I just stopped my husband from attempting to give my sons haircuts in the middle of the living room rug.
We usually do it in the bathroom, so I don’t know what the logic was with moving to the living room, but anyway. Round of applause for my wifely intervention, please.
The children’s book author Jon Sciezska once wrote that boys and fire are like iron and magnets: no matter what you do, somehow they will always find each other.
I think this adage must be even more so with water and my children. They are always getting into it — sneaking cups of it out of the kitchen for tea parties, plugging the bathroom sink and creating a soup of toys and soapsuds, industriously splashing each and every puddle in the street. Bathtime takes forever in my house, and the kids have an entire flotilla of plastic boats and waterproof dolls that they send on numerous aquatic adventures. (Probably my favorite of these was the period a few years ago during which Jeffrey insisted on “baptizing” the dolls during each bath.)
By far the favorite of the children’s water sports is running around in the sprinkler, or barring that, simply messing about with the hose, whether in bathing suits or not.
It was warm enough this past Friday that the kids did just that — all on their own, Jeffrey and Eleanor fished out their swimsuits, then revved up the garden hose. I came running when they doused a still-clothed William and set him to crying. But once the lil’ guy was stripped down to his diaper and allowed to splash a bit, he was just fine.
I attatched the hose to the sprinkler, to minimize the water waste, but they soon learned to unscrew it. I let them fill up the sandbox with water and then confiscated the hose altogether. They had a ball creating a hearty soup of mud, sticks, toys, and the towel I had given them to dry off with.
Last month, Jeffrey had a friend over to play, and they decided to create an “experiment” in the same sandbox — sans garden hose and swimsuits, of course. They gleefully swamped together a variety of backyard found objects, and I was tickled to see two boys happily engaging in outdoorsy Boy Things — until I found them in the kitchen, downing cup after cup of water.
Why were they so thirsty?
“We were doing an experiment,” explained Jeffrey.
“Yeah,” said his friend. “To find out if soap tastes bad or not.”
Peeking into the backyard, I saw a bottle of hand soap sticking out of the sandbox debris. The bottle that’s usually in the children’s big bathroom.
“We found out that it doesn’t taste that good,” said Jeffrey.
I’m guessing that the learning curve was pretty small on that one.
For further reading:
King Bidgood’s in the Bathtub by Don and Audrey Wood. A gleefully silly story about a vivacious king who decides to do all his kingly duties from the tub — eating, fishing, schooling. A variety of stuffy-looking courtiers get pulled in with him, to sloppy, slippy effect. (“Today we fish in the tub!”) Don Woods’ Caldecott Honor-winning illustrations of bewigged, lace-covered dukes and knights getting doused are hilariously perfect. One of my favorite read-alouds.
The local junior high is currently putting on a production of Peter Pan. A friend of mine has a son starring in it, and since she wasn’t able to attend herself (long story) she decided to buy and give away as many tickets as she could to show her support. Which is how I ended up with free tickets for me, Jeffrey, and Eleanor for a matinee today.
What I wasn’t anticipating was how freakishly elaborate a production is was going to be.
I knew that school theater programs were big in Utah, but I guess I had forgotten exactly how big. Not only did they do a musical — the whole, no-parts-cut-out shebang, but they also padded as many extra parts into the show as is humanly possible.
So: there were roughly 200+ kids in the show. Many of them starred as extra pirates, lady pirates, mermaids who waddled onstage whenever the pirates did a dance, a special squadron of Tiger Lily’s maidens who could do flips, clog dancing lost boys, and a special squadron of Indian lads whose job it was to hold spears, stand in the background, and exude as much manliness as an eighth grader can muster.
THEN there were the STARRING padded roles, such as the boy who pantomimed Peter Pan’s shadow, a narrator who made frequent appearances and called herself the Darling family’s chambermaid, ballet dancers who frolicked about as woodland creatures, a troupe of three year olds serving as mini-fairies, a girl dressed as a fairy who reprised the “Never Land” song during the Act II scene change (I called it the “for kids who can sing but not act” role), and — horrors! — REAL GIRL portraying Tinkerbell INSTEAD of a flashing beam of light.
How can you replace a flashing beam of light with a human being?!? Where’s the personal touch?!?
Actually, I love and admire theater teachers who can be creative enough to allow as many kids participate in a theatrical production as possible. Not to mention that it helps pack ’em in during ticket sales.
The kids were completely absorbed in the production — they had real flying, elaborate sets, and dance numbers rivalling Berkeley Busby. (Wait . . . or is it Busby Berkeley?) Eleanor was afraid of Captain Hook, so she was quite thrilled to see him get eaten by the crocodile at the end.
Jeffrey was so saucer-eyed over the idea of Never Land that he was distraught when the Darling children decided to return home to England. So much so that he had to jump out of his seat and run up the aisle. I couldn’t chase after him (what with the broken rib) and was relieved when an usher returned him to his seat. It’s annoying that he did that, but I feel for the lil’ guy.
For Further Reading:
Starring Miss Darlene by Amy Schwartz — Darlene the hippo wants to perform onstage, but she keeps flubbing her lines. Her role as the Flood in “Noah’s Ark” leaves everyone wet, and she mistakenly falls asleep onstage during “Sleeping Beauty.” Panic ensues, until the critics’ reviews appear, each one hilariously misinterpreting Darlene’s errors for theatrical innovation. Schwartz is a hidden gem in the picture book world — her illustrations are elegantly simple and childlike, and easy to overlook on a bookshelf of flashier artwork. But her writing is top-notch; comedic pacing in a picture book is more difficult than it looks, and in a gently farcical story like this one, even more so. A funny read aloud for the starstruck set.
. . . as if you couldn’t tell from all the blogging I’ve been doing. My time is spent sitting in the only chair that gives upper-back support in the house — a red wingback in the library — and engaging in activities that cause me to move my torso as little as possible.
I’m still participating in the essential childcare procedures (food, clothing, teeth brushing) but laundry?
Forget it.
Picking up toys?
Ha.
Emptying the dishwasher?
Not going to happen, unless I can somehow magically levitate the machine so that the dishes are all at the same level as my waist. Loading the dishwasher wasn’t a problem, as I could simply hold my arm down low and drop ’em in without bending over.
The biggest problem is that I have to sleep sitting up as well, which leads to weird dreams and the sensation, upon waking, of not really having slept at all. Also, that I can’t bend down to kiss anybody, or have anybody sit in my lap for more than a minute. That’s lousy.
Hopefully, it’ll all be better in the next two or three days. In the meanwhile, I’ve been watching this:
It’s an animated feature called Sita Sings the Blues. The animator, Nina Paley, uses the Indian epic Ramayana as a framework for examining her own troubled marriage. It’s as funny as it is thoughtful (very respectful to its source material), which in some ways was a problem, seeing as it hurts for me to laugh right now. In addition to using a variety of funky animation techniques (including three shadow puppets who act as our guides to the story) Paley has several sequences where Sita sings along to the 1920s jazz vocals of Annette Hanshaw (hence the movie’s title). Beautifully crafted and executed, I really recommend giving it a watch. Best of all, the film is available for viewing in its entirety at this public television station’s website — for free!
Today I spent almost all of my time sitting still in a chair, because I have a cracked rib.
Errrgh!
Cracked rib: great in a sandwich, terrible in your body!
It happened when Jeffrey burst into our bedroom at 6 a.m. last Saturday, began jumping on our bed, then slipped and landed with both of his knees on my chest.
Yeah, OW.
The sad news is that this is the second cracked rib I’ve had in the last twelve months. The first one happened on the other side of my chest. Wimmy was sitting on my lap and squirming, then suddenly arched his back and whammed his head into my ribcage. It felt like a someone had thrown a bowling ball at me.
It hurts, a lot. Every time I breathe in, it feels like a strip of rusty thumbtacks is being pressed into my side. And if you shake your head and call that being overdramatic about the pain, I have a bowling ball I’d like to introduce you to.
My kids are out to get me, that’s all.
For Family Home Evening this past Monday, we decided to sit down with the kids and plan out our garden for the upcoming year. Brian and I are quite excited — the yard behind our house is huge, and Utah, with its lack of mold spores, fine earth, and sunny weather, is ideal for gardening (that is, if you can get the water).
I was ecstatic because I managed to convince Brian that our garden should be surrounded by a cute white picket fence, in order to keep The Mysterious Case of the Disappearing Green Tomatoes from happening again. Hooray! It will be SO ADORABLE.
The kids, on the other hand, were a mite bit puzzled. If we were gardening, then why were we looking at pictures of plants, instead of heading out back to dig? They did, however, love looking through some seed catalogs and making requests. Eleanor, in particular, was excited about Shasta Daisies, and I look forward to planting some with her and then teaching her how to make daisy chains . . . while swinging in a hammock under a shady tree . . . with a mason jar of lemonade . . . sigh. Why can’t summer come a bit faster?
Jeffrey, meanwhile, was most excited about a double-page spread of bamboo varieties.
“Mom! We need to get bamboo and put it in our garden!”
“But Jeffrey,” I explained, “we don’t need bamboo. It would take up too much space.”
“But Mom, it would keep the panda bears away from our garden,” he replied patiently. He then went on to elaborate:
“See, we plant the bamboo in a circle around the garden, and that way when the panda bears come, they will want to eat the bamboo and get stuck in it and not want our vegetables!”
I nodded sagely at this advice, and Brian announced that it was time for treats.
Aftewards, I went back to clean up the catalogs, and Eleanor let out a squeal.
“No Mom!” she cried as I began to close up the catalog displaying the bamboo. “We need that plant! It will keep the panda bears out!”
“Is that what Jeffrey said?” I leaned in conspiratorially. “Don’t worry, Eleanor. I don’t think there are any panda bears in Utah.”
“That’s right,” called out Jeffrey, waltzing into the room. “Panda bears are only in China!”
Eleanor thought about this for a moment, and then her little face screwed up into a frown.
“But I thought we lived in China!” she wailed.
Ah, disillusionment. Of course, you do realize that when Jeffrey imagines China, he thinks of a nation whose gardeners are constantly beset by marauding panda bears. It just cracks me up.
For further reading (ah, yes! back by popular demand! And by “popular demand,” I mean that three whole people requested its return!):
Whose Garden Is It? by Mary Ann Hoberman, illustrated by Jane Dyer. I usually aren’t too keen on picture books with rhymed text — they are often a little too sing-songy — but Hoberman’s (also known for A House is a House for Me) verses about the “ownership” of a garden are top-notch. Who owns a garden? The gardener? The animals who live in it? The “tiny seeds and whistling weeds” who make up the garden itself? A clever book to get kids thinking about gardens, land, and ecosystems, perfectly accompanied by Dyer’s lush watercolors. Check it out!
We celebrated Valentine’s Day this weekend. I’d like to say that a rather romantic event was prepared and executed, but instead we were burdened with loads of spare time on our hands.
You see, owing to our quirky local school district, the kids had a 4-day weekend off, and we had originally planned to go down to Southern Utah, visit family, and see Zion National Park (quite the excellent place at any time of year, but bursting with sweet solitude in the winter). Originally planned, however — last-minute cancellations, schedule snafus, and bad weather caused us to ditch the whole affair. Sad! So we hung around the house, instead.
Therefore, in honor of Valentine’s Day, I’m simply going to talk about one of the more romantic-y destinations Brian and I visited this month. Namely: public dancing at the Murray Arts Center. Yep, dancin’ at the MAC!
This is a privately-owned, schmaltzy ramshackle of a building down on State Street in Murray, and on every Friday and Saturday evening, you can plunk down $7 and twirl around a shiny dance floor to the tune of a five-piece band. The ballroom is rather piecemeal, but glitzy — think of a patchwork quilt made of disco balls — decorated with mismatched chandeliers, thrift-store art, and architectural pieces scavenged from theatrical sets and demolished buildings.
The crowd is stately, lively, and comprised mostly of people over the age of 65. It is, in other words, just like this:
Yes, I admit, there are quite a few hot-to-trot young couples at the MAC. But the real stars are the elderly swingers who can MOVE LIKE ANYTHING. Ladies who adorn themselves in draping fabric and loads of costume jewelry, sashaying elegantly in the arms of their spindly partners.
Brian and I used to go ballroom dancing quite a bit when we lived in Utah the first time, seven years ago. Dancing at the MAC was one of the things we missed a lot when we moved to Pittsburgh, and was one of the things I looked forward to revisiting when we found that we were coming back to Salt Lake.
Two weeks ago, it was finally possible to go back — we had babysitting, we rustled up some dancing clothes, Brian donned his soft dancing shoes, and we headed south to get glitterfied. We were so pleased to find that the ballroom looked just the same as it did years ago! We strolled out onto the floor, arm in arm —
–and realized that we had COMPLETELY forgotten everything we once knew about dancing. Yeah, we managed to cobble together a collective memory of the cha-cha, the waltz, and the two-step (which may or may not have been exactly like a waltz) but beyond that . . . erugh. We spent a lot of time sitting on the sidelines, watching the curving machinations of the swingin’ set, turning to each other to squawk, “Hey, look at that move! We used to know that one, right?”
Occasionally, we’d trot back out to give those newly half-remembered moves another go. However, the people-watching was what it was really all about. And the atmosphere, baby. A shiny, shiny atmosphere.
This winter I decided to follow up on something I’ve always wanted to do and enrolled in a beginning German course. My grandfather was German, and we were stationed in Bavaria for 3 years when I was a girl, but in high school I decided to study French. I’ve always kinda regretted never taking Deutch instead. So, when I saw a listing for the class in the Salt Lake Community Education brochure I found in the mail, I thought, why not?
My class is held in a nearby high school, and is taught by a petite Swiss woman who also teaches all of the Italian courses. She’s beautiful, fond of hoop earrings, and very friendly. The nice thing about taking German is that the class size is always small — there are only about ten adults in my class.
As for actually learning the language . . . well, let’s just say I would be doing better if I could remember to study every evening. But it’s fun, and nice to get out of the house once a week and tackle some umlauts. Oh, and the German word for cell phone: das Handi. That’s mighty cute slang, if I do say so myself.
So far the most difficult part of the class is pronouncing the German name for the United States: Envereinigten Staaten. (Hmm. I may have spelled that wrong.)
If nothing else, someday I’ll hopefully be able to understand what’s going on in this video clip. It may just be the worst dancing ever captured on film. Is it owing to my German heritage that I dance just like this:
It just may be the most awesomely hilarious fashion show in the history of the world.
Yes! This morning Neil Gaiman’s The Graveyard Book was awarded the John Newbery Medal for the most distinguished contribution to American children’s literature.
That small handful of readers who follow this blog may note that I have stated on more than one occasion that it was my favorite children’s book of 2008, so it’s a rather pleasant surprise to see it win the big award. Woop!* I went to the King’s English bookshop this morning to pick up a copy for myself, but they were all out. However, half of the reason I went there was to be able to gush about it with the booksellers — people who were just as excited about it as I was — so it was worth the trip.
The Honor books also included some familiar faces from my previous posts: Kathi Appelt’s The Underneath, Jacqueline Woodson’s After Tupac and D Foster (what, is that her THIRD Newbery Honor? Sheesh), Ingrid Law’s Savvy (a book which I read and enjoyed, but which I did not consider a serious Newbery contender. More fool I, I suppose), and Margarita Engle’s The Surrender Tree: Poems of Cuba’s Struggle for Freedom (otherwise known as the token book I’ve never heard of).
The Randolph Caldecott Medal for best illustration in a children’s book went to Beth Krommes for her gorgeous work in Beth Marie Swanson’s The House in the Night. I never got around to posting my list of favorite picture books, but can you all take it in good faith that this book is on it? Check out the pretty lil’ thing:
Caldecott Honors went to Marla Frazee’s A Couple of Boys Have The Best Week Ever! (and let me just say it’s ABOUT TIME Frazee earned some kind of shiny sticker), Uri Schulevitz’ How I Learned Geography (it’s on my unposted list of favorite non-fiction titles, okay?) and Melissa Sweet for her illustrations in Jen Bryant’s A River of Words: the Story of William Carlos Williams (also known as the book I’ve been waiting MONTHS for the library to FINISH PROCESSING and get ON the DARN SHELVES).
The Michael L. Printz award for best Young Adult literature went to Melina Marchetta’s Jellicoe Road, which I’ve heard about but haven’t yet read. It’s an Australian import that sounds kinda quirky but really good. I’ve been meaning to read it for weeks, but now I REALLY need to get around to it, I guess.
Printz Honors included M.T. Anderson’s second Octavian Nothing book (such a gimme, I think everybody predicted this), E. Lockheart’s The Disreputable History of Frankie Landau-Banks (it’s a crowdpleaser), Terry Pratchett’s Nation (on my favorite books list as being the “story most likely to be told by a pirate”) and Margo Lanagan’s Tender Morsels (also on my favorites list for being one of the best novelizations of a folktale of the year).
Speaking of novelizations of folklore, the William C. Morris award for best first-time YA novel went to Elizabeth C. Bunce’s A Curse Dark as Gold, which was also on my favorites list. And if Ms. Bunce reads this as she did that last post, may I just say congratulations! The Morris committee done chose right!
There were also a bevvy of other awards for best African American works, best nonfiction, best video, etc. But I think I’m done posting for now. Huzzah, it’s been one heckuva day, and I am pleased.
*Although, really — did Neil Gaiman need another big award? And just how crazy will the June ALA conference — in which Gaiman will give his acceptance speech — be? Crazy-go-nuts kinda crazy, that’s what.
Tomorrow morning, the American Library Association will give out its annual Youth Media Awards, otherwise known as “the children’s literature Oscars.” There are a bevy of awards, and there’s a grand flurry of predictions that emerge in the kidlitosphere this time of year. BUT — the one that gets the most attention, the most press, and therefore the most prestige, is the Newbery Award. It’s supposed to be given to the year’s most “distinguished” contribution to children’s literature, but that usually translates to “best novel.” It’s fun to try and read everything that might be a contender, but because the award committee is famously secretive, it’s always unpredictable. Here are some of my personal ideas of what might win (in no particular order):
Chains by Laurie Halse Anderson — It’s the story of a slave girl in New York City during the American Revolution. Many people are saying that this is a lock for the win, but the competition is fierce. I personally thought the protagonist’s voice was a little unconvincing, and the plot was way predictable, but it’s very good nonetheless, and it’s likely your children (if you have any) will be required to read it in school.
The Underneath by Kathy Appelt — In Plot 1, kittens and a hound dog are caught in the clutches of a drunken, abusive owner. In Plot 2, ancient Native Americans interact with a supernatural shape-shifting snake. The two tales intersect in a bevy of shimmering, if sometimes repetitive, prose. I call it the weirdest story you’ll ever love. Others call it tedious and too dark for kids. Read it and decide for yourself, eh?
The Porcupine Year by Louise Erdrich — The third book in the acclaimed Birchbark House series, tracking the forced migration of an Ojibwe family, circa 1858. Sounds sad, but Erdrich’s account of Omakayas’ day-to-day life is as uplifting, lovely, and funny as anything else you’ll read this year.
After Tupac and D Foster by Jacqueline Woodson — Two best friends growing up with comfortable but strict families in 1990s Queens. Enter a foster child with all the freedom in the world, triggering a search for personal identity and maturity. Yeah, most of Woodson’s novels are difficult to summarize nicely. You know why? Because her writing is quietly brilliant, that’s why.
My One Hundred Adventures by Polly Horvath — Horvath’s books have been described as “magic realism without the magic,” which is pretty apt. This tale of a 12 year old girl’s last summer of childhood is packed with zany adventures but reads like poetry. It includes a purple air balloon heist, a psychic evangelical minister, and someone described only as “the clotheshanger man.” And yet I get misty-eyed just thinking about it. Huh.
The Graveyard Book by Neil Gaiman — It’s certainly the biggest crowd-pleaser on this list, and yet may be exempt from eligibility owing to a technicality (one chapter of the book began as a previously published short story, which is Against The Rules, meh). If you haven’t heard my raves about it before, it’s like The Jungle Book, only it’s about an orphaned being raised by ghosts instead of animals. And it features hilarious, Cockney-spouting ghouls and the most loveable vampire ever. ‘Nuff said.
Masterpiece by Elise Broach — James is a boy who lives in Manhattan; Marvin is the black beetle who lives in his wall. Marvin also happens to be something of an art prodigy, and when he begins leaving beautiful, miniature ink drawings on James’ desk, it attracts the attention of adults, teachers — and eventually the Metropolitan Museum of Art. This is one of those broad-broad-appeal books, like The Cricket in Times Square crossed with From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler. However, it has kind of a weirdo moment with a turtle tank (yes, you read that correctly), so we shall see.
Alvin Ho: Allergic to Girls, School, and Other Scary Things by Leonore Look. A novel about a 2nd grader facing a rather crippling shyness that is peppered with imaginitive wordplay and funny, funny situations. (Funny. Funny. Funny.) Alvin’s voice is clever without being precocious, and smart while still authentically child-like. (This kind of writing is harder than you think.) However, funny books and novels for younger readers rarely win awards, so We Shall See.
The Trouble Begins at 8 by Sid Fleischmann — A rather cunning biography of Mark Twain, written in the jaw-droppingly clever style of Twain himself. You’d think this would be grating, but instead it’s gratifying. Fleischmann’s display of Sam Clemens’ metamorphosis into Mark Twain is downhome brilliant. However — there’s been some talk about whether or not the period caricatures of Twain Fleischmann used for to illustrate the book may confuse some readers. I think kids are smart enough to get the joke, but the award committee may not feel that way.
The Penderwicks on Gardam Street by Jeanne Birdsall — The second book in Birdsall’s contemporary riff off of Little Women, in which the four Penderwick sisters attempt to thwart their widower father’s attempts to re-enter the dating scene. Their plan involves an elaborate web of lies, Latin insults, a play about Aztecs, frequent appearances by the high school football team, and Marianne Dashwood. Did I mention the funny? No? Well, this book has it in spades. Usually I tend to back off from books described as “charmingly old-fashioned,” but this book’s writing is so solid that I’m still smiling thinking about it — and I read it six months ago.
The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins — This book may seem out of place in a list of rather thunderous “emotional books,” but a fast-paced action novel requires a different set of gears than the realistic coming-of-age novel. This book is about both wiley and whiney teens forced to fight to the death in a national park. And despite that, it isn’t laughably cheesy, but a rather ripping good read. Tell me that ain’t award-worthy, punk.
Diamond Willow by Helen Frost — in addition to the token funny book, non-fiction, and book for younger readers, every good Newbery prediction list should have its token book of poetry. Or at the least, a novel-in-verse, which is what the lovely Diamond Williow is. Frost has concocted a novel in concrete poems — or “shape” poems, embedding in each a second, smaller poem that reflects the thoughts or emotional state of the protagonist. Oh, and it has sled dogs racing through the Alaskan interior, and plays with the idea of animals being the characters’ ancestors. So, it could be a wild card.
I’ll chime in tomorrow with my thoughts about the real winners — I’m so excited, I can’t wait!
Casa Camisas 