Clean Sweep

Some people are born with the clean gene--their world is always orderly, neat and organized. These people seem to have an innate ability to keep a constant level of tidiness in their world that borders on hypnotic for me. They can find a paper clip or the warranty information for the printer at a moment’s notice and they use an iron to remove wrinkles from their clothes rather than a spray bottle and the dryer. I know and am related to people like this, but I am not one of them. Much like I missed the sports gene and carry the bat with me to first base, I lost out on the genetics neatness roulette. I know what some of you are thinking: just pick up and put stuff where it belongs. For you there is no biology magic to order, just responsible behavior. But some of you know what I’m talking about and can understand memorizing what is in which strata of the paperwork pile in case you need to find it later. The tidy ones are just born that way, whether they will admit it or not. Tizzie Knowles, author of the book Weekdays, may be one of the organizationally blessed considering how deftly she chronicles the daily tasks and housekeeping chores of her literary family for each day of the week. It does make sense, I’ll give you that. But Scarlett’s not even two and already on the varsity mess-making team. Maybe the gene skips two generations.




http://search.barnesandnoble.com/Weekdays/Tizzie-Knowles/e/9780851226835/?itm=4

http://us.macmillan.com/search/8408640/Tizzie+Knowles

One Lump Or Two?

My grandma, and everyone from my parents’ generation back to colonial times, was born and raised in the South--an area particularly fond of their rules-for-living sayings. Southerners live by very specific and simple codes of behavior which can often be concisely packaged in adage form. While listening to phrases made famous by the movie Forrest Gump, I felt sure the writers must have spent time with my grandmother and we should initiate some aggressive intellectual property lawsuit, or at least get some royalties. One warning I repeatedly heard as a little (and not so little) girl was that “pretty is as pretty does”-- meaning that, look as nice as you might on the outside, your actions tell what kind of person you are. I understood the sentiments, but got really annoyed at their frequency of use (although I’d give just about anything to hear them now). One opportunity I had to polish my social propriety skills as a child was a weekly coffee klatsch with my grandma. I remember sitting in the vinyl-covered breakfast nook learning how to crook my pinkie finger just so and drink my hot milk coffee substitute like a lady. In Tea For Ruby by Sarah Ferguson (yes, the Duchess of York), a free-spirited girl gets all kinds of advice from everyone when she is invited to have tea with the queen (who turns out to be her beloved grandmother). I like that grandmas teach us how to be and then love us no matter what.

http://www.fantasticfiction.co.uk/f/sarah-ferguson/tea-for-ruby.htm

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sarah,_Duchess_of_York

Who's Your Mommy?

I always wondered what a political cartoon of me would look like. I know I could get a cartoon version of myself at any boardwalk or fair, but those are too generic. I wanted to see what specific features an artist specializing in irony and biting satire would choose to portray me. Then, several years ago, a talented student took up the challenge--and I had a toothy, smiling mouth that took up most of my cartoon face and was roughly the same size as my cartoon body. I saw his caricatures of other instructors, and I thought they were dead-on, so I have to assume the one of me was also insightful. I really like the drawing, but I’m not completely sure it was complimentary. I generally think it is a good thing that we rarely know how others describe us, because the picture would clash with the one we have of ourselves and create an uncomfortable cognitive dissonance. Or worse. The descriptions we would probably be the most wise to avoid are those given by our kids when they know we can’t hear them. Would we even recognize ourselves when seen through their eyes? Charles Reasoner’s Sliding Surprise board book Whose Mommy Is This? seems to ask that very question. Each mommy is described and then you pull a sort of drawer to see which baby is giving the description. Scarlett loved the process but I wonder what she would say if she were in one of the drawers.


http://books.google.com/books?id=mSsNAAAACAAJ&dq=Charles+Reasoner&source=gbs_book_other_versions_r&cad=2

Double Talk

I seriously think there may be something to the whole stars, charts, and rising signs astrology thing. I’m not so invested that I would refuse to leave the house based on a dire horoscope, but if the tides are influenced by the movement of the planets and our bodies are mostly water, it just makes sense that when they move, we get a little cosmic tug. I also have two children born at the tail end of May, which means I’ve got more Gemini folk than I can comfortably handle sometimes. In the zodiac, Gemini represents the twins. In my house, Gemini represents the drastically polar personality shift that can happen to kids #2 and #4 at a moment’s notice. These are children who give new and more profound meaning to the metaphors associated with emotional swings--hot and cold, night and day, Jekyll and Hyde, etc. It is always amazing, and sometimes a little bizarre or frightening, to see a small person in the progression from sun to wild storm and back again in the amount of time it takes for toast to pop up. This duality kept going through my mind as I was reading Michael Bond’s Paddington’s Opposites to the littlest quick-change artist in my life. The contrasting conditions in the book are pretty straightforward--on/off, neat/messy, open/closed--but the illustrations are a bit outrageous, especially on the “negative” parts of the pairs, and those are (naturally!) the ones Scarlett likes best. Or not. It all depends on her mood.

http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=paddington%27s+opposites&x=0&y=0

http://www.paddingtonbear.com/thenandnowmichaelbond.html

E-I-E-I-O

In my first year of college at Cal State Los Angeles, some kitchen mishap made our dorm apartment reek. As we opened the windows to get rid of the stench, I sputtered something about the smell being worse than a skunk. One of my roommates, a born and bred Angeleno, gasped back that she wouldn’t know because she had never smelled a skunk. Even having been metropolitan-born myself, I could not believe such a thing. Never smelled a skunk? Ever? To what do you compare all bad smells (other than Long Beach)? And then it got more bizarre: she’d never seen a cow either. My mind still reels all these years later. This young woman had reached pre-med student adulthood but had never been to a petting zoo, for heaven’s sake? How is this possible? My kids have been very fortunate that they have always had a local working farm and pumpkin patch to visit where they experience the animals, from newborn to retired, up close and personal. The farm shut down as a public entity this year, but I have twenty years worth of petting, feeding, and hay riding pictures as proof that I at least tried to broaden their suburban horizons. Annie North Bedford’s The Jolly Barnyard shows an idyllic picture of farm animals brainstorming what contributions they can make to the farmer’s birthday celebration. Maybe there’s some rich Southern California doctor that would pay for them to take their show on the road to the inner city.

http://www.amazon.com/Jolly-Barnyard-Little-Golden-Book/dp/0375828427

http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/585620.Annie_North_Bedford

Rock-A-Bye, Baby...

I’m an insomniac. So are my father, all of my brothers, and every one of my children. Considering our familiarity with the wee hours, our family tree must have several vampires and an owl or two. According to our natural rhythms, it is much more likely to find us still up at six in the morning than just getting up at that hour--which makes participating in the traditional world a constant battle. People who see that it’s bedtime, tuck in, and fall asleep until the alarm rings are a complete mystery to our kind, and make me crazy envious. One of the worst aspects of troubled sleep is lying awake staring into space, knowing that your chances to start the next morning well-rested are ticking relentlessly away. Another equally awful component is the anxiety that develops early in the evening as you contemplate the approach of your nightly war against sleeplessness. So, when my kids have dawdled or stalled in the bedtime process, I have always had to fight my inner demons and try to second-guess myself. Is it just normal kid foot-dragging or are they beginning to dread the bed? Do I force the issue in the name of consistent parenting, or am I more flexible since I know how they feel? Mercer Mayer’s Just Go To Bed follows Little Critter through reluctant bedtime preparations, including annoying an exasperated dad. I understand kids need sleep, but, speaking as a lifelong nocturnist, you can only count just so many sheep.


http://www.littlecritter.com/

http://www.amazon.com/Just-Go-Bed-Little-Critter/dp/0808563963

Who's The Boss?

My girls have been called “assertive,” “independent,” and “natural leaders,” but those are all just polite ways of saying “bossy.” When I picked Keilana up from the Children’s Center at Chico State, I knew she would be in the fantasy play area telling her poor little friend Eddie what to do in a stern voice. She was bossy. Addison was the only child to get kicked out of school on the first day of kindergarten for staging a coup against the regime requiring her to make the letter “d” differently than she had learned. The principal called and asked if I had ever considered putting Addie in the afternoon kindergarten. When I inquired why she would ask, she told me there was an opening in the afternoon for a girl with a “strong personality.” Which means bossy. Scarlett goes around the sandbox at the park and collects sand toys from other children to redistribute as she sees fit. And they let her. I’m telling you, these girls are bossy. Certainly they all three came here with their own spirit, but I admit to encouraging them in asserting themselves. For me, it’s hard to know, let alone teach, where to draw the line between enforcing personal boundaries and infringing on the space of others. The little angel friends in Nancy Parent’s I Have Feelings, Too have to find a way to do that very thing. Sometimes playing well with others, and showing love, means someone else gets to be the boss.


http://isbndb.com/d/book/i_have_feelings_too_a01.html

http://www.allbookstores.com/author/Nancy_Parent.html

'Til Johnny Comes Marching Home Again...

When my Grandpa John went to war, my Grandma Velma and her “Little Johnny” (known to me as Dad) were on their own--with rationing, penciled on silk stocking lines, V-mail, and little money but nothing to buy. It was just the two of them and her sister, named Clarice but still called Sissy Doll, living in Chicago and waiting like everyone else. I imagine they had to be pretty creative to fill their free hours with activities that were toddler-friendly and didn’t cost any money. Since he’s always been one of the smartest guys I know, I suppose one thing they did quite often was read to the little boy with the curly auburn hair. And one book that was written just in time to be a bedtime story for my father is The Poky Little Puppy by Janette Sebring Lowrey. It was a bit surreal to sit on the couch with my not-quite-two Scarlett and read to her, from a book scrawled with my oldest daughter’s baby writing, a tale that my cute, young grandma probably sat in a tiny flat and shared with my dad. Or at least could have. The story of the five impulsive puppies digging their way into the wide, wide world and then losing dessert each night after coming home late in classic pell-mell, roly-poly, tumble-bumble puppy style is still well-known and popular enough to be in current print and a perfect gift for any little explorer. Good night, Scarlett. Good night, Little Johnny.


http://www.amazon.com/Poky-Little-Puppy-Golden-Storybook/dp/0307160262

http://www.randomhouse.com/author/results.pperl?authorid=38353

Badly Behaved Women Unite!

When I was little, nothing would make me more mad than not being taken seriously. It’s easy to believe that I was prone to the dramatic, but it infuriated me to have what seemed very real angst made light of because I was “overreacting.” One of the most common nicknames for me (which made me crazy, even before I knew why) was “Sarah Bernhardt,” in honor of the legendary stage and film actress known as “The Divine Sarah.” Can’t a girl get her passionate on without being called a diva? If a long history of popular media is to be believed, the sassy girl with attitude always triumphs in the end (think Scarlett O’Hara, Norma Rae or those doctors from Grey’s Anatomy), but being one my whole life, and having to live with the consequences, I don’t know if I totally buy it. Historian Laurel Thatcher Ulrich is credited with claiming that, “Well-behaved women seldom make history,” and I believe that, but it’s a hard road sometimes. One spunky girl who has thrived over time, while surviving some serious scrapes, is the French redhead with gumption, Madeline. She first lined up with the other eleven girls in 1938, but is still adventuring thanks to the original author’s grandson, John Bemelmans Marciano, who wrote Madeline And The Cats Of Rome. There are camera thieves, street urchins, mistaken identities, and mishaps galore--but Scarlett never doubted that Madeline would figure it all out in the end. That’s all there is, there isn’t anymore.


http://www.amazon.com/Madeline-Cats-Rome-Bemelmans-Marciano/dp/0670062979

http://biography.jrank.org/pages/2080/Marciano-John-Bemelmans-1970.html

Grandpa

I come from a long line of people who do not believe in treating children like delicate china. I am the product of generations of pragmatic, keen-witted, and sharp-tongued folk telling it like it is and expecting kids to keep up. Nowhere is this more evident than in my relationship with my paternal grandfather, John Edward Rives. This is a man who never let me win at anything just because I was young or cute or inexperienced. He always paid me the respect of holding me to the same standards he would any adult, and, even though it took years, I have an abiding appreciation for that now. I lost at cards, got my fingers routinely snapped in the elastic-pulling game, and had to improve my storytelling ability in order to keep his interest. Mine has been a bring-your-A-game grandchildhood, because there is no minor league in this family. On the other hand, I learned to walk on the stilts he made me, knew a pretty impressive adult-stumping card trick at seven, and discovered the power of the narrative from the master. I chose to read Barbara Borack’s Grandpa to Scarlett as a tribute to her paternal grandfather, who has connected with his only granddaughter on a level only they truly understand, but found myself with quavering voice and wet eyes thinking of my grandpa, now ninety-one and in a battle with time, age and illness, sitting in my grandma’s red and white kitchen telling the “hush puppy” story just one more time.

As a postscript:When I sat down at my computer to post the day's blog, I received a message that my grandfather had peacefully slipped away in the early hours of this morning. I pray (or whatever else will work) that there really is something after this and that they are together.


http://www.alibris.com/search/books/qwork/2683915/used/Grandpa.

http://www.lincbook.com/ap_barbara_borack.html

I Spy With My Little Eye...

One of the best things about being a child, or sharing your daily life with a child, or only being as mature as a child, is that the world is more interesting and holds amazing new stuff all the time. Tiny versions of things, like miniature displays of camping equipment and trial-size anything, make you squeal. The yellow fire hydrant on your daily walk becomes a “chair” that needs to be sat upon each time you pass. Birthdays and rain stay wondrous. And almost anything can make you laugh. Scarlett, like her dad, has a really quirky sense of humor and two distinct types of laugh: a standard that-was-amusing laugh and a deep, from-the-belly, caught-you-off-guard laugh. I love it when either one of them (or, better yet, both of them) has a spontaneous moment of humor appreciation so the goofy (Goofy?) laugh shows up. It’s when I know they have really enjoyed something and their primal authentic selves are surfacing for an instant to take note of the absurd and wonderful. In Dr. Seuss’ One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish, strange creatures with star-covered tummies and little cars abound and the tag line is: “From there to here, from here to there, funny things are everywhere.” Which is certainly true of Seussland, Whoville, and the Jungle of Nool, where the author had total control over all things weird, wacky and Wickersham, but is also true of everyday experiences--if you know where to look and what eyes to use.


http://www.amazon.com/One-Fish-Blue-Read-Myself/dp/0394800133

http://www.catinthehat.org/history.htm

Baby Mine, Don't You Cry...

My first baby was born when I was nine. Don’t let the fact that he was my youngest brother and I only became involved post-delivery fool you into believing that he did not belong, wholly and completely, to me. From the moment I first held him, I never let go.
I snuck him into bed with me every night until he was two and got moved to the boys’ room. And then I snuck in there. I carried him on my hip so much that I think I may be a bit off kilter to this day. Babysitters were unwise trying to take him, friends were silly assuming I wouldn’t wag him everywhere, and adults were misguided in thinking my parents had “saddled” me with the “the baby.” They just knew you don’t tug on Superman’s cape, spit into the wind, tear the mask off ole Lone Ranger, or…take Matthew away from Jodi. Uncle Mafoo (as my kids have called him) is now a successful attorney living in the big city--but he started as my baby and, even now, it’s hard to let go of those ties. One of the first books I ordered for this project was his first read-it-myself book--The Carrot Seed by Ruth Krauss. It is the simple story of a boy who dreams big and, in the face of long odds and vocal detractors, nurtures his vision into reality. When I think of the boy who read it and the man he has become, I smile.

When The Moon Hits Your Eye...

Blessedly, some foods seem to have magical healing properties. When I left my family of origin, I needed to reconstruct some family traditions in order to reclaim them in an emotionally healthy way. One of the traditions that had to go was a big, fancy, mom-trapped-in-the- kitchen, crazy-making Christmas Eve meal. In the household where I am the mom, Christmas Eve dinner has always been pizza. It’s the one time of the year when no one has to share or compromise--everybody gets whatever toppings they want before Santa comes. Even if I wanted to change now, the kids wouldn’t let me. My children have always been pizza addicts, even as babies, and the last in line is the worst by far. Scarlett recently found the discarded lid to a banker’s box and, thinking that pizza was secretly being consumed without her, carried it around to each person in the house demanding to know where the “pee-zah” was. That’s how powerful the lure of the pie is. In Dayal Kaur Khalsa’s How Pizza Came To Queens, four little girls in the 1950s try to figure out what will make their sad Italian guest smile. She doesn’t speak English and they can only guess at what “pizza” (the one mournful word they can decipher) means. They even break down and visit the library, where they find the answer. They bring her the secret ingredients, she shows them the perfect toss, and they all spend the rest of the summer in pizza heaven.

Don't Let The Door Hit You...

There are several watershed moments in the relationship between parents and young children: when they let go and walk on their own, when they learn to say “no,” when they get frustrated enough to yell “I hate you,” and when they decide for the first time that they are outta here because no one appreciates them. I truly think the ways parents handle these moments indelibly define the new relationship created by them. I am not claiming to know the right way to navigate these situations, just that I have seen them play out numerous times in my history as both child and parent. And the memories endure. So far, each of my kids has reached an age where they get just enough comfort with the idea of independence that they pack their precious stuff (different for each child) and make big public pronouncements about hitting the open road…alone…forever…really….never coming back….don’t try to stop them. That is a big parenting crossroads--do you RSVP “no, thank you” to their pity party or do you make your own pronouncements of eternal vigilance in retrieving them? Or something in between? I suppose that depends on the parent, and the child. The mother rabbit in Margaret Wise Brown’s The Runaway Bunny opts for the wherever-you-go-I’ll-be approach, which ultimately seems to be the validation that baby rabbit was looking for (while insisting he wasn’t). I watched Nick read this proclamation of undying love to Scarlett and tried to enjoy the calm before the coming storm.



http://www.margaretwisebrown.com/biography3.htm


http://www.amazon.com/dp/0060775823/?tag=googhydr-20&hvadid=3377702957&ref=pd_sl_57u5rffrdz_b

Ann Likes Red! Red! Red! Red!

When I was learning to read, my mom had a rule: if you get frustrated and behave badly, you aren’t in the mood to learn and you are finished trying for the night. As high-strung then as I am now, I endeavored mightily to stay calm (I must have counted to sixty on the flowered couch a million times), but I was rarely successful and would lose both my cool and my reading opportunity. It makes me mad almost forty years later. It never seemed like my brother had a hard time controlling his temper. Why was it always so hard for me? Scarlett has some self-control challenges, too. She likes to have several binkies at all times, but when she gets ticked, she hucks them in toddler angst. Before they leave her hand, she already regrets the impulsive decision to throw them and is begging for them back. Like most toddler anger shows, it’s pretty funny, but I can’t help thinking of my failed attempts at self-mastery when I see her struggle with the consequences of rash choices. There might be hope for her because Dorothy Z. Seymour’s Ann Likes Red, about a little girl with very strong opinions, seemed to be the literature that calmed the savage beast in me. It was the first book I ever read independently and I’ve been saving it to read to Scarlett. Somehow, reading a book about a girl who loves red to a toddler named Scarlett on Valentine’s Day seemed fitting.



www.rwrinnovations.com/.../ann_likes_red.htm
http://www.purplehousepress.com/dorothy.htm

Go Green...It's Delicious!

Scarlett is a veggie baby. She’s never had a Happy Meal, drumstick or tuna sandwich. After she stopped eating exclusively at the Mom Café, Scarlett embraced black beans, soy milk and “fu-fu,“ usually known as tofu. Scarlett was born into a meat-free household. The reactions of people when they discover this run a wide spectrum from enthusiastic support to inquisitive interest to skeptical hostility. Whatever their take on Scarlett‘s diet, most people express some sort of concern about the health ramifications for a little person who doesn’t eat meat. This is interesting given that she is one of the most robust kids I know. More interesting than what she won’t eat is what she does eat--and love. She loves fruits and, more surprising, vegetables. Celery, corn, sweet potatoes and, especially, broccoli are in great demand. Scarlett chose “papes” (grapes) at the church Halloween party rather than eating the candy from her pumpkin bucket. None of this means that we have a superior parenting strategy, just that we’ve discovered what it seems the little ones already knew: stuff that is good for your body makes for good eating. In Sesame Street’s scratch ‘n sniff book A Sweet-Smelling Garden, Elmo (yes, him again) and Zoe decide to spruce up around Oscar’s trash can and bring more fresh produce to the street by tossing out scattered garbage and planting fruits, vegetables, and flowers. Oscar isn’t on board until he realizes that gardens mean dirt. Lots and lots of beautiful, messy, grouch-pleasing dirt. Everybody wins.



http://pbskids.org/sesame/

Olly Olly Oxen Free, Free, Free!

I have four children, which means I am always looking for things that have been moved, used, worn, misplaced or taken by people who are not me. Nothing is ever left where I put it, except for unfolded laundry and dirty dishes. Hyper-organized people who never have to look for anything, and are almost always smug about it, are fond of spouting truisms about places and things and things in places. However, this method of superior living does not factor in the very real truth that always returning a thing to its designated place does not matter if you are the only one doing it. For some things I have literally stopped fighting and given into replacing them regularly. I get a bulk package of tape every Christmas so there will be a glimmer of hope one roll will be at hand when I wrap gifts. Since I have daughters, I purchase a bag of women’s socks every few weeks. And I have a firm policy of buying a pack of gum, Carmex, and a pair of scissors every time I go to the store. I hope to reach stasis on these items someday, but that day has not yet arrived. In Cyndy Szekeres’ Hide-And-Seek-Duck, Bunny is hiding from his friend where we can see him but out of sight of Duck. It’s cackling good fun for kids, who feel pretty powerful being in on the joke, but I always feel a twinge of sympathy for the poor little guy.






http://www.amazon.com/Hide-Seek-Duck-Golden-Naptime

http://biography.jrank.org/pages/1293/Szekeres-Cyndy-1933.html

Does Whatever A Spider Can

When I see children embrace and excel at things that are important to their parents, I always wonder if the ability comes from some magic in their genes or the constant exposure. Or both. The whole nature versus nurture argument plays out in my head, as it so often has. When my brother John and I were teenagers, people used to tell us that we would make a perfect couple if we weren’t siblings because we had so much in common--which made perfect sense having the same parents, home, history and experiences. But we always made the argument that we wouldn’t be so much alike if we weren’t siblings. Back then I was a devout nurturist, I still predominantly am, but as I’ve seen more of the way people evolve, I just don’t know anymore. Even when I see it at work in my own children, I’m still not sure exactly what role either has in developing little humans. Scarlett loves superheroes, which I suppose was inevitable given how fascinated her father is by comic books…er…”graphic novels,” and the web-slinging “Man-Man” is their favorite. Scarlett can pick the familiar red and blue arachnid out of any crowd and naturally plucked the Spider-Man Flying High board book, generically published by Marvel, off the shelf when given the chance to choose today’s reading. It isn’t a classic, or very long, or even all that interesting, but Man-Man wins in the end by defeating the Vulture and the city is safe once more.


http://juliasuits.com/product_SPIDERMAN-Flying-High-Book.html

The Big Brother Conundrum

When I was nine, my parents decided to give us the good life in the suburbs. Which meant I was going to have my own room. Which meant I wouldn’t share with my brothers anymore. Which meant I spent the entire first night in my expensive new bed crying. My life was and has been largely defined by being the sister of my brothers. I desperately wanted a little sister until I became familiar with some of my friends’ sisters and realized that being the only girl isn’t so bad. So, I understood the dynamics when I made my oldest a big sister by giving her a brother, but was more at a loss when I made him a big brother by bringing home a baby girl. He seemed perfectly at home with his role as older brother--for about a month. He then came and said it was “time for her to go home now,” and I realized he had just been playing the good host. When I explained that she was ours forever, he gave me one of those preschool looks that projects horror. Thinking back now, he may have had a premonition. In Niki Daly’s Monsters Are Like That, Leo doesn’t want Fran to play with his toys, but Fran is resourceful and gets into his stuff anyway. She paints her face, finds monster hands and lies in wait. The joke is on her, though, because it turns out that Leo likes his sisters on the scary side.

http://www.childlit.org.za/ndaly.html

http://www.amazon.com/Monsters-Are-Like-That-Storytime/dp/0744509823/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1265785241&sr=1-1

Here, Kitty, Kitty...

My son claims I make the best cupcakes in the world--that something I do to the boxed cake mix and ruffled papers bests any competition. As someone who consumes most of her cupcakes in batter form, I don’t notice a difference between the treats I bake and others, but he is a teenager regularly steeped in angst and dissatisfaction, so I’ll take what I can get. He and his endorsement were on my mind today as we read Laura Numeroff’s If You Give A Cat A Cupcake, encountering a sprinkled-cupcake loving kitty and his restlessness. If you are familiar with the “If You Give A….” books, you know they are as addictive as street drugs to young children. The idea of spending an entire day running from adventure to adventure, all of your own choosing, and ending up snug at home with something delicious is particularly enticing stuff for anyone who can get picked up and carried away from places they are not ready to leave. Scarlett is on the cusp of two and starting to exert her will (or stubbornly trying) everywhere. There is one jacket with fur cuffs and kitty buttons that she used to love and now will not tolerate wearing. Staying strapped in has given way to pushing the cart. And pleasantly occupying the carseat is a thing of the tantrumless past. But that’s how it works, isn’t it? If you give a kid some freedom, they’re going to want some independence to go with it.


http://lauranumeroff.com/

http://www.amazon.com/You-Give-Cupcake-Give-Books/dp/0060283246/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1265785387&sr=1-1

Sugar And Spice Aren't Everything Nice!

I am the only girl. I spent my childhood surrounded by, fighting with, fiercely loving, and learning about boys. I get spiders and appreciate dirt. I understand wrestling rather than talking and know how to catch a snake. To me, at some basic level, most boys make sense--the noise and rowdiness are part of the package. So, how did I end up the mother of three girls? They are foreign beings sometimes. Of course, I was a girl, which would seem to make me qualified to understand girls, but I realized after I got one that I hadn’t ever really spent time around any. My girls often mystify me and when I think I’ve got it, another one comes along! Of all the things I don’t know about them, I passionately understand what I want for them: to be happy, healthy women making authentic choices they believe are right. I think
Neil Gaiman gets me because his wonderful prayer-in-book-form Blueberry Girl is dedicated to “Tash, when she was only a bump and a due date.” In it he asks for protection and wisdom, courage and joy for girls
everywhere. Nick bought the book for Scarlett as a gift and today we read it. It is just what I would say to my daughters if I were a poet. “Words can be worrisome, people complex, motives and manners unclear. Grant her the wisdom to choose her path right, free from unkindness and fear…” Oh, Neil Gaiman, you had me at “words.”

http://www.neilgaiman.com/

http://www.amazon.com/Blueberry-Girl-Neil-Gaiman/dp/0060838086/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1265785698&sr=8-1

Warning: Disaster Area

The girl who is now my middle daughter was the youngest for ten years. She is scrappy, wild and beautiful, deciding early on that this baby wasn’t going to be passed over, left behind or kept down. Where her older sister was patient and deliberate and her older brother was too active to stop very often and tear things up, Addison was a one-girl destruction derby laying waste to everything she touched--especially books, with their fragile paper pages and soft cardboard covers. Most books, indeed most things of all varieties, had to be put well out of reach and only handled under supervision if we ever wanted to see them again. So, Addie got her own sturdy reading material at ground level and a few lonely volumes have survived to tell the tale of being thrashed, bashed and scribbled upon. Her favorite was Barbara Emberley’s Drummer Hoff, where old-fashioned military folk, with rhyming names and duties, prepare to fire off a cannon. Every page is battered and ink-stained, attesting to its constant presence in the diaper bag and whatever purse Addie adopted that week. The outside edge has childish scrawl that says, “Addison. Kiys. Connor. Kalon lotion eans smaf.” Whatever that means. I feared that bringing home a new baby would be disastrous for all parties, but “Baby A” and “Baby B,” as Addie now calls herself and Scarlett, have always been comfortable with who they are to each other and themselves. And they both love the giant “KAHBAHBLOOM!” finale.





http://authors.simonandschuster.com/Barbara-Emberley/706365

http://www.amazon.com/Drummer-Hoff-Barbara-Emberley/dp/0671662481