and I'm back!

Sorry for the long hiatus. I'm back and ready to read.

Our latest fav is Hogula:Dread pig of night by Jean Gralley. Hogula lives on top of Grimy Pork Chop Hill with his faithful servants; Chad ,a Frankenstein's monster type whose vocabulary consists of "Uhhhhhhh," and Igoretta, a tiny red-head with a big nose and (at least when I read it aloud) a voice to rival Fran Drescher's. But the Pig of Darkness is lonely and wants a friend. So the ever helpful Igoretta sends him to the Princes Mall (get it?) to meet people. The problem is, Hogula really wants to snort everyone into sleepy oblivion. How can a pig make friends while he's denying his inner urges with every fiber of his being? Enter Elvis Ann, who has a secret of her own. Part vampire tale, part Cinderella, this is great Halloween fun.

Even though the book is 10 years old, it's still in print! How awesome is that? We should add a copy to our "scary" book collection this year. While it's not One Witch (Little Brother's all-time fav and total comfort book) it's a keeper!

Time for Bed

Little brother has rediscovered Mem Fox's Time for Bed which was the bedtime story for many months over a year ago. It is a sweet book although he is convinced that the child at the end is sad. I'm assuming the illustrator (Jane Dyer) was going for sleepy but then again little brother considers falling asleep to be a major tragedy these days.

Time for bed, little mother, little mother.
You're so tired that you couldn't do other.

G'night!

a heretofore unknown treasure

Carol Carrick's books Patrick's Dinosaurs and What Happened to Patrick's Dinosaurs are over 20 years old. Illustrated by her husband, Donald, they were classroom standards back when I was getting my teaching certification in the early 90's. I wasn't familiar with his Harald books--Harald and the Giant Knight and Harald and the Great Stag until yesterday, actually. They are lovely. Harald, a young boy living in feudal Britain, learns the truth about knights and hunting. Harald and his family are brave, resourceful people. There is enough suspense and action to keep a little boy engaged and yet put forth a message that his more pacifist-minded mother can appreciate. One doesn't have to be a knight to be brave; knights are not always noble. Sometimes killing another living being is a sin against nature (stag or mockingbird).

For more unconventional heroes, be sure to get your hands on Jane Yolen's anthology, Mightier than the Sword: world folktales for strong boys. It starts off with an open letter to her grandsons, explaining that swords are not the only weapons and that bravado is really not what it means to be brave.

Lachanotriskaidekaphobia

or fear of Bean Thirteen. Matthew McEllicott has written a fun-filled mathematical tale, something I thought couldn't be created. But then, I used to have nightmares with numbers chasing me and ended up with a C on my junior year Regents exam in math, much to the chagrin of my father who was head of my high school's math department. I am philosophically and artistically opposed to didactic stories that are created for the sole purpose of explaining mathematical concepts within the framework of what can be only loosely termed a story. Until now, the best exception I knew was The Doorbell Rang, where cookies must be continually redistributed to satisfy a growing audience. Bean Thirteen ups the ante by providing a appropriately healthier alternative. Two pop-eyed bugs, Flora and Ralph, are picking beans for dinner. Despite Ralph's warnings, Flora insists on picking one more--bean thirteen. Back home, they cannot divide the beans into 2 equal piles. Gracious Flora offers the odd bean to Ralph who exclaims that, "I'm not eating it and you can't make me!" Because, of course, thirteen is bad luck. Flora the peacemaker starts inviting friends over for dinner to help solve the dilemma. Without spelling it out or mucking up the illustrations with equations, the reader discovers that 13 simply cannot be divided evenly. Finally, in a tizzy, Ralph spills the beans which amazingly leads to a satisfying ending for all. Of course, the mystery does remain: Who ate bean thirteen?

Don't try this at home, please!

Amy reviewed I Ain't Gonna Paint No More in her last podcast. It's a favorite at our house, too. Sung to the the tune It Ain't Gonna Rain No More, it's the tale of a young artist who just can't resist painting his own body. That got me thinking of other tales of creativity and art gone amuck that perhaps even the most creative and enthusiastic moms would rather not deal with at home.....

An oldie but goodie is Robert Munsch's 1992 offering, Purple, Green, and Yellow, the story of how Brigid didn't ruin her life despite coloring herself with "super-indelible-never
-come-off-till-you're-dead-and-maybe-even-later colouring markers."
It has all the hallmarks of good Munsch storytelling: repetition; rollicking, rhythmic prose; fantastic circumstances within an contemporary setting, and an irrepressible protagonist.

A newer selection is Billy Tartle in Say Cheese by Michael Townsend. This one I was afraid to read to my boys. I read it anyway, but I was scared. (I should have been afraid to read Purple, Green, and Yellow but I was cocky. "I am so gonna try that," quipped my oldest when we read the Munsch classic at bedtime tonight.) Young Billy Tartle is off for a pre-school picture haircut. Knowing that he doesn't want another snoozer of a class picture, Billy decides that his new hair style should resemble that of Supermonkey, his cartoon hero. This would be, of course, a pink mohawk. Mom and barber conspire and Billy gets a normal haircut. Sigh. What's a highly imaginative and highly energetic boy to do? How will Billy keep the class picture from sliding into Super-Boringness? What will his teacher think? I don't want to spoil the ending for anyone; let's just say the gooey, juicy, sticky fun pops helped to make it Billy's Best Picture Day Ever! Oh, and have a beautiful day, because you are.

Haiku Monday

Thanks for the inspiration, Amy et al.

Two boys speak at once
Momma Momma Momma! Back
seat cacophony

Sons and Mothers

Lynne Jonell and Petra Mathers created the wonderful Christopher and Robbie books. Author Jonell based the stories on her experiences with her own sons. It takes a mother of sons to come up with When Mommy was Mad, Mom Pie, Mommy Go Away (which could also be titled the incredible shrinking mom), I Need a Snake (who doesn't?), and It's My Birthday, Too! Mather's drawing appear crude and child-like, which is part of their appeal. One can imagine a young boy creating them to illustrate these intimate stories of everyday life.

My personal favorite is When Mommy was Mad. In the book, Robbie is concerned because Mommy forgot to kiss Daddy good-bye, is making banging sounds as she cleans the kitchen, and isn't smiling as she works in garden. Along with his brother, Robbie tries to figure out why Mommy is so mad. Could it be because he didn't get his buttons buttoned up correctly? Finally, Robbie catches the mad bug himself and becomes a "borkupine" who borks the angries right out of Mommy. Every time we read it, I am reminded of an essay I read by Thich Nhat Hanh in Peace is Every Step describing the ways anger can spread through a family unit and how, through mindfulness, that anger can be dissipated before much damage is done. I love the idea of breathing and mindfulness as coping technique for even young children.

I have long thought mothers of sons have a different perspective on the world. Talking to mothers young and old, I've noticed that mothers who raised boys just "get it." They understand a little boy's need to whip off his Indiana Jones-style hat and bow to every one he passes on the way out of church; they know that a small boy leaning over a storm grate with a library book is not really contemplating the destruction of property, but wondering if that book will fit in those rectangular holes. I'm reading and enjoying It's a Boy: Women Writers on Raising Sons by Andrea Buchanan. The essays are funny and poignant and spot-on. When my oldest was born, I, in all my feminist haze, was certain that just supplying gender-neutral toys would ensure a sensitive, evolved male. Ha! (He is sensitive, but he's also loud, physical, and fascinated by machinery and "contractions"/contraptions.) His first five words were: Momma, Daddy, more, Max (the cat) and....lawnmower. Yep. Lawnmower. Picture me rocking 18 month-old son in preparation for an afternoon nap. Ever so faintly, through the open window, we can hear a lawnmower. Eyes pop open. Boy sits up. "Lawnmower!" he exclaims, meaning, "Momma, we have to go find that lawnmower now." Nearly three years later, along came little brother who loved to eat peas and grapes simply because they resemble balls. He's the one who would pat the tv and holler "Football!" meaning, of course, that if someone would just turn it on, surely he could watch a game day or night, summer, winter, or fall.

This is not to say that mothers of girls won't enjoy the Jonell-Mathers books, just don't despair if they are mystifying. Boys are like that.

Can we read it again, Momma?

(Warning: Spoiler ahead) Big boy and I finished Stuart Little last night. I'm almost ashamed to admit that despite being a children's librarian and erstwhile instructor in children's literature, I've never read it before. I brought it home because we watched most of Stuart Little 2 on t.v. the other night. My budding knight errant was entranced by the adventures of this tiny hero with the can-do attitude. I checked out the video so he could watch the whole thing and brought the book home as well. Traveling in children's literature circles as I do (at least virtually), I'd heard much criticism of the movies; particularly that they strayed far from the book. Which, of course, they have, but I found much in Stuart Little 2 to appreciate. As a mother, I was glad to see consequences for lying and to see the attitude that even if you are small, you still have much to contribute. Besides, "Little hi, little low--little hey, little ho!" is so much fun to say and a worthy addition to our family lexicon. I've also heard about the controversy that the book created when it was first published. I must say that I found it to be a better book than Charlotte's Web (which is a fine, fine piece of literature). I know some feel that Stuart Little is book for older children, but my big boy, at 4 1/2, was captivated by the adventuresome plot. I will be interested to see what other ideas bubble to the surface of his thinking later.

Stuart Little is a pleasure to read aloud. White's writing has long been praised for being uniquely American, folksy, and graceful. I find all that to be true. I can only apologize for not doing it justice as I seem to be half-asleep when bedtime storytime comes. Of course, being a Bryn Mawr graduate, I do have a soft spot for E.B. White, who in turn had a soft spot for the Bryn Mawr woman in his life.

I was worried that my dreamy boy would be crushed when Stuart does not actually find Margalo at the end of the story. Instead of crying or asking "why?" my sweet boy just turned to me and said, "Can we read it again? All of it?" So we immediately turned back to the beginning and reread the first chapter before lights out.

my mother is the most beautiful woman in the world

Big brother and I have been reading my old copy of My Mother is the Most Beautiful Woman in World at bedtime this week. Like me, he is captivated by the descriptions of village life in a long-gone agricultural Ukraine. The pictures of fruits and veggies, the descriptions of pirgohki and blini, the big scythe are intriging to my little millenial.

Then, this morning, as we were madly dashing down the highway, late as usual, an enormous trailer carrying an excavator pulled out in front of us. Little brother, who had been shouting, "truck! truck" since we'd driven past a construction site fell silent in awe. "Momma," said big brother sotto voce, "you are the bestest momma in the whole world. I love you." Sometimes you get the credit for stuff totally beyond your realm of control.

a visit to the night kitchen

Maurice Sendak's In the Night Kitchen is legendary in the library world. How dare the great Sendak think he could get away with full frontal nudity in a children's book. Little Mickey's "parts" are just hanging there! Although I have never seen a defaced copy myself, stories of librarians, markers and sharpies (how Freudian is that?) in hand, covering up little Mickey's little.....penis are legion. We actually own an old paperback edition and I must say that it is a big hit at our house. Keep in mind that we are a house where a penis is a penis. We've shocked a few with our frankness. No peters, johnsons, wee-wees or pees-pees here. We calls a spade a spade.

Why is Mickey naked? Why does he crow, tummy and penis thrust foward? One only need live with a little boy to know the answer: because he can. Because a little boy has not yet learned that his body is yucky or shameful. It feels good to run free. It feels good to "go commando" once in a while. That's all. Sometimes, Dr. Freud, a cigar is just a cigar.

Our big boy has enjoyed the story several times. Last night little brother discovered it. We read it twice before bed. This morning he brings it to me in the middle of the morning rush--milk! Milk! "I'm in the milk and the milk's in me! God bless the milk and God bless me!" Time rushes on. Does this mean we've outgrown Mem Fox's lyrical Time for Bed? What's next? Where the Wild Things Are?

it's beginning to look a lot like christmas

I love the snow on days like today. The sun is shining and the reflection off the snow is so bright and refreshing. We played outside, big boy and little boy pulled around the yard by Momma. Later big boy got to stay outside while little boy and Momma cleaned up the kitchen. How wonderful to have mittens drying on a rack and to share "cocoa" (warm chocolate milk) in a Santa mug along with fresh cookies.

Who knew there'd be days like these? Stories to share? Try anything from Sweden. We like Christmas in Noisy Village by Astrid Lindgren.