Bringing Some Hermione Into The World

I might as well have been reading under the covers with a flashlight after my bedtime.

Last week, I found myself regressing into Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban.

I’m not going to pretend like this was some parenting adventure. I read zero words of this saga to Beckett. And, please, when I do, it will be a calculated experience with such high expectations that there will be no way his reaction could possibly meet them.

No, I reread it for me. I returned to Hogwarts for another year, because that’s just what I needed to do. Harry, Hermione, Ron...bring it on home, friends.

With the election drawing near and our current reign of terror cultivating more harm and fear; with schools reopening and our babies befriending classmates through plexiglass...I retreated to Hogwarts.

My reading experience last week was so different from my first Harry Potter experience, the one at age eleven when I did actually read under the covers by flashlight after bedtime. My initial Harry Potter experience showed me comradery, love, and courage. It modeled honoring diversity and how to be a defender of good in the world.

I realized this time, through her preeminent series, J.K. Rowling laid a foundation for a world I had no idea would parallel our current reality. She primed a generation of hearts and minds for the day we would need to find our own roles in Dumbledore’s Army.

This realization made me wonder: What am I doing to fight the good fight as an adult? What kind of good am I wielding? What is my metaphorical wand?

Last week, Harry Potter reminded me that we read fiction, and read our children fiction, to prepare for a future we cannot predict. Philip Pullman said it best at a speech at the University of East Anglia: “I think we should act as if. I think we should read books, and tell children stories, and take them to the theatre, and learn poems, and play music, as if it would make a difference [...] We should act as if the universe were listening to us and responding; we should act as if life were going to win.”

So I’m back now from Hogwarts, trying to figure out how I’m going to bring a little Hermione into the world.

#harrypotter #jkrowling #votelikehermione

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

Chasing The Monsters

 

All I keep thinking is that I’m not supposed to be a part of this.

Look, I love holding on to my little boy as long as possible. I love keeping him safe in our nest by the sea. This card-carrying codependent loves making sure his Chromebook is plugged in and handwriting is neat. (Just kidding, we don’t have cards, but if we did, mine would be laminated.)

This was supposed to be his moment. Kindergarten. Ed Vere’s Max the Brave reminded me of that this week as I was reading to Beckett. This charming picture book is about a kitten that is so brave he decides to go chase some mice. Yet, he has no idea what a mouse is. So, he goes out asking all sorts of creatures if they are mice. He is eventually tricked by a cunning mouse that a giant monster is actually a mouse and the mouse is actually a monster, sending him right into the belly of a monster. Max is spit out, and returns home to spend his days chasing “monsters” his own size.

Guess who does not swoop in to rescue her baby? HIS MOTHER.

Eric Carle said, “I believe the passage from home to school is the second biggest trauma of childhood; the first is, of course, being born. Indeed, in both cases we leave a place of warmth and protection for one that is unknown. The unknown often brings fear with it.”

The pandemic stole his transition from home to school from him and, quite frankly, I’m mad about it. Instead, I have to sit here and watch him get swallowed by the “mouse” over and over and it’s not fair. I have to tell him “no” when he gets called on by his teacher and doesn’t know the answer and looks to me for help. I have to bite my tongue when he doesn’t know the directions to his assignment because he was picking at the side of the chair. I have to be the asshole that lets my kid be uncomfortable despite everything my instinct is telling me to do. I can’t let covid-19 take away his opportunity for the self-regulating, independence-cultivating and self-discovery that happens when our kids do things when we’re not looking.

I can’t let Covid give me an excuse to continue rescuing him from the monsters — at least some of them. Otherwise, I just take away his pride from learning how to chase them on his own.

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.

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.

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.