleeping rose planted by Clara Belle, and unless Mickey finds the harp, Minnie will be destined to sleep for one hundred years.
I'd like to know where to find these sleeping roses.
Once upon a time we had a toddler who slept for ten or twelve hours per night. It wasn't always uninterrupted sleep, but for the most part, she could settle herself down if something woke her up.
ED rarely woke much before 8:00 in the morning, which suited our household perfectly. SF and I tend to be night owls instead of morning people, and even Archie our dog is reluctant to rise until the sun has substantially risen.
But our peaceful morning routine ended abruptly this weekend when we converted ED's crib to a toddler bed.
The first day went well. ED took a delightfully long nap, apparently unaware of her new freedom, and when she woke up, she ran to the top of the stairs and triumphantly yelled, "I'm awake!"
But the pleasant experience didn't last long.
That night, ED returned to the top of the stairs announcing, "I'm awake!" over and over again.
And she discovered our secret.
"Not sleeping?" she asked, genuinely confused. We might have implied that everyone was going to bed around 8:30.
It didn't exactly start out like that. We told her everyone sleeps at night without specifying the time. But we didn't correct her erroneous assumption that everyone was going to bed at the same time.
Details.
But the next morning (can you call 5:00 a.m. "morning" if it is still dark outside?), we had no problem explaining in no uncertain terms that she was not allowed to leave her room before the sun was up.
But we also had no power to enforce our rule. At least not while we slept.
Days 2, 3, and 4 of our new toddler bed world started around 5:00, with ongoing battles echoing down the hall.
"Mommy? Mommy?" ED yelled from the threshold of her bedroom.
I ignored her. It was still dark.
"Mommy?!" she yelled louder. "I'm awake!"
"ED, sweetie, is it still dark?" I asked without opening my eyes.
"No."
"Really?"
"No. Light on."
Darn that stool. ED had turned on the light in her room. Of course she had. It was still dark outside!!
This went on for days and days, both in the mornings and during her afternoon nap (non-nap) time.
ED played every card in her book. "Sit on potty?" "Read stories?" "I love you, Mommy." *cough, cough* "Water?" "Thank you, Mommy."
It seems she realized not only that we stay up later than she does, but also that we don't "rest" quite like she does in the afternoons (although for what it's worth, her nap is a delightful rest for me -- even, or perhaps especially, if I rest by working).
But today we may have had a breakthrough. Yes, ED woke up at 2:42 a.m. asking for more Mickey Mouse music and to be re-situated with her sleeping accessories (stuffed animals precisely arranged, blankets covering her toes, a cup of water placed nearby).
But then, she slept until 7:00 a.m. Victory!
Last week, I would have complained that she was up at 7:00 instead of 8:00. This week, 7:00 is a huge victory.
Perhaps I won't need those sleeping roses after all.
Her favorite episode right now is Sleeping Minnie in which Mickey, Donald, and Goofy quest after a golden harp to wake Minnie up. Minnie, of course, has accidentally picked a sleeping rose planted by Clara Belle, and unless Mickey finds the harp, Minnie will be destined to sleep for one hundred years.
I'd like to know where to find these sleeping roses.
Once upon a time we had a toddler who slept for ten or twelve hours per night. It wasn't always uninterrupted sleep, but for the most part, she could settle herself down if something woke her up.
ED rarely woke much before 8:00 in the morning, which suited our household perfectly. SF and I tend to be night owls instead of morning people, and even Archie our dog is reluctant to rise until the sun has substantially risen.
But our peaceful morning routine ended abruptly this weekend when we converted ED's crib to a toddler bed.
The first day went well. ED took a delightfully long nap, apparently unaware of her new freedom, and when she woke up, she ran to the top of the stairs and triumphantly yelled, "I'm awake!"
But the pleasant experience didn't last long.
That night, ED returned to the top of the stairs announcing, "I'm awake!" over and over again.
And she discovered our secret.
"Not sleeping?" she asked, genuinely confused. We might have implied that everyone was going to bed around 8:30.
It didn't exactly start out like that. We told her everyone sleeps at night without specifying the time. But we didn't correct her erroneous assumption that everyone was going to bed at the same time.
Details.
But the next morning (can you call 5:00 a.m. "morning" if it is still dark outside?), we had no problem explaining in no uncertain terms that she was not allowed to leave her room before the sun was up.
But we also had no power to enforce our rule. At least not while we slept.
Days 2, 3, and 4 of our new toddler bed world started around 5:00, with ongoing battles echoing down the hall.
"Mommy? Mommy?" ED yelled from the threshold of her bedroom.
I ignored her. It was still dark.
"Mommy?!" she yelled louder. "I'm awake!"
"ED, sweetie, is it still dark?" I asked without opening my eyes.
"No."
"Really?"
"No. Light on."
Darn that stool. ED had turned on the light in her room. Of course she had. It was still dark outside!!
This went on for days and days, both in the mornings and during her afternoon nap (non-nap) time.
ED played every card in her book. "Sit on potty?" "Read stories?" "I love you, Mommy." *cough, cough* "Water?" "Thank you, Mommy."
It seems she realized not only that we stay up later than she does, but also that we don't "rest" quite like she does in the afternoons (although for what it's worth, her nap is a delightful rest for me -- even, or perhaps especially, if I rest by working).
But today we may have had a breakthrough. Yes, ED woke up at 2:42 a.m. asking for more Mickey Mouse music and to be re-situated with her sleeping accessories (stuffed animals precisely arranged, blankets covering her toes, a cup of water placed nearby).
But then, she slept until 7:00 a.m. Victory!
Last week, I would have complained that she was up at 7:00 instead of 8:00. This week, 7:00 is a huge victory.
Perhaps I won't need those sleeping roses after all.
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Like Mother, Like Daughter
There is a classic story from my childhood that illustrates perfectly the independent and stubborn streak I'm often teased (lovingly and accurately) for possessing.
When I was two, my parents and I drove to visit my aunt and uncle, and when we arrived, I refused to get out of the car.
Seriously. I refused to get out of the car. I wasn't mad about it; I didn't throw a fit. I simply refused to get out of the car.
I don't remember this incident, but in thirty-plus years of retelling, the story has become a legend of sorts.
In one version, my parents left me there and waited until I walked into the house of my own accord (hours later). This is the version I'm most familiar with, but it omits all sorts of unreconciled details, like a two-year-old freeing herself from a car seat (even the relatively unsafe car seats that existed thirty-plus years ago).
In the version my mom tells, she and my dad were actually responsible parents given the situation ("We left the car light on for you!"). Yes, they went inside and left me in the car, but they peeked through a window to make sure I was okay, and they came out to check on me a few times, each time asking if I was ready to come inside.
Apparently, I replied in the negative, simply and stoically each time, and they simply and stoically returned inside to spy on the toddler they left alone in the car. Also in my mother's version I eventually said yes (after less than an hour) and came inside to visit.
I recalled this legendary story from my childhood as ED laid the groundwork for her own equivalent story a few weeks ago. Since I don't normally work on Fridays, ED and I had arranged to meet our neighbor and her kids at the local community center for a toddler open play gym session.
After getting dressed and gathering our things, I made my way downstairs with ED close behind me. Or so I thought.
I turned around at the bottom of the stairs to see her patiently waiting at the top.
"Carry please?" she asked, arms outreached.
"Oh no, sweet girl," I replied, my arms full of things we needed to bring, my mind composing an email to a client. "Go ahead and walk down, and I'll get your apple juice ready."
"NO!" ED declared slightly more insistently. "Carry PLEASE!"
By this time, I was around the corner and in the kitchen, so I called up, "No, ED, just walk. I'm getting your apple juice and oatmeal ready."
From there, it escalated. ED refused to walk or crawl down the stairs. She absolutely insisted that I carry her, and I absolutely refused.
She threw a fit. A big one. There were big tears, there was lots of yelling, and she sat at the top of the stairs, steadfast in her position that I should carry her.
I texted my neighbor and told her we'd be late (possibly very late), and sat down at the kitchen table to enjoy my coffee and scan the headlines. I'm pretty sure I even chuckled to myself, knowing that ED had no idea what she was up against.
Forty-five minutes later, I had finished two cups of coffee, read more articles than I read in all of 2011, and texted my neighbor again to give her a status update. ("Going to be really, really late. Stair incident. Will fill you in later.")
ED's tantrum lulled, and I called up to her. "How are you doing, sweet girl? Do you want to come downstairs for some apple juice and oatmeal?"
"Sniff-sniff-yessh-sniff," she said, as she made her way down the stairs.
I met her halfway with apple juice and told her I was glad she was feeling better. We made it to the last fifteen minutes of open play at the gym and ED ran around as though nothing had happened.
I'm not sure who "won" that day, other than my mother. She laughed and laughed as I described the incident, and she laughed even more when I apologized profusely to her for my stubbornness as a toddler (and an adult, really). She may have even said, "It serves you right," but I'm not certain I heard that correctly. (But who am I kidding? I probably did.)
ED and I both won a little bit too. She still respects my authority (although that is probably fleeting), and I certainly respect her point of view more than I did before. (Admittedly, before the staircase incident, it didn't exactly dawn on me that my toddler had a strong point of view.)
And we haven't had any more colossal meltdowns since then, which is probably a victory for us all. But I did really enjoy my second cup of coffee that day.
When I was two, my parents and I drove to visit my aunt and uncle, and when we arrived, I refused to get out of the car.
Seriously. I refused to get out of the car. I wasn't mad about it; I didn't throw a fit. I simply refused to get out of the car.
I don't remember this incident, but in thirty-plus years of retelling, the story has become a legend of sorts.
In one version, my parents left me there and waited until I walked into the house of my own accord (hours later). This is the version I'm most familiar with, but it omits all sorts of unreconciled details, like a two-year-old freeing herself from a car seat (even the relatively unsafe car seats that existed thirty-plus years ago).
In the version my mom tells, she and my dad were actually responsible parents given the situation ("We left the car light on for you!"). Yes, they went inside and left me in the car, but they peeked through a window to make sure I was okay, and they came out to check on me a few times, each time asking if I was ready to come inside.
Apparently, I replied in the negative, simply and stoically each time, and they simply and stoically returned inside to spy on the toddler they left alone in the car. Also in my mother's version I eventually said yes (after less than an hour) and came inside to visit.
I recalled this legendary story from my childhood as ED laid the groundwork for her own equivalent story a few weeks ago. Since I don't normally work on Fridays, ED and I had arranged to meet our neighbor and her kids at the local community center for a toddler open play gym session.
After getting dressed and gathering our things, I made my way downstairs with ED close behind me. Or so I thought.
I turned around at the bottom of the stairs to see her patiently waiting at the top.
"Carry please?" she asked, arms outreached.
"Oh no, sweet girl," I replied, my arms full of things we needed to bring, my mind composing an email to a client. "Go ahead and walk down, and I'll get your apple juice ready."
"NO!" ED declared slightly more insistently. "Carry PLEASE!"
By this time, I was around the corner and in the kitchen, so I called up, "No, ED, just walk. I'm getting your apple juice and oatmeal ready."
From there, it escalated. ED refused to walk or crawl down the stairs. She absolutely insisted that I carry her, and I absolutely refused.
She threw a fit. A big one. There were big tears, there was lots of yelling, and she sat at the top of the stairs, steadfast in her position that I should carry her.
I texted my neighbor and told her we'd be late (possibly very late), and sat down at the kitchen table to enjoy my coffee and scan the headlines. I'm pretty sure I even chuckled to myself, knowing that ED had no idea what she was up against.
Forty-five minutes later, I had finished two cups of coffee, read more articles than I read in all of 2011, and texted my neighbor again to give her a status update. ("Going to be really, really late. Stair incident. Will fill you in later.")
ED's tantrum lulled, and I called up to her. "How are you doing, sweet girl? Do you want to come downstairs for some apple juice and oatmeal?"
"Sniff-sniff-yessh-sniff," she said, as she made her way down the stairs.
I met her halfway with apple juice and told her I was glad she was feeling better. We made it to the last fifteen minutes of open play at the gym and ED ran around as though nothing had happened.
I'm not sure who "won" that day, other than my mother. She laughed and laughed as I described the incident, and she laughed even more when I apologized profusely to her for my stubbornness as a toddler (and an adult, really). She may have even said, "It serves you right," but I'm not certain I heard that correctly. (But who am I kidding? I probably did.)
ED and I both won a little bit too. She still respects my authority (although that is probably fleeting), and I certainly respect her point of view more than I did before. (Admittedly, before the staircase incident, it didn't exactly dawn on me that my toddler had a strong point of view.)
And we haven't had any more colossal meltdowns since then, which is probably a victory for us all. But I did really enjoy my second cup of coffee that day.
Monday, March 12, 2012
"Bye, Wolf!"
"If I ever write a children's book, it's going to have a wolf in it," my dad declared last week as he did the "wolf voice" for the antagonist in one of ED's favorite books of late, Sneaky Sheep by Chris Monroe.
The wolf makes a delightful entrance into the story and greets the sheep with a mischievous "hello" growl.
It's probably ED's favorite part of the book, which I totally adore. In fact, the wolf tends to be her favorite character whenever he shows up. And he shows up a lot in children's literature.
Every week we check out two or three books from the library. And one of them almost always stars a wolf. There are wolves antagonizing sheep, pigs, and shepherd boys, and ED is infinitely more excited to talk about the wolf's contribution to the book than that of the sheep, pigs, or shepherd boys.
I keep picturing ED thirty years from now being as independent and delightfully ferocious as she is now. I'll share with her that she always been independent and delightfully ferocious, and what's more -- she has always related to the wolf.
And why wouldn't she? The wolf is unique. He isn't part of a herd, and his independent streak doesn't have to be explained. The wolf isn't often portrayed as the good guy, although often enough his motivations are misunderstood (for example, in one story he collects sheep not to eat them, but rather to count them to battle his insomnia).
Plus, he has the best lines and the most convincing voice.
But there is a small problem with favoring wolves in suburbia. We don't see many sheep, we see very few pigs and even fewer shepherd boys. But occasionally we see dogs that resemble wolves.
"Bye, wolf!" ED shouted across the street last week during our walk as she saw a beautiful husky reentering his house with his lovely non-wolf owner.
The wolf neglected to wave or even call a greeting in a mischievous growl.
"Bye, wolf!" ED called again, just in case he hadn't heard her.
The beautiful husky didn't respond, but his owner smiled to herself. She probably secretly loved the wolf characters too.
The wolf makes a delightful entrance into the story and greets the sheep with a mischievous "hello" growl.
It's probably ED's favorite part of the book, which I totally adore. In fact, the wolf tends to be her favorite character whenever he shows up. And he shows up a lot in children's literature.
Every week we check out two or three books from the library. And one of them almost always stars a wolf. There are wolves antagonizing sheep, pigs, and shepherd boys, and ED is infinitely more excited to talk about the wolf's contribution to the book than that of the sheep, pigs, or shepherd boys.
I keep picturing ED thirty years from now being as independent and delightfully ferocious as she is now. I'll share with her that she always been independent and delightfully ferocious, and what's more -- she has always related to the wolf.
And why wouldn't she? The wolf is unique. He isn't part of a herd, and his independent streak doesn't have to be explained. The wolf isn't often portrayed as the good guy, although often enough his motivations are misunderstood (for example, in one story he collects sheep not to eat them, but rather to count them to battle his insomnia).
Plus, he has the best lines and the most convincing voice.
But there is a small problem with favoring wolves in suburbia. We don't see many sheep, we see very few pigs and even fewer shepherd boys. But occasionally we see dogs that resemble wolves.
"Bye, wolf!" ED shouted across the street last week during our walk as she saw a beautiful husky reentering his house with his lovely non-wolf owner.
The wolf neglected to wave or even call a greeting in a mischievous growl.
"Bye, wolf!" ED called again, just in case he hadn't heard her.
The beautiful husky didn't respond, but his owner smiled to herself. She probably secretly loved the wolf characters too.
Monday, February 6, 2012
Find Me Next Door
I was honored to participate in my dear friend and former colleague's "40 Diamonds for 40" project in celebration of her 40th birthday with a guest post on her blog, Auntie Nettie's Attic. Happy birthday!
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
School Yay!
Once upon a time, SF and I went to a friend's wedding. The bride was Iranian, the groom was from Afghanistan, and about five minutes into the celebration, I leaned over to SF and whispered that I thought we should raise ED to be Iranian.
The wedding was so fun. It was nothing like the stodgy, boring, Puritanical Christian weddings we normally attended where the atmosphere was stuffy and formal. This ceremony was fun. There was cheering, there was whooping, there was a festivity in the air that is normally only found once the church-portion of Christian weddings ends.
When I think back to our own wedding (which, for the record, was a blast), my fond memories are of the reception -- the celebration of our marriage. Not the formal, legal part of the union that, frankly, made me a little uncomfortable. I wasn't uncomfortable because the priest forgot my name at one point, or that I feared lightning may strike all of the people I actually cared about in the room. It just wasn't us, although as SF often reminds me, a 25-minute Catholic ceremony is kind of "us."
While we hoped ED would absorb the spirit of multicultural celebrations through her life, ED had her own ideas about what she wanted to incorporate into her vocabulary. Specifically, she chose the spirit of "jan." "Jan" tends to follow proper names as a term of endearment in Farsi and a handful of other languages, and it is a fixture of loving dialogue.
The idea must of resonated with ED, because she attaches "yay" to the names of things or people she likes. She doesn't go to school, she goes to "school yay." When we meet my friend for lunch, she greets "Lori yay." When she sees a plane she asks if it is "going skiing yay." (We're working -- in vain -- on "Mommy yay" or "Daddy yay." Apparently we're not nearly as exciting as school, Lori, or skiing.)
ED's been a little under the weather lately, suffering through winter's viruses like the rest of the toddler population, and I let her stay home from school yesterday to rest. Today, however, was a bit of a different story.
I had a meeting set for 11:30, and I really, really didn't want to cancel it. I'd already re-booked it twice, and I feared that rescheduling again would cross the line from "busy juggling consultant" into "wildly irresponsible, unprofessional, and unreliable mom pretending to be a consultant."
ED woke up in a great mood, it had been three full days since she had a fever, and she slept really well overnight. I decided today was definitely going to be a school (yay) day.
But when we entered her classroom and her teachers and friends greeted her with smiles, ED lost it. She burst into tears and begged me to let her skip school. "No school yay, no school yay," she repeated over and over again. Somehow the spirit of fun behind the "yay" was muddled among sobs and tears. (If there is a sadder "yay" than that one, I haven't heard it.)
I sat next to ED, reassuring her that she would have a wonderful day, while racking my brain to think of someone who could watch ED during my meeting so she didn't have to stay at school yay. Could I call our neighbor? No, she works on Wednesdays. Could I call our sitters? No, they tend to have classes during the day and with only two hours notice, I wasn't optimistic any of them would even answer my call.
But ED managed to hear my words instead of my thoughts, and she settled down to read, clutching Clymer, her beloved stuffed giraffe, and two blankets. She had mostly composed herself, choking back the occasional sob and only fleetingly repeating, "No school yay, no school yay."
The teacher assured me she would be fine, and I excused myself from the classroom, determined to wait nearby for at least a few minutes just to make sure ED was okay. I ran into the school's director in the hall, and she very kindly inquired about ED -- Was she feeling better since being sick yesterday?
I couldn't even answer her question before my eyes filled with tears and I lost it, just as ED had moments before. In a moment, all my confidence about juggling family and career dissolved in a pool around me, and the director handed me a tissue.
If only I hadn't scheduled this stupid meeting!
What am I thinking letting ED stay in school when she really wants to watch "Mary Poppins" curled up on the couch with chicken noodle soup and chocolate milk?
And most damningly:
What kind of mother am I??
I composed myself enough to leave the school with a small shred of dignity remaining, and I stopped at the coffee shop to prep for my meeting and answer a few emails. I ordered a big cup of coffee with a shot of Prozac, and settled in to fully compose myself before I had to appear competent and professional.
About half an hour later, ED's teacher called and told me how well ED was doing. She was participating in the art project, some of the other kids had shared books with her, and soon they were going to go outside. ("Outside yay.")
I wish I could say my meeting was a colossal success, but the truth is it was just mediocre. I don't think any rewarding opportunities will unfold because of it, and I probably won't hurry to schedule something else with this particular firm.
But I didn't know that six hours ago, and had I made a different decision while crying in the hallway of ED's school, I'd be writing instead about missed opportunities and lamenting my career-hindering choice.
I hope tomorrow ED will wake up, excited to go to school yay again. But she may wake up excited to go to just "school." I may have unwittingly softened the tint of ED's rose-colored glasses this morning, and I hope for her sake her enthusiasm for life isn't diminished.
And I really hope when I see her this afternoon she'll say, "Mommy, yay."
The wedding was so fun. It was nothing like the stodgy, boring, Puritanical Christian weddings we normally attended where the atmosphere was stuffy and formal. This ceremony was fun. There was cheering, there was whooping, there was a festivity in the air that is normally only found once the church-portion of Christian weddings ends.
When I think back to our own wedding (which, for the record, was a blast), my fond memories are of the reception -- the celebration of our marriage. Not the formal, legal part of the union that, frankly, made me a little uncomfortable. I wasn't uncomfortable because the priest forgot my name at one point, or that I feared lightning may strike all of the people I actually cared about in the room. It just wasn't us, although as SF often reminds me, a 25-minute Catholic ceremony is kind of "us."
While we hoped ED would absorb the spirit of multicultural celebrations through her life, ED had her own ideas about what she wanted to incorporate into her vocabulary. Specifically, she chose the spirit of "jan." "Jan" tends to follow proper names as a term of endearment in Farsi and a handful of other languages, and it is a fixture of loving dialogue.
The idea must of resonated with ED, because she attaches "yay" to the names of things or people she likes. She doesn't go to school, she goes to "school yay." When we meet my friend for lunch, she greets "Lori yay." When she sees a plane she asks if it is "going skiing yay." (We're working -- in vain -- on "Mommy yay" or "Daddy yay." Apparently we're not nearly as exciting as school, Lori, or skiing.)
ED's been a little under the weather lately, suffering through winter's viruses like the rest of the toddler population, and I let her stay home from school yesterday to rest. Today, however, was a bit of a different story.
I had a meeting set for 11:30, and I really, really didn't want to cancel it. I'd already re-booked it twice, and I feared that rescheduling again would cross the line from "busy juggling consultant" into "wildly irresponsible, unprofessional, and unreliable mom pretending to be a consultant."
ED woke up in a great mood, it had been three full days since she had a fever, and she slept really well overnight. I decided today was definitely going to be a school (yay) day.
But when we entered her classroom and her teachers and friends greeted her with smiles, ED lost it. She burst into tears and begged me to let her skip school. "No school yay, no school yay," she repeated over and over again. Somehow the spirit of fun behind the "yay" was muddled among sobs and tears. (If there is a sadder "yay" than that one, I haven't heard it.)
I sat next to ED, reassuring her that she would have a wonderful day, while racking my brain to think of someone who could watch ED during my meeting so she didn't have to stay at school yay. Could I call our neighbor? No, she works on Wednesdays. Could I call our sitters? No, they tend to have classes during the day and with only two hours notice, I wasn't optimistic any of them would even answer my call.
But ED managed to hear my words instead of my thoughts, and she settled down to read, clutching Clymer, her beloved stuffed giraffe, and two blankets. She had mostly composed herself, choking back the occasional sob and only fleetingly repeating, "No school yay, no school yay."
The teacher assured me she would be fine, and I excused myself from the classroom, determined to wait nearby for at least a few minutes just to make sure ED was okay. I ran into the school's director in the hall, and she very kindly inquired about ED -- Was she feeling better since being sick yesterday?
I couldn't even answer her question before my eyes filled with tears and I lost it, just as ED had moments before. In a moment, all my confidence about juggling family and career dissolved in a pool around me, and the director handed me a tissue.
If only I hadn't scheduled this stupid meeting!
What am I thinking letting ED stay in school when she really wants to watch "Mary Poppins" curled up on the couch with chicken noodle soup and chocolate milk?
And most damningly:
What kind of mother am I??
I composed myself enough to leave the school with a small shred of dignity remaining, and I stopped at the coffee shop to prep for my meeting and answer a few emails. I ordered a big cup of coffee with a shot of Prozac, and settled in to fully compose myself before I had to appear competent and professional.
About half an hour later, ED's teacher called and told me how well ED was doing. She was participating in the art project, some of the other kids had shared books with her, and soon they were going to go outside. ("Outside yay.")
I wish I could say my meeting was a colossal success, but the truth is it was just mediocre. I don't think any rewarding opportunities will unfold because of it, and I probably won't hurry to schedule something else with this particular firm.
But I didn't know that six hours ago, and had I made a different decision while crying in the hallway of ED's school, I'd be writing instead about missed opportunities and lamenting my career-hindering choice.
I hope tomorrow ED will wake up, excited to go to school yay again. But she may wake up excited to go to just "school." I may have unwittingly softened the tint of ED's rose-colored glasses this morning, and I hope for her sake her enthusiasm for life isn't diminished.
And I really hope when I see her this afternoon she'll say, "Mommy, yay."
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