January 18, 2015

The Best Kids' Books Ever (According to My Kids)

Be warned. My children are quirky.

The other night D. was furious with me because I couldn't tell her what the edge of the universe might look like (if the universe actually has boundaries). She said that she understood that it was infinite, but gosh darn it, had anyone actually confirmed that? Certainly someone would have had the decency to get on a rocket ship, and to have a baby on the rocket ship, who in turn would have a baby, who would birth another baby, and so on, all the while hurtling through space. Surely one of these human guinea pigs would eventually come to the edge of the universe, if there was one. And they would have sent back a report to Earth, wouldn't they?

D. was spitting mad by the end of that conversation. "I don't know, honey," is not an acceptable answer in our household. "No honey, I can't explain the fifth dimension. I don't really understand it myself."

L. is a little more down to earth, though equally precocious in ways. At the age of three, she informed me that my new dress was unacceptable and could I please change before we left on our "date" (a muffin at Chapters). On occasion she'll look me up and down, and I just know . . . my choice of clothing is unacceptable. "I don't really like that sweater very much," she said the other day, disappointed that I would have made the effort of purchasing it. She has an eye for the aesthetic, and apparently didn't inherit this eye from me.

Needless to say, our interests aren't standard. I'll admit that we've researched conjoined twins and a variety of congenital defects with a keen interest (purely scientific and always empathetic). We've played a rousing game of "congenital triplets" to better understand the obstacles faced by fictional others. We've collected isopods and built homes for worms and left an unfinished tuna fish sandwich outside on purpose to watch the wasps carry it off bit by bit from the safety of our closed glass kitchen door.

We're weird. And we read obsessively . . . on every topic we can get our little peanut-butter covered hands on.

With that out in the open, I would like to share with you some of my quirky children's all-time favourite books. These are books that are magic, for whatever reason. They are listed in no particular order, and I might have stuck one of my own favourites in.

1. "The Bear Dance," by Chris Riddell (1990)

Katya is a little girl who lives in the forest, sleeps in a tree, and spends her days with her best friend
--a bumbly bear called "Brown." Every evening the two dine on an old tree stump, and then dance. Their favourite dance, of course, is the "stomping, shouting, growling, thumping, stamping, jumping-in-the-air Bear Dance."

One day, Jack Frost enters the forest that has only known summer, and threatens the little girl and her paradise. But little Katya is not easily deterred, and engages Jack Frost in a dance so wild that he is defeated. Utterly vanquished. Take that, Jack, you icy abomination.

It's easy to see the appeal in Mr. Riddell's fine book. Who wouldn't want to own a forest and dine with a bear? Who wouldn't want a nightly dance party (we have them all the time, in fact)? Even now, though D. is a little afraid of the illustrations of Jack Frost, she marvels that a small child is able to easily outwit the cold brute.


2. "The Silly Book," by Stoo Hample (2004 edition, though originally published in 1961)

We have been reading this book for YEARS. Many mind-numbing years. I may go to an early grave because of this book. But my daughters will inevitably choose it if it's available. Something about it is irresistible.

The main character is "Boodleheimer" (seen on the cover). The jokes go something like this:

Boodleheimer to a snake: "I'm Boodleheimer."

The snake, in response: "I'm Mother Goose."

L. thinks this is beyond hilarious, and if I don't laugh, she explains the silly joke to me. Again and again. So I've learned to fake it.

Seriously, though, this is a book I don't mind reading again and again, just because my daughters never fail to be amused.


3. "The Quiltmaker's Gift," by Jeff Brumbeau and Gail de Marcken (2000)

This book should be in every home. It's lavishly illustrated, moral and spiritual, and it conveys a simple yet profound message. It makes me tear up the way "The Happy Prince" did when I was a child (okay . . . I still get teary when I read "The Happy Prince"). D. was equally moved.

The quiltmaker is an ancient woman who lives "in the blue misty mountains up high." Her quilts are exquisite, and yet she refuses to sell them, instead giving them to the poorest of the poor on the darkest and coldest of nights.

Enter the greedy king. Like an overindulged child, he collects everything he sees, to the point of owning "almost all of the prettiest things in the world." He is deeply unhappy.

Believing that one more possession will bring him joy, the king tries to force the quiltmaker to give him a quilt. She thwarts his efforts, instead promising to give him his prize only once he has given away all of the wealth he has accumulated.

The king relents at last, and then discovers the joy of helping others. At last, virtually penniless, he declares himself the "richest man I know," and receives the quilt specially made for him. He then spends many a night joyfully giving the quiltmaker's gifts to those who need them the most.   

Few books can inspire generosity, and empathy, like this one. Simply put, it's beautiful.

4. "May I Stay?", by Harry Allard and F.A. Fitzgerald (1977)

This book begins with the simple line, "Once upon a time a man went on a journey." [Be warned: once your child journeys through this book once, you will accompany him or her at least a hundred times.]

The man comes upon a large home and encounters an old man chopping wood. He asks if he can stay the night. He is told that the man is not the boss--that he should speak to the man's father. The man enters the house, and things get very strange indeed.

I love this book. It's an adaptation of an old German fairy tale (and those Germans can write!). The writing is eloquent, the plot is clever, and the illustrations engaging. The most fun part of it is seeing your children's minds as they process the absurdity of what the poor traveler encounters.

5. "When the World Sleeps," by Cliff Wright (1989)

L. loves this book about a little boy who witnesses the moon dropping from the sky. The appeal of seeing the moon up close--helpless and distraught--and finding a way to cast it back into the sky, draws her attention again and again. There are no words.

Almost equally loved, and quite similar, are "The Midnight Adventures of Kelly, Dot, and Esmeralda," and "Where's the Cake?"



Go buy these books. (But please don't blame me if you drop a few IQ points after reading "The Silly Book.") Your kids are worth it. 








January 5, 2015

Baby . . . I Definitely Thought It Over

So, we were given the opportunity to borrow a "Baby Think It Over" doll. It's not often a person gets to play with a $500 doll, one that cries like a human baby, has to be held in a few specific positions, and whose temperament you get to choose (unlike babies who arrive the traditional way).

My daughter D. was giddy with excitement. She has been asking me to provide her with a new baby sister. Since my belly is not growing any larger (except around Christmas), she has repeatedly asked that we become a foster family, emphasizing that she will be the sole caregiver of our little charges.

"Baby Think It Over" was the next best thing.

D. was dismayed to discover that her new Baby had a penis--strike one. She was puzzled to find that he was clearly of an Asian heritage. But she adopted him with gusto nonetheless, and agonized over his name. She decided, at long last, on "Loren," because the name would allow her to pretend he was a "Lauren," without insulting his gender. All of my suggested names were quashed.

My daughter wanted a sensitive baby, but being an experienced mother I decided on a "normal" temperament. No tomato allergies for us. Colic? No way. We set the controls that would enable him to cry every 90 to 270 minutes, locked the tamper-proof panel, and thus gave Baby Loren a consciousness of sorts.

Unfortunately, he was in a two-hour sleep cycle, and D. soon grew weary of holding a motionless baby with the creepy ability to sleep with his eyes open.

Two hours later, Baby Loren started wailing, and faithful D. raced to his side and clutched her beloved. He stopped crying. D. had succeeded as a mother: she had calmed him within the sixty second timeframe allotted before he would go into a one-minute distress cycle (that would be recorded as a "neglect" event in his circuitry).

Of course, D. had gymnastics that day and could not bear the thought of leaving Baby Loren at home. I felt a little awkward being a grandmother at my age, but agreed to take care of my beautiful grandson with "Auntie L's" assistance.

Though I did garner a few curious stares, Baby Loren was brilliant . . . during the first half of gymnastics. One mother gasped when she saw him sitting alone on the table and said, "I thought he was real!" I explained the situation. A little girl then asked to hold him, which was fine with me--though I received a tongue-lashing from my daughter later for allowing a stranger (a child, of all things!) to hold her infant.

Then, sure enough, all hell broke loose. Baby Loren started to fuss, and people's looks went from curious to baffled.

"He's just hungry!" I said, grasping for the care key which would enable me to "feed" him.

He wasn't hungry, though. Drat. And apparently I had neglected him because he wouldn't calm down. I jammed the care key in, but had to hold it in an exact position to keep that Baby quiet.

Shortly after, gymnastics ended, and I needed to herd my children out of the building, not to mention collect my possessions. A new set of parents were arriving, and my preschooler escaped my grasp in the crowd as she sought out her boots and coat. I couldn't hold the care key in place and take care of my living, breathing, moving children.

And so Baby Loren screeched, loud, mournful laments. Wailing of an incompetent grandmother. Wailing on behalf of Think It Over babies in incompetent hands everywhere. I knew that within his neural circuitry an abuse incident was being recorded, and my stomach dropped.

D. stared at me in dismay as I ran to the window (away from the crowd) and struggled to end the crying . . . by removing Baby's Control panel and extracting the batteries.

"Don't kill my baby!" she cried. "That's not fair."

I couldn't get the circuitry box open in my panic, and then at last it worked, and I ended Baby Loren's brief existence on this planet. A little plastic soul flew up into the sky.

Driving home that evening with a scowling daughter in tow, I thought it over. I thought that no matter how much I yearned for another baby, we just couldn't keep Baby Loren.

And so we now resurrect a different baby every day. There's no way I'm getting up at 2:00 a.m. to care for a plastic model when sleep is scarce enough as it is.

And that's okay. I thought it over, and made a series of unethical decisions, and despite my record of neglect, I feel just fine. Welcome to Motherhood.