Dr. Seuss Let Me Down

Dr. Seuss got it wrong.

His birthday is today and, unlike past years, many have chosen not to celebrate him. The racist content in his early work is no longer being ignored.

Now, for context, Dr. Seuss’s birthday has been widely celebrated in schools since 1998 as a way to promote early literacy, one of the primary missions throughout Geisel’s life. Spearheaded by the NEA, March 2nd was branded Read Across America Day, which has now been rebranded to “Create & Celebrate A Nation Of Diverse Readers.” Just yesterday, President Biden completely disassociated Dr. Seuss with Read Across America. 

I am committed to standing on the right side of diversity and inclusion, so bear with me, but this one hurts. I have studied Dr. Seuss extensively and, until recently, borderline idolized him. I almost convinced Nathan to name our second kid Theodor. I have visited his museum in Massachusetts. I have read many biographies, some illustrated, like Klimo’s The Great Doodler, and some not, like Morgan and Morgan’s Dr. Seuss and Mr. Geisel. All of which highlight his magical and intriguing life, leaving out details about racist propaganda and illustrations featuring antisemitism and Orientalism. 

Yet, here I am, preparing to clean out the Seuss books in the playroom. Except for one, Dr. Seuss: The Great Doodler. 

We’ll read his biography and then we’ll discuss what’s happening today, because I want my boys to know who he is, not who I hoped he was. Later in his career, Geisel made some edits and thematically changed course. While those changes matter, they weren’t enough, because he continued to profit from plenty of remaining hurtful content.

My boys will know there is space in this world for redemption, but only if we do the work, make some true sacrifices, and humbly change course. I wish Dr. Seuss had.

#readacrossamerica

#drseuss

Chatting With Peter's Mom

 I’ve been over it the last few weeks. 

We’re almost a year into this Covid-arrangement that I never agreed to, and I’m over “silver-lining” things. 

We’ve done the puzzles and the playground. We’ve done the art projects and legos and the spontaneous adventures. I’ve bootstrapped as many days as I can and I am spent. 

It’s cold. It rained for 800 days. I’m probably vitamin D deficient. My endorphins from running in the freezing cold aren’t holding me over anymore.

So, now, we’re on to the watching-Mickey-Mouse-Clubhouse-cuddled-under-the-blankets phase. We’re on to the mommy-reading-her-phone-while-the-kids-eat-cookies-in-the-pantry phase. We’re on to the creating-errands-to-run-so-they’re-buckled-in-the-car phase.

I wish I felt as nonchalant about it as I’m letting on, but I’m feeling both uninspired and super guilty about it. I need to be grateful, I need to present, I need to put on some pants that actually have zippers and pockets.

This week Beckett and I read The Snowy Day by Ezra Jack Keats. Peter, this iconic little boy that ventures into the beautiful snowy city in his red snowsuit. Peter, the first-ever black protagonist in a picture book, reminded me of something I needed this week. 

I NEED TO SIT AND CHAT WITH PETER’S MOM.

And, if I could, we would complain and laugh and compare notes about our wonderful, precious, hilarious, incorrigible children that just can’t seem help themselves:

• I wish mine could just entertain himself like that. Look at Peter making tracks. My kid would have been back inside five times already...

• Uh oh, he wants to snowball fight with those big kids. I can just see him thinking about it… You’re right, he’ll be fine.

• Should we go get eyes on them or do you think they’re okay? No? Cool.

• Oh my God, he brought a snowball in the house. No he did not.

So, I guess the antidote I need is some connection here. We’re not supposed to do this parenting thing in a bubble. 

But I can’t be the only one feeling stuck in mediocre parenting. 

I can’t be the only one feeling uninspired. 

I can’t be the only mom wondering if the kids will be alright if we just let them explore by themselves like Peter a little bit in the snow.

#thesnowyday

#ezrajackkeats

Cookie Makers and Basketball Stars

Beckett is not super interested in sports. He doesn’t have any “going pro” dreams. Despite being an active and social kid, he’s not interested in joining any teams, at least for today.

He does, however, want to be a cookie maker when he grows up, which I am here for. A Youtube cookie maker, to be exact, because you know, if you’re not attempting to be a basic celebrity apparently it doesn’t count.

He watched a how-to-decorate-a-Grinch-cookie on Youtube before Christmas, and now that’s his dream. He dismissed his initial dream of becoming president, because you need to go to college first, and moving away from home is unappealing to him. We’ll check back on that later...

That was on my mind this week when we read Salt In His Shoes, written by Deloris and Roslyn M. Jordan and illustrated by the phenomenal Kadir Nelson. This book is about the young #23 himself, Michael Jordan, who is being bullied on the basketball court for being too short. He came home one day lamenting to his mom about losing the game because he was not tall enough to get past another player. He asked her how to grow taller.

She smirked, and then advised him to put salt in his shoes every night.

She said, “In order for this to work, the most important things you have to do are be patient and listen to what I tell you, and say your prayers every night.”

Deloris Jordan knew the secret that I forget at least fourteen times a day...that parenting is like 95% letting go of my agenda for their lives and like 5% reminding them to let go of their own agenda.

The books and music and legos and dye-free organic food and chemical-free cleaning products probably all matter. At the end of the day, though, I can’t make him grow taller or make him pay attention in class or make him brave enough to go to college.

Mrs. Jordan knew the other important secret, though. As much as it helps to feel like we’re doing something that benefits lives we have to give our own plans over to whomever or whatever our higher power may be. And, like Mrs. Jordan, teach them to do the same.

#morethanasinglestory
#kadirnelson
#saltinhisshoes

Not A Fan

 

Beckett is not a fan of bike riding.

He’s a fan of a lot of things, just not bike riding. In fact, he’s a fan of most things, so when he’s not, we wonder. While I’m not losing sleep over his bike gathering dust, I sure do wish it wasn’t. 

But I think I might know why. He doesn’t have a street full of kids flying by our house to catch up to. He doesn’t have an older brother that’s trying to flee him.

I kind of lament that, not the bike riding specifically, but the fact that 2020 really didn’t require him to keep up with anyone. 

I’m not saying I want him to be a follower or peer pressured or envious. What I am saying is, we don’t make progress on our own, and this past year created a lot of opportunities to be on our own. I don’t think change happens until we look around and say, “I want that, and I need to learn how.” 

This past week we read Gaia Cornwall’s fantastic book Jabari Jumps. I started reflecting on how important it is to have people around you that give you a little nudge.

Jabari is a little boy that has completed swim lessons and is ready to conquer the diving board. When his turn comes he stalls, needing to stretch, or contemplate his big move, or take a little rest from climbing halfway up the ladder. Eventually, Jabari decides that perhaps jumping off the diving board is a better task for tomorrow. 

Jabari’s dad gently says, “Sometimes if I feel a little scared, I take a deep breath and tell myself I am ready. And you know what? Sometimes it stops feeling scary and feels like a little surprise.”

Jabari follows his dad’s advice and surprises himself with an epic first jump.

I think two things are super important here. 1) I don’t think the diving board would have been appealing without other kids experiencing the thrill of hurling themselves off of a bouncing metal plank into the water. 2) I don’t think he would have jumped in without his dad’s nudge.

So, I hope 2021 brings us back together. I hope 2021 brings us opportunities that catch our eye and make us wonder if we can, too. Most of all, I hope 2021 brings us people that remind us we’re ready, we just need to take a deep breath and jump.

#jabarijumps

#storybooksbythesea

Get On Board

I might as well have yelled, “Don’t you get this is magical?!” What I did do was let my right eyebrow arch halfway up my forehead and say, “Knock it off or I’m cancelling all of this.” 

Go me. 

I had this magical Polar Express Day planned with a train ticket and bells, an Oreo “gingerbread” house, the book and the movie, hot chocolate and a build-your-own train STEM activity from recyclables. 

We are making memories, damnit. Get on board (the Polar Express).

All he wanted to do was negotiate with me to watch A Very Monkey Christmas on Hulu and pick the marshmallows off the top of his hot chocolate.

After I got mad and guilted him into our forced fun, he did humor me the rest of the day. He later even admitted he didn’t want it to be over. So, you see, I was right, it was magical after all. 

Chris Van Allsburg, the author of The Polar Express said, “The Polar Express is about faith, and the power of imagination to sustain faith. It’s also about the desire to reside in a world where magic can happen, the kind of world we all believed in as children, but one that disappears as we grow older.”

Once I got over my indignance and quit mumbling words like “it’s never enough,” I began to see my part in it. I put so many outrageous expectations on Christmas. I want my kids to find magic in all of the things I found magical as a kid, instead of all the things they are finding magical right now. 

I want him to love the things I did, like The Polar Express (back in the days before the Polar Express had been completely exhausted) and Peter, Paul and Mary’s holiday album. But, he thinks that Rachel Isadora’s African-inspired Twelve Days Of Christmas and the Jackson 5 Christmas Album are the best things that ever came out of Christmas. (Seriously, go check out Rachel Isadora’s Twelve Days Of Christmas.)

Beckett will figure out his magic. And Oliver will figure out his own magic in a few years, and he will undoubtedly disappoint my expectations in his own way. I just need to step back and let their Christmas magic be theirs, because I can’t expect them to find it in the ways I did.

At the end of the day I want them to know how to sustain their magic. 

#polarexpress

#christmasexpectations

#badmomming

Voldemort May Rise, But...

I thought I knew how November 8, 2016 would end because the storybooks had always told me so.

Harry Potter...Voldemort is defeated.

The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe...The witch does not prevail.

But we know the ending to November 8, 2016.

It was not enough to vote early and wear my “Hillary is my homegirl” t-shirt hidden under my teacher sweater...I should have known.

As my post-traumatic feelings rear their ugly heads, I remember something special about the early hours of election day 2016...A little girl named Grace.

I read my first graders Grace For President, Kelly diPucchio’s precious picture book, about a little girl that runs for class president in a competitive campaign against a classmate. She persists despite her challenging, but complacent opponent, and wins. We discussed the vocabulary...campaign, candidate, slogan...we analyzed the theme and beginning, middle and end.

In 2016, in what I thought were the moments leading up to a watershed election, this book was particularly exciting. My version of working the crowd of brilliant first graders… Dedication and a commitment to meaningful, love-filled change always win.

What I forgot about are the complex stories, the stories with multiple plotlines. I forgot about the stories in which we wonder how the protagonist will ever overcome. I forgot about the complex stories when the dark side is sometimes victorious.

Voldemort will rise and Aslan will fall.

This week when I read Grace for President to Beckett, though, I was reminded at the end that there is an illustration of her, as an adult, being sworn into office. I was reminded that her story didn’t end when she won her class election. I was reminded that real stories only end when we stop. We have to acknowledge that sometimes the bad guys are victorious AND trust that ultimately we will persist with our belief in what is good. Ultimately, we can fall and rise again. Ultimately, means nothing at all really. The only conclusion to the story, the only final word, is that we keep going, keep trying.

I’m afraid of what’s to come, but I know we’ll figure it out. Ultimately, Grace taught me to persist.

#graceforpresident

#kellydipucchio

#childrensliterature

My Kids Are Super Weird

Sometimes my kids are super weird. And that makes me nervous, because before my logical thinking prevails I remember how the world treats “weird.”

I thought about that this week as I read Julián Is A Mermaid to Beckett. Jessica Love’s enchanting book is about a little boy that rides the subway with his abuela and sees women dressed as mermaids on their way to a festival.

The moment he sees them his imagination takes hold, and Julián transforms into a mermaid with flowing black, wavy locks, embraced by a current of sea creatures so enmeshed they are only identifiable by their faces and appendages. He is not just imagining being a mermaid, he is a mermaid.

They return home; and while his abuela showers, this little boy uses a lace curtain for a fin, a fern for flowing hair and a flower arrangement to create a colorful adornment of his new oceanic coif. He becomes a mermaid. His abuela finds him like this, and it happens, the “uh-oh, busted” moment. The moment where the fear and shame so often creep in.

That was the moment in the book that struck me. I know that moment, as I’m sure many parents do. That moment when we find our kids being super weird. That moment when we realize our magnificent kids are the ones that might get picked on on the playground. That moment that we worry on an intrinsic level if the world has a place for our spectacular little mermaid. Our fear for their differences manifests in a way that shows our kid something other than unconditional love for the brave work of becoming who they are.

His abuela was surprised, but she didn’t scold him for pulling down her curtain. Her response was to get her pearls to add to his costume. She helped him become a mermaid. And that is showing some unconditional love.

Perhaps that’s really my responsibility as a parent. I can’t control who my children become or how the world responds to them. Despite my deepest maternal inclination, I can’t guarantee life will be comfortable for them. I just have to have faith they will find their place in the world, and that I’ve given them the love they need now so that they can carry it forward. I think the best thing I can do today is give them my pearls for their mermaid costume.

Okayish Ever After

I used to be fine. But now I’m not.

Ironically, my life is better than ever, because “fine” is not a feeling. I was reminded of that when I read Beckett The Princess and the Pea by Rachel Isadora. I’ve read this fairytale many times, but this retelling struck me differently. The prince wasn’t trying to fulfill an expectation by marrying a difficult princess who couldn’t bear a night with forty soft mattresses and a pea-sized hindrance. Instead, he made the choice to marry a woman who felt uncomfortable and said so. He chose a woman who had some feelings and knew they deserved the light. This prince searched far and wide, and chose her because “nobody but a princess could be as sensitive as that.”

AND THEY LIVED OKAYISH EVER AFTER BECAUSE HE MARRIED SOMEONE THAT FEELS STUFF.

Life is complicated. I feel grateful because I have two precious little boys, an amazing husband, and live at the beach. I feel scared when I go into a store and see people not wearing masks, putting me and my loved ones at risk. I feel sad when I can’t see those I love or meet new friends because of COVID. I feel shame when I realize that I am guilty of participating in systems of power. I feel aggravated when my dog won’t stop peeing on the floor. I feel exhausted because I’m a mother of two boys that don’t like to sleep as much as I do.

This fairytale, most importantly, reminded me that we have to model how we experience feelings for our kids. Our troubles don’t come from having feelings, our troubles come from how we handle them...and our children see that. They are going to know if we’re angry or happy. What they are going to learn is how to handle their feelings, and, consequently, how to care for themselves. This looks like using our words to express what we’re feeling; stating our boundaries and conditions when we need to; and asking for help when we need it.

I am not fine, I have all the feelings, but at least I know that I’m living this complicated life. I use them to know when I need to change my actions or call for help or thank God or hug my family a little tighter. And, thanks to the Princess and the Pea, my kids will know they don’t have to be fine.

Don’t be fine. Be a princess.

Harvey Milk Had Some Thoughts

“You have to give them hope. Hope for a better world, hope for a better tomorrow.” -Harvey Milk

This week as I was digging through boxes I came across Pride: The Story of Harvey Milk and the Rainbow Flag by Rob Sanders, conveniently during Pride month.

When I read it to Beckett a few days later, I thought it was significant that the book began with Harvey Milk, this champion for gay rights, laying in a field with his hands behind his head. He was in a posture of sheer relaxation, imagining the world filled with a rainbow, a symbol of hope. And that symbol of hope is so important, because, like Milk, before any action happens we have to sit back and stare at the sky and have some thoughts about how we think life could be different. This is usually where our big stories begin. That “oh shit” moment where the passivity of our thoughts meets the gifts we have been given. The moment where a still, small voice calls us to action in a way we just can’t ignore.

I don’t know what the future is going to look like for my boys. The sad fact of the matter is, as adults Beckett and Oliver may still be marching with their black neighbors or their daughters or for their right to love or out of fear of sending their kids to school in a world with AR-15s. I do know that right now I have to foster the ideas that come from my boys sitting back with their hands behind their heads like Harvey Milk, even though they rarely stay still that long. Eventually, their imaginations won’t merely develop unknown worlds in blanket forts or amalgamous characters composed of old Marvel superhero costumes and accessorized with Buzz Lightyear belts. Eventually, God willing, their ideas will be how to solve food insecurity or how to transform systems of power and privilege or how to reconfigure public education and public safety or how to use their gifts to foster their neighbor’s serenity. And when that day comes they need to know that it’s possible for their imagination to have credence, to take form. So, today, it's my job to let that happen during their childhood in messy, confusing and joyful ways.

#pride #lgbtchildrensliterature #childrenliterature #harveymilk #pathwaystochildrensliterature

I'm Going To Do Better

“‘Do they know they’re in the wrong place?’ I whispered. ‘Some rules have to be broken.’ Mama whispered back.”

I’ve never been in a situation where I had to break the rules to exercise my right for life, freedom or justice.

We read Freedom On The Menu this week by Carole Boston Weatherford, a picture book about the Greensboro Four at the Woolworth’s lunch counter, the movement kicking off the sit-ins. Beckett was thoroughly confused. He understood that the black people were treated very unfairly, and he didn’t want that to happen. He didn’t understand the protesting, despite the fact that this kid has been to quite a few protests since November 2016. His life, his freedom and his future success has never been on the line. Blissfully unaware, my little white boy, because the world has never been working against him.

Because of that, the protest is where his cognitive dissonance began, because the good guys in the story were breaking the rules.

The protestors were disrupting the peace.

The protestors were even being put in jail.

That’s when I began to see on such a base level the critical nature of the Civil Rights Movement and, now, the Black Lives Matter movement.

Protesting is loud, protesting is angry, protesting demands something break. There’s a disruption to the order of things that has to happen, and I see that real change won’t happen quietly or without literally and figuratively shattering reality as we know it. Although I know that I will never truly understand, I admire so deeply the incredible courage of these movements. I so admire the people that unite with bravery to disrupt the peace in order to be heard, to ignite change. This is not a distant past to which us white people can shake our heads and proclaim we would be on the right side of history. These horrors are right now. They are today.

I am going to do my part to respond with love in a braver and more courageous way. I am going to do better. As parents, we’re going to raise our boys to do better.

#carolebostonweatherford #childrensliterature #blacklivesmatter

Black Lives Matter

There are only five books on my boy’s bookshelves with black people.

And that matters, because black lives matter.

My boys aren’t actively cheering for black characters to win their story.

As woke as I want to believe that I am, I’ve listened enough to know that my scope as a white woman has been so limited, and I’m perpetuating that limit with my boys. This includes only posting about books by authors with dead white people that wrote about anthropomorphic animals or other white people. That’s part of the problem.

The reason I’ve been posting about them is because those were the books I was raised on, the books I was taught in school, the books I saw myself in. They evoke warmth and nostalgia and memories of reading by flashlight hours after I was told I had to be asleep. So what would happen if people of color were incorporated into my boy’s archive of nostalgic, magical characters? They will likely cultivate empathy, connection, admiration and love for their black neighbor.

Sure, reading books about the Civil Rights Movement once a year shows some incredible heroes. As a white liberal, of course I’m going to read about Rosa Parks in sheer awe. But if I want to start showing my privileged white boys that #blacklivesmatter, I’m going to have to start reading them more books with everyday black heroes being the protagonists, not just history book heroes. Their foundation of race can look different than mine.

Every black life matters, and my boys are young enough that a small change like this can be form the way they view the world. And, God willing, they will use their privilege to fight the systemic racism that is murdering our black men in the name of contrived safety for those that, let’s call it what it is, view themselves as more worthy of life.

Maybe reading them Kadir Nelson and Jacqueline Woodson and Kwame Alexander and Carole Boston Weatherford will contribute to them knowing that black lives do matter.

#blacklivesmatter #representationmatters #childrensliterature #jacquelinewoodson