Back In The Day

I belong to a Facebook group called, “I’m so old, I’ve dialed a rotary phone,” because I am and I have. The page owner regularly poses questions for general discussion, and I am frequently surprised at the nostalgia I experience. Being born in the ‘60s, having my childhood in the ‘70s, and surviving the ‘80s as a teen makes me part of a very specific demographic. I was on this planet (granted, very briefly) before man had set foot on the moon, only saw Disney movies in the theater, watched something on video for the first time as a high schooler (when you had to choose between VHS and Beta), learned the Dewey Decimal system in a bricks-and-mortar library, and went through grad school without having a computer. I remember when we didn’t know Darth Vader was anybody’s father and had to worry all week until the next episode of the “Brady Bunch” to see if they made it out of the ghost town jail safely or not. Our skates had four wheels, our cars had no seat belts, and bike riding required no helmet use. And you could buy a triple cone at Thrifty’s for a quarter. I do remember rotary phones--and even party lines--and I’m not sorry they were replaced by more efficient technology, but some things I miss. In William Steig’s When Everybody Wore A Hat, the author laments progress way before my time. It must be how my kids feel when they listen to me reminisce.

http://www.amazon.com/Everybody-Times-Illustrated-Books-Awards/dp/0060097000

http://www.kidsreads.com/authors/au-steig-william.asp

I Think I Can

We often look at folk who are younger, smaller, less experienced and determine that they just aren’t up to the tasks we perform with ease. Those are prime opportunities for lessons from the universe. Connor, before a teenage growth spurt, was always at the short end of the spectrum for his age, so he appeared younger than he was. Since this kid was born with no natural sense of fear and would jump off roofs for fun, I signed him up for gymnastics as soon as he turned two--figuring that any kid who could survive his daily kamikaze adventures could surely thrive in a pads and cushions environment. I let the instructor know that Connor was well beyond parent-assisted activities and would do well in a more advanced environment. The instructor looked at me with the patience of people used to dealing with parents who are unduly impressed by their own offspring and gently but firmly shut that idea down. Connor was two, so in the two year-old class he would remain. Until the teacher got a look at Connor on the trampoline and the rings and visions of competition gold danced through his head. By the time we left the gym that day, Connor was placed in the six year-old class, where he had no trouble keeping up. In Mo Willems’ Don’t Let The Pigeon Drive The Bus, all the big people forget that small people are a lot more capable than they seem sometimes. Ain’t it the truth.

P.S. Happy Birthday, Grandma! I think of you every day.

http://www.amazon.com/Dont-Let-Pigeon-Drive-Bus/dp/078681988X

http://www.mowillems.com/

Cupid, Draw Back Your Bow

Valentine’s Day is the best holiday of the whole year. Any observance that has red, pink, roses and chocolate as its central themes makes other holidays look sad and less festive. I’ve never had a bad Valentine’s Day--even as a single person. Despite the advertising attempts to make singletons feel less adequate than people who participate in the economy of Cupid, I have nothing but good associations with the day of hearts and flowers. One year, as I watched my sweetie-less girlfriends weep and wail over the devastation of a lonely hearts and flowers day, I wondered why I was not similarly affected. I mean, let’s face it, “distraught” might as well be my middle name, so it’s weird that something so emotionally charged would leave me virtually unscathed. But I figured it out. It’s so simple: Valentine’s Day is really the only holiday not associated with family, at least not the one you were born into. Think about it--your mom never makes you feel guilty over missing Valentine’s dinner and you don’t have to draw names for giving gifts. Valentine’s Day is truly the one day of the year when any celebration you partake in is with someone you chose, wisely or not. In Sarah Weeks’ Be Mine, Be Mine, Sweet Valentine, everybody goes out of their way to please the one they chose as their other. I like Valentine’s Day. It’s not foisted on you, you walk straight into it of your own volition. I can appreciate that.

http://www.amazon.com/Be-Mine-Sweet-Valentine/dp/0694015148

http://www.sarahweeks.com/

Shoe Story

You know those babies with casts on their legs to fix some problem some doctor convinced their parents would cripple them for life? I was one of those, except with removable braces rather than permanent casts. I don’t remember those days of crying while my parents put their baby into some draconian contraption, but I am about the most claustrophobic person who ever lived, so maybe there’s a connection. After the braces, I entered the special shoe phase and that I definitely remember. Not for me were the cute little sandals and ballet flats other girls were lucky enough to wear straight home from the shoe store. Nope. Each school year I had to choose between two styles of ugly, sturdy oxfords and then wait a few weeks for them to get fitted with orthopedic soles that made them clunkier, chunkier, and indestructible. They were horrible and I hated them. And to make it worse, I never felt like they were helping--which, it turns out, was probably true. When Keilana came here with toes turned in like mine, I immediately bought into the parent panic and rushed her off to a specialist who told us that we have an inherited loose ligament condition which cannot be addressed by mechanical or even surgical means. We’re just different. We probably won’t be track stars, but we’ll lead pretty full lives otherwise. In David Small’s Imogene’s Antlers, one little girl wakes up looking different than all the other little girls. That happens sometimes.

http://www.amazon.com/Imogenes-Antlers-Reading-Rainbow-Books/dp/0517562421

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/David_Small

When The Clock Strikes Twelve

For me, there is more tradition wrapped up in New Year’s than any other holiday--even Christmas. Sure, I have childhood memories of frosting sugar cookies and putting ornaments on the tree, but, somehow, the stuff we did at New Year’s has escaped the tarnish that comes with looking at the past through adult eyes. There were so many cool things that rang in the new year. Long ago, my dad, police officer by profession but Wild West gunsmith in his heart, crafted a breadbox-sized brass cannon that just begged to be shot off at midnight. He would position it in the middle of the deserted street and do all the patch and powder preparations while holding a match between in his teeth (perhaps this is where my fascination with things macho started), aim it away from the crowd (well, me, my brothers, and whatever friends were spending the night), and…BOOM!!!!! It was so loud and visceral that it simultaneously scared the stuffing out of me and made me feel a little more alive (see: “fascination with things macho” above). We stayed up late, watched the ball drop, drank a ton of normally-forbidden ginger ale, and got up early to watch the Rose Parade through bleary eyes. All things considered, a banner twenty-four hours. Nick chose to read “Happy New Year” from Disney’s My Very First Winnie The Pooh Growing Up Stories, which I wouldn’t have done because it’s not January. But daddies build cannons and read recklessly…they are wild men.

http://www.librarything.com/work/468501

http://www.paperbackswap.com/Kathleen-W-Zoehfeld/author/

Footsy

I once found a note written by my dad. Or at least I thought it was until I realized the piece of paper was almost six hundred miles away from him. So, who wrote it? After a little investigative work, I discovered that my then-teenaged brother Todd had been the author, but the resemblance of the penmanship to my dad’s was remarkable. Is it possible that something odd like penmanship could be genetic? I understand eye color, height and skin tone, but writing? If that event had not occurred, I would still be firmly in the that’s-not-possible camp, but I’m a believer now. It has taken my husband a little longer to get on board with the idea, however. He had to have a conversion experience as well, I guess. And it came in the form of a little girl with foot issues. Not so much the feet themselves, but stuff on the feet themselves. After years of Nick watching me freak out when I try to work in the kitchen but can’t because crumbs or other debris are on the bottoms of my feet (and thinking I was crazy), he gets to see the same pattern repeating itself in Scarlett. She cannot handle kitchen-yuck on her feet for even a second. Which made me think about how unsuited she would probably be to living on a farm like the animals in Margaret Wise Brown’s Big Red Barn. She might not be a farm girl, but she’s definitely my girl.

http://www.amazon.com/Big-Barn-Margaret-Wise-Brown/dp/0694006246

http://books.google.com/books

Beddy-Bye

People call it many different things--co-sleeping, shared sleeping, family bed--but it all boils down to whose head hits the pillow where. There are staunch advocates on both, polar-opposite sides of the issue. Some folks believe that firm space boundaries between parent area and kid area are necessary for emotionally healthy development. Others are committed to the notion that a constant physical connection or near-connection between parents and children provides a sense of security not possible with forced separation. I am in the wear ‘em, nurse ‘em, and make room for ‘em in the middle camp and I have no regrets about it. It’s how I feel most comfortable. There are many things I love about family bed--spending a few magic moments together before the whirlwind of the day starts, having them handy for nursing, knowing for sure they are breathing, having a human hot water bottle--but it’s not all great. Waking up soggy, and all the sheet changing that goes with it, is not fun. Getting kicked repeatedly in the back or stomach by a toddler who is forming the center bar of a parent “H” is not conducive to quality sleep. And if you have a sleep-talking kid, peace and quiet are at a premium. But I wouldn’t trade the great moments for all the Zs in the alphabet. In Rosemary Wells’ Goodnight Max, one little guy milks bedtime attention for all it’s worth. If they practiced family bed, his big people would do a lot less running around.

http://www.amazon.com/Goodnight-Max-Ruby-Rosemary-Wells/dp/0670887072

http://www.eduplace.com/kids/tnc/mtai/wells.html