The Reader

The little girl, age three-and-a-half, is sitting in her room, in the dark, with an Itty Bitty Booklight (or knockoff), “reading” “Harold and the Purple Crayon” to herself. So cute.

“He made a whole city of windows. But he couldn’t find his window. So I turn the page … Yes.”

Strategy

The little girl’s grandmother is in town. For the sake of this story, we’ll call her “Grandma.”

Grandma is sleeping on a cot in the living room. It’s the last night of her visit. Two nights ago, Grandma and the little girl had a slumber party in the living room while Mommy and Daddy went to dinner. The little girl loves her grandma and loved the slumber party. We came home to find them asleep, holding hands, the little girl on the couch next to the cot.

Tonight, Grandma was in the little girl’s room, reading her a bedtime story, when the wee child called out to me, loudly.

“Mommy, will you make Grandma’s bed!” she requested.

I didn’t understand her at first so went to her room for clarification. She wanted me to make her grandmother’s bed right then, in the living room, while Grandma read the book in her room. I sensed, in the back of my mind, that there was more to this than the little girl’s wish to be a conscientious hostess for her grandmother. And I was right.

I hadn’t been doing the little girl’s bidding for 10 minutes when she walked into the living room to inspect, to make sure I had made Grandma’s bed. And when I had gotten it just right, the little girl proceeded to lie on Grandma’s cozy cot. She insisted that she’d be sleeping in the living room with Grandma. I told her otherwise. She proceeded to lay out a baby blanket and pillow for herself on the couch next to the cot. She ignored me as I told her she had to sleep in her room.

Frankly, I was prepared to let her sleep there next to her grandmother, except that Grandma wasn’t ready to turn in yet. The little girl was quite displeased and did something naughty to me while her lips punched out the words: “That wasn’t my plan!”

Did I mention that this kid is three and a half?

To recap, while her visiting grandmother read her a bedtime story in her room, the little girl was plotting to sleep in the living room with Grandma and dispatched her mommy to make Grandma’s bed so it would be ready for their slumber party.

Daddy saved the evening with a compromise. The little girl would go to sleep in her own bed, then when Grandma went to sleep, he would carry the little girl to the couch to sleep next to her. She smiled and accepted that, and 10 or 15 minutes later shouted out to me that she already had gone to sleep in her own room, that is, she was ready to be taken to the living room for her slumber party. I went over the plan again, and she grumbled that it wasn’t her plan, and then accepted that she needed a stint of shuteye in her own room first, and turned over to go to sleep.

Minutes later, her grandmother decided to go to sleep as well, and now they’re both snoozing in the living room.

Murray Crisis?

I’m watching “The Mary Tyler Moore Show” on Hulu. Mary was my role model. Now I wonder if I’ve become Murray.

This is a troubling thought, as I don’t care to be Murray.

Of course, there may be little difference between the Murrays who pound away in frustration at a day job that only flirts with their talents and the friends of Murrays whose career dreams come true. Whatever that difference is, I’ll find it, because, likable as Murray is, I’m not Murray.

Forgetting What They Don’t Know Yet

The little girl said she wanted to be a firefighter, then made a quick change of career plan, stating that she wanted to be a teacher.

“And I’ll have a baby when I’m a teacher,” she announced.

I told her I’d like that.

She paused a half a beat, and then, with a questioning shrug, palms up, asked, “But where am I going to get a baby?”

On Bunnies, Oppressors and Plagues

Why don’t we have a Passover bunny, I ask, after trying to tell the little girl the holiday story and realizing it’s not fit for three-year-olds, not at all.

It went something like this:

“Why do we eat matzah at Passover?”

“Because our people, who lived a long time ago, were running from some mean people, and they didn’t have time to bake bread, which takes a long time, so their bread was flat, and we remember them every year by eating matzah.”

“Why were the mean people chasing them?”

 ”Well, these people were very mean to our people, and our people were running to get away, and God helped them. The people needed to cross an ocean but they didn’t have a boat … God gave Moses a stick and told him to hold it up, and the ocean moved away so the people could cross.”

(I had never told my child such a story before. It felt … awkward.)

“What did the mean people do that was mean?”

“They were mean, they beat them up and made them work hard, not nice work, hard work. They were cruel.”

“Are the mean people outside?”

“No, they’re not outside. So, God made some bad things happen to the mean people so they would let our people go. Some of it was very harsh, some of it was sad …”

You get the picture. I quickly picked up our new copy of Sammy Spider’s First Haggadah  from a bedside table. Very handy. It wisely omits about six of the 10 plagues. It has songs to tunes like “Old MacDonald” and “Freres Jacques.”

I relate some of this in an e-mail to family and friends, asking my Passover bunny question.

My friend Grace responds, lamenting, why do we have an Easter bunny?

And I say:

Because bunnies are cute and cuddly looking and warm and soft, unlike the stories behind these holidays, be it Passover or Easter, miracles notwithstanding.

Bemoan the Easter bunny, I understand. At least Borders has stacks of Easter books that make the holiday inviting to children, via Elmo, Dora, Snoopy and egg hunts. They have about four Passover books, mostly with the theme: people are coming for a special meal, we clean up first, we eat special foods, so forth. No Dora counting matzah en espanol. No one singing, “hippity hoppity Pesach’s on its way.” You can bet I’ll be addressing this hole in the literature.

At least there’s Sammy the Spider, pretending there was no killing of the first-born in Egypt. Did I tell you they sell 10-plagues finger puppets? For real? Yeah, I’ll take the bunny, thankyouverymuch, over that first-born finger puppet.

And now, to the tune of “Peter Cottontail:”

Here comes Elijah, there’s his cup

Hurry Papa, fill it up

Matzah ball, matzah ball, Pesach’s on its way …

(Just doesn’t have that fluffy feel to it.)

You Make Me Feel So Young

On our way to the playground last evening, the little girl stopped on the sidewalk, thrust her arms into the air and declared gleefully: “I feel young again!” There was such joy on her face.

Remembering a past life, perhaps, or those heady days of being only 2?

She said she heard Papa Bear say it on “Berenstain Bears.”

Little Renaissance Girl

Maybe all children are little renaissance girls and boys, painting one minute, dancing the next, experimenting with water and vessels after that. I’m not a stage mother, and if I were, I am not sure whether we’re raising a little Cristo (see Installation Art), a Danica Patrick, or another Mary Lou Retton or Jackie Joyner-Kersee. (Hey, I didn’t say I don’t brag on the little girl.)

I may not have mentioned that the child is very protective of her art installations and becomes upset if they get knocked over. I should say “when” they get knocked over, as she tends to construct them in zones of heavy foot traffic. Today we visited an indoor play place that has a room with big soft blocks of various shapes upon which kids can crawl and climb. The little girl immediately set to building a “house” with them, her biggest installation project yet. A little boy came along and moved a piece.

“Hey!” she said. “Put that back!” He was messing up her house!

There was some talk from his mother about asking before moving, about the little girl being there first. I was too tired to say much and didn’t really want to make her share or tell her not to be bossy, although I added that they could take turns. The boy decided he wanted to leave.

We left that room a few minutes later, did something else, then came back to the room, where another child was moving the pieces. I suppose the little girl believed no one should mess with her house, ever.

“Hey, that’s my house!” I piped up, reminding her these toys were for everyone.

Soon we left and drove home.

Don’t know if I ever mentioned here that the little girl is very competitive. Very. Everything is a race to her. When we drive, she believes we are racing all other cars on the road and must pull ahead of them.

“They’re winning! We’re last! There’s a car in front of us!” she says from her car seat behind me, imploring me to beat them.

“They’re going to win!”

She was working me, and it worked. There was a light, the traffic in our (left) lane was stopped, I saw the right lane was clear, so I went, saying, “Mommy made her move,” or words to that effect. She didn’t know exactly what that meant, did know it meant I had made a move to race, to win.

The rest of the ride home, she pressed me, “Make your wheels,” or words to that effect.

Later, on the way to the park, she insisted on racing her daddy. And at the park, she raced me. Where did this peewee learn, “On your mark, get set, go!” TV, probably. She used to say, “On your mark, jeh set, go!”

Installation Art

The little girl is a born installation artist. Her first project, at least as recognized by her parents, was this shoe installation, which she did when no older than a young toddler. She may even have been crawling at the time.

A Baby's Installation Art Project

There is an elegant simplicity and mathematical rhythm to this early work. As the one blessed with watching the little girl install this project, I admire the industry, concentration and tenacity she displayed.

Her current projects leave us humbled for their creativity and fluidity. The little girl, usually with little fanfare, simply sets to work, piling objects upon objects: coins on a menorah, a crown and ribbons on a tower of blocks, a “picnic” or party consisting of cups and floppy discs and dolls and an eclectic collection of other objects found around the house.

I came home yesterday to find this one.

This project contains a hidden gift, supposedly for Mommy

This project came apart when the little girl lifted the blanket to reveal a present for Mommy. It was wrapped in pretty paper and ribbons. She was very excited for me to open it. And what was it? A book! For me? Yes, a little children’s book, for me, with a little soft animal inside. The little girl and her daddy had been at a book store with a nice children’s section and she had suggested they buy that book for Mommy. She asked me to read the book to her last night and decided she should hold onto it and the little friend for me. Her bonding with the little toy was fairly complete by tonight.

In the meantime, I had the privilege of serving as her assistant on this rapidly changing project, a barn. I’ll leave it to the architects to describe the style.

Barn: Includes horse, fish sponge, feather, dreidel and bristle blocks.

More sponges in this barn iteration. The coffee can is the chicken coop.

Barn with Heart and Fish Sponge (Tilt head left or computer right.)

A Comb And A Brush …

We were reading “Goodnight Moon” last night and the little girl pointed excitedly to that dish on the night table and said, “A bowl full of hush!”

Couldn’t we all use a bowl full of hush sometimes, or more to the point, wouldn’t you like to serve some?

“Here Mr. Limbaugh, have a nice bowl of hush.”

OK, in the spirit of bipartisanship, I’ll offer a bowl to Mr. Dodd, too.

Mommy’s cynical side aside, I love that exclamation. “A bowl full of hush!”

That’s Elmo’s Thong

While walking home from work this sunny evening I composed a rant for the blog, then, two blocks from home, I saw an Elmo doll propped in a doorway near the local sex-toy shop. And the thought occurred to me that while the makers of Elmo dolls try to capture his look of wide-eyed wonder, Elmo instead seems to wear a look of sheer horror.

Elmo, looking frightened, and frightening, at times

He’s a little scary looking himself, just sitting there, gape-mouthed and bug-eyed. He is, after all, a monster, though a friendly one. Maybe the new, action Elmo dolls make him look happier. With some of the basic dolls, however, one has to wonder what Elmo’s seeing. A secret that Oscar is hiding in his can? Maria throwing a toaster at Luis? Mr. Noodle disrobing? Psycho Perhaps he eyed something disturbing in the kinkster store, or someone took Elmo’s thong and abandoned him on a doorstep.

Whatever, seeing Elmo, and then cuddling with the little girl, drained my rant about the absurdity of daycares and preschools making a show of making tiny children “kindergarten ready,” and how it’s all a developmentally inappropriate trickle-down of teaching to the test. Thank you, sidewalk Elmo. Thank you, little girl!