J 294.52 (The Ramayana)

It all started because I wanted to read something scary without necessarily reading something "Halloween-y." It was the week before Halloween and the library shelves had slim pickings for anyone wanting a genuine Halloween story. So....I brought home Linda Ashman's The Essential Worldwide Monster Guide illustrated by Caldecott Medal winner David Small. In rhyme, the author describes 13 mythical beasts from around the world. At our house, Ravana, demon king of the Rakshasas quickly became the favorite. With his ten heads and 20 arms, what little boy could resist him? Next thing I know, big brother is on the phone to Nana asking her to accompany him to India. "Just to look, Nana." Because, of course, Ravana is far too dangerous to approach."Now Nana, if we see Ravana and I say let's go, what are you going to do? Good. Let's practice. Let's go! Now, what do you do! Very good!" We watched Alfonso Cuaron's version of A Little Princess which frames Sara Crewe's story with portions of the Ramayana, drawing parallels between the two. (I'll admit that the movie is truer to the Shirley Temple movie of 1939 than to the original book, but Cuaron is a genius. His use of color and imagery take both this movie and the third Harry Potter movie to another level. But I digress.)

The next step was a trip to the library for books on India, the Ramayana, and maps (to figure out how to get there, of course). I am always up for the teachable moment, so off we went. I can recommend Hanuman: based on Valmiki's Ramayana retold by Erik Jendresesn and Joshua M. Greene for a child-friendly but detailed retelling of the story; little brother prefers Jessica Souhami's Rama and the Demon King, a simpler retelling with bold shadow puppet style illustrations. The Hindu festival of Diwali was this past week -- a great time to introduce this ancient story to your eager readers.

NB: Big brother has decided to be Ravana for Halloween next year. Feel free to contact me if you have any idea how to fit 9 more heads on a first grader's shoulders!

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.

Haiku Monday

The last tomatoes.
Smooth skins slip away, reveal
Seeds, flesh; stew and freeze.

Thumb in the thumb's place

fingers all together. That's what we do in mitten weather! It's cold enough here for mittens and gloves, especially in the mornings or if one is having an extended outdoor experience. Imagine my chagrin when I discovered that big brother has NO gloves or mittens that fit. What a mother! (not to mention a mother who KNITS) So I am madly knitting a pair of knucks for him and will follow that up with a pair of mittens. I did finally put the thumb on little brothers mini-fetchings ("now I am a ninja!") but the sweet baboo's knucks are suffering from the glove version of second-sock syndrome.

In the meantime, we can all enjoy some mitten stories without delving into the whole Christmas thing. What ever happened to Thanksgiving? But I digress. I can whole-heartedly recommend The Mitten Tree by Candace Christiansen. A woman notices a child at the bus stop with no mittens and a tradition is born. If you like the idea of gifts on trees unrelated to that conifer-driven holdiay, see if you can get your hands on a copy of The Cookie Tree (out-of-print) by Jay Williams, fairy tale spinner extraordinaire. Louis Slobodkin's Too Many Mittens, although also sadly out of print, is another book worth the trip to the library or second-hand bookseller. Who can resist the clothesline full of red mittens? A Canadian contribution to the cause is Norman's Snowball by Hazel Hutchins from Annick Press. This is a perennial favorite at storytime as Norman loses his mittens, hat, scarf, and snowsuit while playing in the snow with his older sister. Kids giggle as they notice what Norman has not--his clothes are part of his enormous snowball!

Back to the knitting! See you tomorrow.

I'm not good, but I have good intentions*

(*with apologies to Lyle Lovett)

So much for the grand plan to blog every day for the rest of November; I've missed 2 days in a row, but will continue to strive towards that goal.

If you are Winnie-the-Pooh fans, as we are, you will enjoy Blackstone Audio's recording of The House at Pooh Corner read by Peter Dennis. The audio is fabulous and the narrator very British; Owl sounds rather like a career military man from the Empire, wot wot. Piglet actually snuffles like a pig every other sentence or so! What a change from the unrecognizable pink confection he has become on the Disney Channel. It reminds me of a record we had when I was a kid with Jack Gilford performing the hums of Pooh. My boys are growing up--they would much rather listen to this than the lullaby CD we've been listening to every night since they were born. Little brother wants to know how to get to the 100 "Nacre" Woods. If I knew, believe me, we'd be there. My mother read the original Pooh stories to me as a child. In fact, my brother's childhood nickname, Roo, comes from my pretending to be Kanga and him being my baby Roo. Big brother has being making up rather Pooh-like hums his whole life. The most recent one occurring on the way back to his school building (we have one elementary school divided into 3 discreet parts in 2 separate buildings on one campus) from the annual fall book fair. "My momma said she'd go to the book fair with me and she did! I'm so happy! My momma came to school like she said!"

When we spend time in the mountains, we always play at least one round of Pooh Sticks on the bridge over the river. So far, only sticks have made it off the bridge.

I hope to be here again tomorrow, despite being a woman of very little brain these days.

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?

Trick or treat, smell my feet

For some obscure reason, our county holds the "trick-or-treat" part of Halloween on the Thursday prior, so we are venturing out tonight. Costumes are ready, bowl of candy is full.

I know I promised a book review and I do have one ready to go, but I just couldn't resist adding another treat for mommies. If you haven't seen The Little Girl Who Lives Down the Lane (1976) starring a very young Jodie Foster and a very creepy and un-presidential Martin Sheen, get thee to the video store or check out Netflix and add it to your queue. It's a sleeper of a movie; very 70's, short (about 90 minutes) but oh, so tightly woven together. Not a moment is wasted. I was only 10 in 1976, so I'm sure I saw it later, syndicated on t.v. I loved it. Checked the original novel out of the library as soon as I could and devoured it.

A bright, independent girl takes on the the world with the help of an equally bright dark-haired boy. What's not to like? Besides, Rynn (Jodie Foster) has a great duffel coat! Last year I stayed up until 2 or 3 a.m. watching it on Turner Classic Movies. My sweet baboo/husband was quite annoyed. He got up to see what I was up to, watched a bit and proclaimed it a wretched movie. I guess there's just no accounting for taste or moral development. Rynn and her father are certainly quite evolved morally, reaching Kohlberg's social contract level; the end justifies the means kind of thing. If you can't quite wrap your head around that, do skip the movie. You just won't enjoy yourself. However, if you can imagine doing something heinous to protect yourself or the ones you love, don't hesitate to walk down the lane on this windy October day. Be respectful, don't meddle, and don't drink the tea if it comes with a side of almond cookies.

Not McDreamy, simply dreaming

I was a dreamy kid--you know, the kind with her head "in the clouds" or stuck in a book; one could say I had an overactive imagination. I prefer to say that I had (and still have) a very active and robust imagination. I was never easily frightened by letting my imagination get out of hand. Simply put, I have narratives going in my head daily. Motherhood, marriage, and job have put a slight damper on my "stories" but not canceled them all together. I am only recently realizing that most people don't do this--they don't cope by creating stories in their heads; they don't tell themselves a dream as they are falling asleep. At least they don't do it much past childhood.

Like mother, like sons

I don't know why I was surprised to find that my boys also have active and robust imaginations. For my oldest, it has always been about the story. In some of my less sane moments, I would worry that he was schizophrenic when he couldn't or wouldn't differentiate between the story in his head and reality. (He's my first, I get to be a little over-the-top--it's that active and robust imagination thing.) I was actually a little sad the other day when I asked him what he was doing as he carried the lollipop jar out of the kitchen. "Oh, I'm giving F a haircut." A haircut? Three days before preschool pictures? Three days after visiting the barber? My heart misses a beat or three. "With scissors?" I ask tentatively. "No." (silly Momma) "Just pretend. I just mess up his hair and then he gets a lollipop." Sigh. I realize that this is the first time I've been conscious of the word "pretend" coming from my first-born.

The youngest is a little more grounded, more concrete in his thinking. When I asked if his Curious George doll liked strawberries, he looked at me with all the disdain of a 13 year-old and said, "His mouth doesn't open. He can't eat." Still, riding in the car one day, his older brother was waxing on and on about all of us riding in his plane. My little one chimes in, "Momma, animals in trouble!" I responded that we should get our helmets and big boy is incredulous--we are clearly in his vehicle. Aren't we? I explain that he can have his story and his brother can have his own, too. "Two boys, two imaginations," I explain calmly, wondering if other mothers have to go through this before the civilized hour of 9 a.m. and that second cup of coffee. Little boy chants, "Two boys, two imaginations," while big boy is on the verge of tears. Can't we see what he sees so clearly with his mind's eye?

The best babysitter's here

My boys have had maybe 2 other sitters in addition to their grandparents. Growing up, my brothers and I had a succession of teen-age sitters, usually the daughters of my mother's co-workers or students hand-picked from my father's classes at the high school. The absolute best was Mary Anne. She had long Marcia Brady hair, parted down the middle, that she would let me brush. She wore t-shirts with Holly Hobbie prints and quotes. And she would play pretend with me. I remember one summer when I was 9 or so when she stayed with us on those rare occasions when my father's summer school schedule overlapped with my mother's work schedule. I was quite enamored of stories of time travel and ghostly messengers. She patiently and willingly played along, letting me dictate the way the story should go and acting out the parts I required.

My husband gets frustrated when the boys tell him what to say during their pretend games, but I understand--it makes it more real to hear someone else speak the words aloud. Juggling my roles as mother, wife, and librarian, I am more than happy to be led. While speaking the lines they feed me, I silently compose grocery lists, plan my agenda for the day, contemplate what needs to be done when I get to work. And so I am Prince Zuko, or the Wicked Queen; Sancho or a bandit; Peter Pan, Wendy, Captain Hook. I stay in character, recite my lines and wonder at the influences on my children. I remember the winter and spring I wore a hand-me-down brown duffel coat. I thought I was the female equivalent of Hawkeye Pierce. While the neighborhood boys played war, my best friend and I were the medics, rushing to save the wounded, exposing ourselves to mortal danger in order to rescue those brave, foolish boys. Without much effort, I can summon the scratchiness of the coat, the feeling of frozen grass and mud beneath my feet as I ran in the frigid spring air of upstate New York, through backyards that were battlefields, taking cover under hedges, sneaking up over the sides of porches that were really MASH units. I bossed those boys who usually bossed me--I was the doctor, their savior, and besides, I outranked them.

A madman, a talking cat, and some salt

Lately, I have been enjoying the serialized drama (podplay?) Clara 73 put together by Sage Tyrtle and Tim Ralphs and podcast on Quirky Nomads. It has captured my imagination and I find myself returning to older podcasts to listen again, reliving the emotion in a particular moment, getting caught up in the mystery all over again. It's not particularly family-friendly, more a treat or storytime for mommas and daddies. It's beautifully done, transporting one to a skillfully created world. Perfect for listening to in the car or whilst knitting or even cleaning house. That last one is next on my agenda. More good books for kids next time.

Flickr toys are fun!

To do list
Originally uploaded by ezramom2002

This has nothing to do with books, unless you would use this to keep track of books you have read or want to read. The picture is my grandmother and her doll. Big Huge Labs has a great selection of Flickr tools. This Web 2.0 thing is pretty neat.

I'm thinking of taking this to Kinko's or Staples and having it made into pads for Christmas presents.

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

The person you need...

is Nanny McPhee. I loved this movie! Of course, I've thought Emma Thompson is a goddess for quite a while now. From her work in the movies Dead Again (obscure, but one of my favs) to Much Ado About Nothing and Love, Actually (Now which doll shall we give Daisy's little friend Emily? The one that looks like a transvestite or the one that looks like a dominatrix?) Did you know that she wrote the screenplay (and won the Oscar for it) for Sense & Sensibility? She adapted Nanny McPhee from the Nurse Matilda books by Christianna Brand.

"Once upon a time there was a huge family of children; and they were terribly, terribly naughty." How's that for an opening line? The first book, Nurse Matilda, is, in my opinion the best. While Thompson changed much of the storyline for the movie, separate incidents occur in both and the essence of the magical nanny is unchanged. Frighteningly unattractive, complete with warts and a snaggle tooth, Nurse Matilda/Nanny McPhee becomes lovelier each time children obey her. In the movie, there are 5 lessons to be learned: To go to bed when told, to get up when told, to get dressed when told, to listen, and to do exactly as you are told. Lesson 5 is a biggie at our house. I have to thank both Ms. Brand and Ms. Thompson for providing me with a fun way to encourage my own rapscallions to follow directions. By the third book, things seem a little formulaic, with the culminating dream chase, etc. but both the book and the movie are well worth the visit.

Did I mention that Colin Firth plays the father in the movie? No one said that mommies can't enjoy kid movies, too.

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.

a miraculous read

Virginia Sorensen's Newbery award-winner, Miracles on Maple Hill, popped into my hand the other day. All I can say is, why hasn't this book crossed my path before? It won the Newbery in 1957, so it was around as I made my way through the public school system in the 1970's. I'm not the only one still in love with this book; find a review here at Mugglenet! (but of course, we know that Harry Potter fans have impeccable taste)

In this gentle story, Marly's father has come home after being a prisoner of war in an unnamed war. His nerves are shattered--he no longer sings, is often tired, and yells at Marly and her brother, Joe. Marly's mother has inherited her grandmother's house and farm in northwestern Pennsylvania. In attempt to help Daddy heal, the family leaves Pittsburgh to visit the country. The country does Daddy a world of good and he stays on until the family can join him full-time during summer vacation. Marly begins the book by hoping for a miracle--the return of the Daddy she remembers--and continues finding miracles everywhere. From the flowing of sap in the "sugar bush" to the new blossoms of spring to the joy that comes from eating food you've grown yourself, miracles abound on Maple Hill.

Linkware

I've got so much to muse about and so little time! I'm at least 3 books behind these days. In the meantime, here is a fun, arty site to amuse you. It's a countdown to Father's Day with vintage graphics. Of course, since Father's Day was yesterday, it won't be around much longer.

No child is an island

Lola M. Schaefer's An Island Grows is another superb non-fiction picture book. In spare, rhyming, but never cloying, poetry, she describes the growth of an island from undersea earthquake to volcanic eruption to a "Busy island in the sea, where only water used to be." Cathie Felstead's vibrant and simple collages are both engaging and explanatory. As in all good picture books, the words and the pictures form a happy union that is nearly unbreakable. One without the other is so much less than the sum of the parts. Recommended reading and a short explanation of how islands are formed complete the book. We've enjoyed this one very much, having discussions about volcanoes (always a hot topic) and islands. Little brother has taken to painting volcanoes, occasionally accompanied by his other favorite item de jour: eggies (that's dippy eggs here in the middle of Pennsylvania Dutch country or over-easy to the rest of the world). In fact, hanging on my office wall is a sure masterpiece: Volcano and eggies.

The 3 little pigs take to the road

David Gordon has worked for Pixar, developing such favorites as Toy Story and Monsters, Inc. (both big, big, HUGE hits at our house), the more recent Cars (Momma, I Light-nin 'Queen!) and the ubiquitous Spongebob. He is also the author and illustrator of Three Little Rigs and The Ugly Truckling. These are boy-ified, or at least truck-ified, versions of The Three Little Pigs and The Ugly Duckling. The Ugly Duckling has always been one of my favorite stories, but I am realizing that the concept is actually quite tricky for young children. Upon hearing the traditional story, told or sung, my nearly five-year-old always asks how the ugly duckling managed to turn into a swan. The Ugly Truckling sets up the same dilemma. The little truckling is actually an airplane, not a truck, but even with Gordon's fine illustrations, that fact slides right by my boy.

On the other hand, The Three Little Rigs is a new favorite. The big bad wrecking ball takes the place of the big bad wolf. He threatens to "crash ...and bash...and smash" the house in. Who could resist such sibilance? The big bad wrecking ball gets assistance from the alliterative mean magnet and cruel cutter. Oh dear! How will this end? Let's just say that there's a big pot and a steel mill involved.

Are you a creative mom?

Just because you are a reading mother doesn't mean you alway have time to read for yourself. I've been exploring the world of podcasts, particularly knitting ones. In a roundabout way, I found the Creative Mom podcast which has a little bit of knitting and a lot about being a creative mom fostering creativity in your children. If you visit her website, even if you don't listen to the podcast, you will find links to fun and interesting projects like this great accordion book made from envelopes. I find myself eagerly awaiting the weekly podcasts which I listen to in the car after dropping my boys at the sitter's or when doing housework after the boys are asleep. I urge you to try a podcast, if you have the technology available.

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.

a must read

We have been relishing An Egg is Quiet at home. Unfortunately, it really must go back to the library. Professional privilege can only be carried so far. Filled with delicate, detailed watercolors, this nonfiction picture book can be read on many levels. The main text is simple: An egg is quiet. An egg is clever. But the extra details--quite literally "subtext"-- is wonderful. Reading to Mr. 4 Years Old, I read nearly all the accompanying details; an ostrich egg can weigh 8 pounds while an hummingbird's egg is the size of a jellybean; how eggs to be laid on cliffs are pointed to prevent them from rolling over the edge. When Mr. Toddler and I read together, we cut to the chase and just read the "melody." When the three of us read together, we do a little of both, hitting the coolest, most boy-intriguing factoids and sticking to that melody. A great summer read and always something to put on your wishlist.