Where's The Magic?

Where is the magic going to be?

I keep stewing over that question as I anticipate Beckett’s kindergarten year in front of the computer screen.

I’m grateful for the decisions that were made, but carpet read-alouds, science experiments, and math centers don’t happen over a screen or behind shields or six feet apart.

So where is the magic going to be?

I asked that same question four years ago as I took a trip to study some of the most magical children’s books from my childhood.

Prince Edward Island, where I discovered the island that inspired L.M. Montgomery‘s Anne of Green Gables, my childhood kindred spirit. New Hampshire, where I visited the H.A. and Margret Rey Curious George Museum; and the Morgan Hill Bookstore where I met the late Tomie dePaola. Boston, where I floated through the Public Garden like McCloskey’s Make Way for Ducklings and E.B. White’s Trumpet of the Swan. Concord, where I toured Louisa May Alcott’s Orchard House of Little Women. Amherst, where I celebrated the art of illustration at the Carle Museum. Springfield, where I played with Yertle the Turtle with Beckett and studied Theodor Geisel at the Seuss Museum and Sculpture Garden. New York City, where I dined at the Plaza for an “Eloise” tea, searched for Stuart Little in Central Park, gorged on a Harry Potter-themed pasta dinner in Williamsburg and retraced my steps for Knuffle Bunny in Park Slope. Only to land back in Greensboro, where I somehow did not collapse in disappointment from my experience.

This trip reminded me of something that serves me so well today as I prepare for this next phase of Covid-life. The magic is everywhere. These authors exemplified adventure, mischief, courage, heartache and joy, and they did it from their own imperfect lives. These authors lived through wars, pandemics, loss, abandonment, rejection and they still brought us the magic. They gave it to us through a curious monkey, a hungry caterpillar, a six-year-old girl at the Plaza, a cat with a striped hat, a good witch in Italy and an orphaned boy who learns he’s a wizard. When the trip was over I didn’t collapse in disappointment, but I was reminded that there’s always room to bring the magic.

High Rise Glorious...Birthday Cake

 

There was a book that always made my mom cry when I was a kid.

Which was peculiar, because those of you that know my mom know that she doesn’t cry. The High Rise Glorious Skittle Skat Roarious Sky Pie Angel Food Cake. Written by Nancy Willard, this book with a bewildering title tells of a child that makes a cake for her mother’s birthday from a recipe her eccentric grandmother created many years before. Upon finding the recipe, this magical tale unfolds into a late night baking adventure, with the interference of some eclectic angels. The little girl learns that the secret ingredient is writing E-V-O-L into the flour sprinkled on the counter, which seems to unlock the magic.

I was reminded of this book while Beckett and I were baking Oliver’s first birthday cake. We have become vegan in the last year, so birthday cakes are a little challenging to come by, and good vegan birthday cakes are especially challenging to come by. But, Beckett’s enthusiasm for, well, anything is enough to overpower any doubt, so bake an eggless, dairy-free birthday cake we did.

Once the counter was strewn with flour and flax seed and almond milk and not-really-cream-cheese-frosting, I was taken by the overwhelming urge to tell Beckett to stir slowly so the flour didn’t erupt over the bowl or spread the sprinkles out so they aren’t all piled up in the middle of the cake. My perfectionism took hold, as it often wants to do, and I felt so stressed in the chaos of the moment. Apparently I thought Oliver would care that the cake wasn’t evenly sprinkled as he shoved fistfulls into his teeny, six-toothed mouth.

As the stress of this messy venture unfolded, that picture book that made my mom cry came flashing back to me. I teared up, just as my mom did when I was a child. I realized she probably had the same moment all those years ago, the moment of realizing our best times are when we write love in an unusual way all over a messy venture. So, I took a deep breath, smiled at Beckett and stepped back as he whacked frosting at the cake with the spatula. He had written love all over this skittle skat roarious cake for his baby long before I did.

I got the flour off the floor later. E-V-O-L.