wild*life

When I was in sixth grade, Mr. Post would have us pound out these papers he called “issue essays.”  The point was essentially to show both sides of the topic; proponents and opponents factually and equitably represented.  It’s been a few years since I authored a grammar school issue essay, but I’ve found a worthy topic.  Earlier this year, my friend Susan, a former librarian turned accomplished change management and technology consultant, asked me a seemingly banal question: What books do your boys most enjoy reading with you?

I provided our favorites list and offhandedly mentioned that more importantly, we had a few “duds.”  She was intrigued and asked to hear more…

Oh how we relished the thought of sharing our true literary feelings.  In just three years we now fancy ourselves highly knowledgeable consumers of kidlit.  Below is an unedited excerpt of my exchange with Susan in the form of a sixth grade issue essay:

The Story of Babar

Babar the Elephant is a French children’s fictional character from the 1930’s.  Opponents of the story believe it is a strangely materialistic narrative of entitlement and self-evident incest.  Proponents of the story believe it is a classic children’s tale depicting the time-honored rags to riches parable.

Jaimie:  My husband James got all excited when I told him I needed to write a list of all the “bad books” we own.  He’s chief bedtime reader as I find I fall asleep and end up sleeping in Jake’s bunk bed all night…  we have a stash of non-famous books that we’ve gotten over the last 3 years that you would probably never come across and therefore I won’t name them.  The ones that come to mind that we would recommend avoiding are:

• Babar: I remember liking this as a kid.  As an adult, I find it super weird.  The elephant is overly interested in material wealth (clothes, cars) from his rich elderly lady benefactor.  I don’t think it promotes the right values.  Then he goes back to Africa and marries his cousin.

Susan:  Meantime, don’t trash Babar out of hand.  Yes, the story line has some weird bits but so does every fairy tale.  I see Babar as a child’s version of The Hero’s Journey, with the hero played by an elephant in the streets of 1930’s Paris instead of by a country bumpkin in medieval rural Europe.  Abandoned orphan boy achieves success and fulfills his destiny.  Whatever.  It’s the plotline for virtually every Disney cartoon.  Babar’s fixation on material wealth and comforts could have been the author’s reaction to the Great Depression.  And marrying a cousin (of unspecified nearness — third cousin twice removed?) doesn’t shock most five-year-olds.

Your comments reminded me, however, of the very hostile reaction I initially had to Where the Wild Things Are: a nasty little boy who throws a tantrum and screams I hate you at his mother is rewarded with self-indulgent dreams of being the king controlling all the wildest and fiercest animals, and upon awakening finds his dinner still waiting for him — i.e., Mom caters to him no matter what he does.  Yccch.  I guess it’s all a matter of perspective.

In conclusion, proponents of Babar clearly illustrate the noble and characteristic storyline and its similarities to venerated literature.  Opponents demonstrate it is super weird.

I’ll never forget when Jacob was maybe 18 months old, we were driving in the car and James exclaims, “You won’t believe it.  Jakey has leg hair!”

It was true.  Our little chubby baby was growing into his big boy legs.

Then maybe about six months ago, we’re riding in the car again and Jake declares, “Mama, I’m getting leg hair!”  It seems he had just noticed his new found manliness.

On Friday, I picked Jakey up from school early and we went on a date, just the two of us.  As we’re driving to the movies he says, “Mama, when I get bigger I will drink beer.”

“What did you say?”

“When I get bigger, I’ll drink beer.”

I thought that’s what you said…

Tuesday night we ate Chinese take-out.  We were gone all weekend and so the food emergency continues…

Jacob’s fortune cookie read: Focus your attention.

Nathaniel’s fortune cookie read: Give yourself some peace and quiet for at least a few hours.

Technically it said “quite” instead of “quiet,” but still… uncanny, right?

My mom and dad love to tell the story about how when I was little, they would give me kisses and I would wipe my mouth and exclaim, “Ew!  Yuck kiss.”  Believe me, their kisses were inordinately slobbery.  They’ve been campaigning for repentance for decades.

Then maybe two weeks ago Jacob wiped-off my kisses.  He thinks it’s SO funny.  I just tell him he’s rubbing them in and give him lots more.

Exactly one week ago we found ourselves in an evening food emergency: we were out of all five food groups.  Those food groups being:

1. Fruit (As Grandma has noticed, Nate is basically a fruitarian.  Tangerines, bananas, strawberries, blueberries and halved grapes being his primary sources of sustenance.)

2. Crunchy peanut butter (I’m afraid to say that licking it off bread has been considered “a meal” on more than one occasion, including breakfast and lunch on the same day.)

3. Sauce (More specifically ketchup.  James didn’t think anyone on earth could be more into sauce than I am.  Then I had babies.)

4. Milk (Really the only thing we can’t live without.  Besides agua.)

5. Pasta (It’s the easiest thing to sell, but it must have sauce.  Most kids, myself included, prefer buttered noodles with cheese— mine won’t even let it touch their lips.)

Later that night around the dinner table, I proposed that little boys are not made of snips and snails and puppy dog tails, but more like spaghetti, peanut butter and barbecue sauce.  Jacob exclaimed, “I love snails and puppy tails!”

A sixth food group?

The very next morning after I wrote about troll bones, it came up again.  I know… I’m sure it’s a frequent topic of morning conversation at your house, too.

James: “Jaim, we figured out that troll bones have something to do with bows and arrows.  We were watching Max & Ruby and Max had a bow and arrow and Jake told me it was a troll bone.”

Me: “Aah.  Thanks for clearing that up…”

In February of last year, just two weeks before Nate was born, Grandma had a horrible fall.  We’re not exactly sure what happened, but we know it involved flip flops, a flagstone path, and a face plant.  It was terrible.  Granddad then e-mailed pictures of her injuries.  Poor, poor Dama… I still cringe when I think about those pictures.

Last Tuesday I got a text message from Nate’s teacher, Miss Dulce.  Natesy had a fall.  For those of you who didn’t see the pictures of Grandma, I’d say Nate’s expression captures it perfectly.

When I asked Miss Dulce what he hit, she told me “a little car.”  Maybe one of those new Fiats I’ve seen on the roads?

I’d say we can officially declare Jacob fluent in English.  Well, I probably should have declared it at least two months ago— consider this declaration retroactive.

Now I know the technical distinctions of fluency and the hazards identified by bilingual educators.  Essentially adults can be mislead into thinking kids are fluent because they speak perfectly from a colloquial perspective, yet aren’t truly fluent academically.

Blah.  BlahBlah.  Blah.  Blah.  My version of fluent is that he speaks in complete paragraphs with all the little words that string thoughts together like a, the, to and actually.  He uses words like difficult.  Shoe horn.  There’s a lot of talk about his binoculars, leaf blowers and astronauts.  I can’t really think of all the things he’s been saying lately that have given me pause… but I’ll take better notes and get back to you.

So, I was under the impression we’d reached the state of fluency until a few weeks ago when we went to the San Francisco zoo.  I think this was our third trip and it was great fun, as always.  The first part is an African savannah where they have the most beautiful giraffes and Jakey asks, “Where are the beehawks?  Last time, there were beehawks.”  James and I looked at each other.  It has been a really long time since Jake has said anything to us that is totally incomprehensible.

“What are you talking about?  Ostriches?  Gazelles?”

“No, the beehawks.”

We let it pass.  Then maybe 30 minutes later we were winding our way through an area that seems to be random “open space” at the zoo.

“Look Mama, a beehawk!  Two of ’em.”

Peacocks.  Mystery solved.

And then about two weekends ago we’re driving in the car and Jake is rattling off stories in the back seat.  He tells me “Indians poke buffalos with troll bones.”

“What?  What are you saying?  Did you say ‘troll bones’?”

“Yes, Indians.  They poke buffalos with their troll bones.”

“I’m definitely not familiar with that.  Where did you learn this?”

“At Granddad’s house.”

For two weeks I’ve been hoping I’d discover that “troll bones” was some sort of mispronunciation of some other concept that wasn’t quite as disturbing.

It turns out he really does mean troll bones.

Natesy’s going through that phase where all of a sudden, he’s got an opinion.  And my does he have one.  What, Jaimie, your child has an opinion?  How shocking!  I know, I know… they say it skips a generation.

On the surface, our little Prince of Wails seems to have it pretty easy.  For example, when he drinks his bottle in the morning and before bedtime, he fusses and pushes it back at you until you hold it for him.  No, we don’t fan him with palm fronds… though I’m sure he’d like it.  This week it seems he’s finally holding it with his own hands… perhaps his new found autonomy is about to pay-off.  (Yes, Dr. Antsy told us to switch to a sippy cup at 1, and no, little Mr. Baby Boss just isn’t having it.)

The other day I heard James reply to the incessant complaining, “I know.  Your life is SO hard.”  Believe me, the whining and carrying on doesn’t bring out the best in any of us.

And then I got to thinking… how hard is Nathaniel’s life?  On the surface it seems like it’s all catered meals, chauffeurs, and sponge baths.  But let’s take a moment, just a moment, to indulge the prince…

Is it easy to fall down and hoist yourself back up hundreds of times a day?  The ground, the walls, the furniture—constantly changing and unapologetically knocking you to the floor.  Doors close in your face, pinch your fingers, and otherwise incarcerate you at every turn.  Every day you encounter cupboards that open just enough so you can see but not reach the tempting treasures inside.  Getting shirts over a disproportionate head represents significant panic and probable fashion suffocation.  Everything good is up high.  Everything.  No control, no decision-making authority, a tongue that refuses to cooperate, and everyone on earth seems to be in a position to tell you what you don’t want to hear.

See?  Being royalty isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

This morning Nate Dogg turned on the radio in his room and held his own dance party.  Natesy’s dancing consists of four moves: the right foot stomp, step forward-step back, twirling, and his signature head nod.

The song?  “You Down Wit’ OPP.”

Yeah you know me.