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Stepping Lively? Hardly.
Everything Old is New Again
Some Flickers of Interest
Well Spoken
Beached
Tiptoe Through the Living Room
Switching Reels
Rails
Sparks
Totally Insane First Paragraph
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Everything Old is New Again
One of the ways I denied the realities of having a baby (now babies), especially in the early most sleep deprived days, was in dreaming about the library of children's books I would collect for Felix, and like everyone I tended to embrace the things I had when I was little.
It was something of a disappointment to discover that a lot of my favorite books had fallen out of print (shocking, I know, and how insulting to be reminded of one's advanced and advancing age). Among my favorites are two books by the same author. The titles:
No Kiss for Mother and The Beast of Monsieur Racine.
The author: Tomi Ungerer.
So it was thrilling to see in the New York Times today that Mr. Ungerer is coming back into the picture. Another one of his stories, The Three Robbers, is an animated movie and I am excited and a bit concerned about it because I stil have strong fond memories of a favorite babysitter reading The Three Robbers to my brother and me when we were very little.
The article, if you read it, elaborates on how subversive Ungerer's text and images appear to some people. Maybe this is the case, but what I love so much about all of his books is that they drift very close to themes and topics that are worrisome and then proceed to undermine the unhappiness with a joyful ending. Consider Alumette, Ungerer's revisionist Little Match Girl story in which the Poor Little Match Girl ends up becoming a great philantrhopist.
So it is with great pleasure that I read about Ungerer's return and I hope there are more, because the latest of his works that I discovered when my first child was only a few months old, is Flix, the story of a pug dog born to cat parents who goes on to become a famous politician and uniter of dogs and cats everywhere. Now that's a successful child.
posted by Elise at 12:07 PM
1 Comments
Some Flickers of Interest
The weather in New York and, I presume, most of the East Coast, has been so appalling that it has all but destroyed civilized conversation in town. All you can do is apologize for being so incredibly disgusting whenever you get someplace and by the time you stop excusing the obvious reason for your sweaty self, the heat has pulverized all the interesting thoughts and observations you had going for you.
Even errands are proving tricky. On Tuesday I went to a store and left my umbrella behind. No worries, I called the shop and they held it for me. Wednesday I went in before retrieving Felix at school and proudly picked it up, triumphant in not having lost yet another one. Then I promptly left it at the school. By some miracle it was still there today. I really didn't deserve to find it a second day in a row.
Anyway, Slate has an interesting slide show piece about beginning reader books and movie tie-ins. This might be a little before the fact because Felix is not learning to read (unless he is doing it on the Q.T., which is not impossible, there is a lot I don't know about his life, for instance, he only just told me that he made the acquaintance of a chinchilla in the winter). But Felix does like long story sessions and he adores a lot of the series mentioned in the article: Frog and Toad, Mouse Tales, Frances stories, things like No Fighting No Biting, and Little Bear. He and I also both love doing dramatic readings of the Mo Willems Elephant and Piggy stories (that the New York Times sniffed at).
What I won't be doing is getting him the movie tie-in books at this reading level because, since he isn't reading them for himself, I want to save myself the torture of reading them. At a party he was given an early reader book based on Finding Nemo, and not only does it completely eradicate all of the charm and humor from the movies script and animation, it is grammatically incorrect and makes no sense as a story.
I don't really care that these books exist, but I sort of wonder why they do. Felix won't sit through movies anyway and most of the tie-ins that were mentioned are for movies that have PG-13 ratings and above, implying at least a little, that he's supposed to be too young for them. If the idea is that he will want to read (or "read") something he's familiar with, why is it assumed that little kids are going to these movies that are branded as being too old for them? (This is not a statement against people letting their preschoolers see PG-13 movies. I've always been quite fascinated with ratings and censorship and don't really think these systems work so well anyway.) If you're looking for stories, though, there are a host of suggestions in the article.
And then, my husband sent me an article that appeared in the Guardian UK for which the headline read: Parents lose custody of girl for naming her Talula Does the Hula From Hawaii.
The case came up in New Zealand and the child in question is nine years-old and has already selected a new name for herself. I wonder which direction she chose. If she were from the United States would she have really looked to blend in and call herself Ashley or Emily or Emma or Olivia or Sophia or Madison? Or would she have sought out something less trendy but still ultra-normal like Mary or Sarah?
And why would it be appealing to have a kid and give it a joke name? There are a lot of really dopey ones enumerated in the article if you're curious. It seems to be putting the child on the "pet" continuum, and assume that the kid is never going to have to explain endlessly where the bad idea for his or her name came from or be patient as every stranger, upon being introduced, makes the same wisecrack as if it had never been spoken before.
So maybe the article is worth saving if only to dust it off for one's own children (or even pets) when they come to you and tell you that they hate their names. It will be a good lesson in "it could always be worse."
posted by Elise at 12:28 PM
2 Comments
Well Spoken
The bouncing ball of Developmental Worry has been hopping (in my bleary consciousness) between my two children lately. While neither shows any delays, just the prospect of looking at any sort of chart to figure out whether they're ahead or behind the curve makes my teeth itch.
Recently, the worry centered on the fact that Sebastian wasn't really saying much. Actually, he chats constantly in his own language and several of his constant spectators were sure (really) that he said the very very occasional "mama" here and there. But beyond that there was nothing. (I keep thinking about Jasper Fforde's novel, The Big Over Easy in which the detective, Jack Spratt takes on Prometheus as a border and is briefly delighted to learn that his guest understands and speaks baby gibberish, having taken an adult education class. Spratt's bubble is burst when he learns that his baby doesn't speak baby gibberish but something else, possibly an "obscure dialect of gobbeldygook.")
Anyway, suddenly this week, something pretty identifiable has emerged from the babble. Sebastian now says, with varying degrees of clarity, "thank you."
He says it as he puts cereal into yogurt, as he hands blueberries to the terrier. He gurgles "thank you" through cups of water and as he hands over some piece of paper he's been gnawing on. It's a fine start, though a more convincing "Mama" would be reassuring.
With this rush of politeness, I could wonder if my recent work has been rubbing off on him. Here's hoping he's a little less sponge-like when I return to writing horror movies and the like.
posted by Elise at 6:28 AM
2 Comments
Beached
There must be some sort of formula one can apply, post-beach excursion, that tells you how many hours worth of laundry one will be doing for every minute spent in the vicinity of the beach. It is truly astonishing how this works.
The whole family, terrier included, spent the weekend near the beach and finally everyone was able to participate. (Sebastian was finally able to get into tramping around in the sand, pouring it on his head, discovering what a taste sensation it is...) It is one of those pleasures that one doesn't have to teach. All kids love rolling around in the sand. It only takes about thirteen minutes at the beach before Felix resembles one of those crusty shore-dwelling Labrador retrievers-- sand caked into every hair follicle.
But I have become the stick-in-the-mud, or sand, or whatever. I am the person who looks over her shoulder and frets about sun screen and sand in the car, who curses herself for forgetting a towel and who has developed a body image so toxic it makes bathing suit wearing something of a challenge (though board shorts have come to the rescue a bit). How did this happen? Why?
It would have been preferable I think to have turned into one of those women I used to see at the pool on the roof of my grandparents' apartment. I thought they were remarkable with their matte lipstick and rigid hair, doing a revised breast stroke to keep everything above the water line. I was a bit put out with myself for not going into the water on this jaunt, for lingering like some crab carcass (of the sort that the terrier likes to find and gnaw on if given the change) on the shore. I don't care for being a spectator but there I was.
How much is one obliged to present one's kids with the beach? Should I make more of an effort to get them out there on weekends? So many people I know do make this a priority, while I am generally fine with staying in the city. How much should I really compromise my own comfort for that incredible kiddie pleasure? (Some of this navel gazing is really rhetorical since practical issues like work keep us all away from the surf anyway, but I do think about this a little. More than a little.)
posted by Elise at 6:38 AM
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Tiptoe Through the Living Room
Not only does the title to this entry not scan, I can't sing it the way Tiny Tim would, and besides, it isn't really so charming. What has me thinking about walking on little cat feet? This article in the New York Times, which is guaranteed to raise hackles everywhere and of course it will be another extremely divisive question where the pro-kid will be turned against the anti-kid and people will begin lobbying for child-free apartment buildings and rail and scream about the injustice each party is doing to the other.
A loyal reader read this piece and asked if I could comment on it. Happily (or unhappily depending, I suppose on your perspective), I am working on a project that deals with exactly this sort of question and am ready to jump in. So I shall.
The short, cranky answer to this is really that people should behave reasonably and learn to treat each other like grown ups. There is simply no way around it in the city. If you live in an apartment building you will hear your neighbors. You will hear their kids, their pets, their sex lives, their music, their hobbies, their joys, their sadnesses, their car horns, their car ALARMS, their smoke detectors (when their breakfasts burn), their alarm clocks, their parties and their wakes. It is the way of it. If you truly can't abide contact with other people at all, it would be best to live elsewhere.
This does not mean that everyone should just have license to run around making noise at all hours and being revolting, but it does mean that compromise must be sought and once that compromise has been found, peace should settle.
The article interviews a number of people in apartments (expensive ones but this doesn't really matter since noise is a Quality of Life issue and shouldn't be one that only the wealthy deserve to have protected... though I guess the article is implying loudly that the rich feel entitled to demand) about how loud kids are and how neighbors demonstrate such hatred for the tots that parents are afraid to let their children run in the house and develop nervous tics and hate spending time at home.
I sympathize all the way around. I have been a loud child (I am now cringing when I think of my long suffering next door neighbor). I have been child free living beneath children (though I haven't really been too bothered by them) and I now have kids and worry (and am beyond happy that the place we are supposed to move into has very thick walls and floors). I think this is an issue of doing the best you can.
One woman in the article is angry because the kids above her wake her up by running around before her usual rising hour of 8:00 AM. I see nothing wrong with asking the parents of the children, nicely, if they could keep the pitter patter to a minimum until eight o' clock or thereabouts. But I think to resort to open hostility is ridiculous and if it is that big a problem, the people who feel most offended should consider moving. I speak as someone who lived six floors above a jazz club for many years. I have two words for Miss Eight O'Clock and they worked for my sibling who until recently was child free and very sensitive to noise: EAR PLUGS.
Do I sound annoyed? I am. I'm partially irritated that this story has been semi-manufactured by the Times (surely this has gone on forever). And I suppose my hackles are up because I have been the person to run out of a hotel room before dawn has broken, a whimpering baby in my arms to wander on a beach for hours because our neighbors didn't seem to like us. I couldn't even look at them when they tried to be nice because I was so full of resentment but at the same time I understood that they were thinking: "We don't have a baby, so why should we have to hear one at all when we're on vacation?" And they didn't. I hate the fact that people want to draw such strong battle lines when there are things one can do.
So, putting aside the fact that I am a parent and thinking about this issue in terms of etiquette, what is to be done?
If you are being woken up, ask your neighbors if the noise could be kept to a minimum until a reasonable hour. (I think that most people need to be up by eight or eight thirty for work, for instance and if you are a shift worker, you should consider discovering ways to do some sound-proofing yourself.)
Come up with modifications. Can you move your bed? Could you use ear plugs? Could you put down carpet or insist your children wear slippers in the house?
If you are parents, you should keep the noise levels in mind, especially in the early morning and on weekends. This may mean having to invest in a thicker rug in one room and you may need to come up with some less noisy games the children can play. (This, by the way, has entered our lives and both of the children love it so much they forget to try to climb the walls.)
Remember that it will end. The kids will go to day care or school and the racket won't be daily and will gradually become occasional.
Try to remember that the people around you don't exist to make you miserable. Ask nicely, be understanding. Let your neighbors know if you're going to be loud (as the sleep training people did in the article) or if you have something pressing that means you need sleep. Be proactive instead of simmering.
I'll shut up now. I'm getting all annoyed about the sighs people gave when they saw me lurching down an airplane aisle with my kids. As if it was going to be a party at 30,000 feet anyway.
posted by Elise at 4:36 PM
2 Comments
Switching Reels
"Doesn't like popcorn and the movies? Are you sure he's yours?"
A friend wrote this to me after I told her of the truncated excursion Felix and I had to Kung Fu Panda a little while ago. Felix was quite certain he wanted to hit the road during the climax, and I obliged.
This was the first time I tried taking Felix to the movies, and we went mostly because a friend of Felix's was going. (As a point of interest, the friend lasted through to the closing credits.)
Now, I have long mintained that taking Felix to the movies at this age is, from a parents' perspective, questionable. The chances that he will want to leave have an exact inverse correlation with my enjoyment. (This lived itself out with Kung Fu Panda, which I didn't particularly love, but which wasn't rare torment, which was why he lasted as long as he did.)
Hoping to have a happier result, my husband, ignoring my theory, took Felix to see WALL-E the following week. As I could have predicted, given how good everyone thinks the movie is, Felix insisted on taking off about 20 minutes into the picture.
In spite of my friend's missive, I'm not particularly disappointed (and I think I know how Kung Fu Panda wrapped up). Felix is still too young for movies. He really won't watch short shows on television. So even the allure of the theater wasn't enough to hold him for hours.
This doesn't mean I've given up, even temporarily. Buster Keaton's short movies are just right for the Felix. He's currently liking One Week, a 1920 short in which Buster builds a prefab house.
So that's happy enough, I suppose. Less happy was my grown up trip to see Wanted just before the holiday weekend when a small family plunked itself behind me. I don't really enjoy the presence of kids at adult movies, but my irritation is selfish since kiddie racket ruins my pleasure. On this occasion, however, I was a bit worried about the children. There were two kids, one was definitely not yet two years-old and the other must have been about five, and I became quite worried for them as (spoiler alert)...
people were used as human shields, got beaten up to within an inch of their lives, got sliced with knifes, gored, shot, the works. The style may be cartoonish and "unrealistic," but I think that is a conceptual subtlety to which the five year-old might not have been sensitive.
Did those kids have nightmares last week? Did they care about what they saw? Should I care (in an abstract way, not a Child Protective Services self-righteous way) about their experience? So this is the latest weird side-effect of having children. I am now more preoccupied by that little social non-encounter than I am by the movie. Which is annoying in many ways.
posted by Elise at 7:04 AM
1 Comments
Rails
Felix loves the subway. I don't think he's an unusual kid for having this passion. There is, apparently a long history of subway obsessed preschoolers. I'm more interested that I've joined this cabal of Gotham's parents who need to contend with this obsession. Many years ago I marveled that a friend of a friend could be moved to exert herself so far as to make a "Metrocard" sheet cake for her four year-old. Now it seems like she got off easy.
In the New York Times yesterday (apparently, I only spotted this today) one of the staff artists composed a little illustrated story based on his children's passion for New York City Transit. (Actually, his kids seem mostly subway-focused. Felix is also quite interested in bus routes.)
I suspect Mr. Niemann is only mildly joking that he and his wife had to pick a name for their third son so that his first initial would be able to represent one of the letter-named subway lines in the city. He had the A (Arthur) and the G (Gustav) lines covered and finally settled on the F (Fritz), which neatly also brings no overlap of subway route colors on the map, which would no doubt cause ridiculous competition (one boy would surely feel he had been named for the express line and in the "naming is destiny" philosophy that baby books like to kick around, would surely always believe he was pressured to be faster than his sibling).
I don't have the time to spend four hours at the transit museum and I don't have the luxury of letting trains (and buses) go by as we wait for Felix's favorite train to show up (he prefers the 2 but if the 3 comes first I'll risk the argument).
Here is where I will cave to the lure of New York City Transit:
I will listen to Felix reciting train routes over and over and over again.
I will ask at every station booth for extra maps even though we have some ratty ones at home.
I will read this New York Times piece to Felix four times in exchange for him letting me put sunscreen on him.
I suspect I'll be getting him an 7 train t-shirt soon, after he got to ride above ground last weekend.
posted by Elise at 6:27 AM
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