football for softies

It all started with this fella, upon whose abundant dreadlocks I gently placed a single seashell hat.

"It's a football helmet! He's on the Cowboys!" enthused my dear boy, who has permanent sports-on-the-brain.

Yesterday we hosted three of Gabriel's friends from preschool, so I made a big batch of our favorite play dough. (There really is nothing like manipulating this stuff; it's a shame we adults don't have more opportunities to squish and roll and flatten in our lives.) Then this morning I had a sitter come over so that I could work on the child abuse prevention article I mentioned recently. In the freakishly springlike sunshine I walked to a cafe, where I got to feel independent and productive, sipping coffee from a wide elegant cup and typing away with only the sounds of muffled adult conversations and frothing milk to distract me.

grateful

Before we went to my mother's for Thanksgiving on Thursday, we took a much-needed Family Day, organized around two special events: going out for breakfast in the morning and going to a movie in the afternoon. Funny how things that were once part of our everyday (pre-children) lives have become nothing less than momentous. All the better to appreciate them! And it was our first movie-going experience as a family, which is something to grin about no matter how you slice it.

If it had been any other new release, we might not have taken a chance with our sensitive three year old boy at the sensory extravaganza that is the movies these days (oh, it is loud!). But The Muppets had just opened. We'd watched some of The Muppet Movie at home, but the thirty-year-old jokes and pacing seemed hard for the kids to access. Kermit the Frog is universally appealing; Steve Martin as a surly waiter is not. I hoped this new movie would call to my kids in a voice they could respond to.

Parenthood, for me, has been a time of suspicion towards pop culture. My sensitivity to crassness, meanness, loudness, cynicism, bad music, bad books, and bad art skyrocketed within minutes of giving birth to Frances. I wanted to keep everything ugly and stupid away from the perfect seven pounds of person that had been entrusted to us. When I read Jonathan Richman quoted saying that he didn't want to play music that would hurt a baby's ears, I knew exactly what he meant.

magic

Frances: Mama, will you just tell me? Is Santa Claus real? Is it just you and Papa who put presents in the stockings?

Me, caught off guard, looking up from the winter squash I have been hacking away at: Well...what do you think?

Frances: Mama. You always say that. Just answer, yes or no.

I look at her. I have no idea what to say.

Frances: I hate lying and secrets, Mama.

Me: Me too.

Frances: So please just tell me.

So I did. I told her that Santa Claus is just a story. She got me with that bit about lying and secrets, which is why for the first years of parenthood I felt squeamish perpetuating the Santa Claus myth, unable to meet my eager toddler's eyes when the subject of elves came up. Over the years though, her delight trumped my qualms about lying. When she was about 18 months old, Frances discovered the Santa Tube, which is her direct line to the North Pole. Mike had casually picked an empty cardboard tube that had recently held gift wrap up off the floor shortly before Christmas. Gently placing one end on Frances's ear, he had whispered through the tube: Frances. Hello, Frances.

Eyes wide, her face registered a shock of immediate recognition. Santa??

a shout out to all the villagers

I've been working on an article about child abuse prevention efforts in Maryland over the past couple of weeks. The United States has the worst record on child abuse in the developed world; a congressional report cited 2,500 child abuse-related deaths in 2009 alone. It's hard to wrap one's head around a figure like that, and hard to understand what it is about the particularities of American life that leads to such a disheartening reality.

When I interviewed the director of a state-wide nonprofit dedicated to preventing abuse and neglect, she told me it wasn't just up to their programs. She said ensuring children grow up healthy is everybody's business: the mail carrier, the bus driver, the elderly neighbor, the checker at the grocery store. It made me think of Mr. Rogers and his unique emphasis on being a good neighbor. Everyone was part of Mr. Rogers' neighborhood, including the viewer, and everyone had an important role to play. The model of community Mr. Rogers shared was one of deep interpersonal connections and mutual responsibility and care.

The director of the nonprofit told me that reducing isolation and education were the central ways that her programs helped parents manage the stress of raising children. Because no matter where you live or who you are, being a parent is hard. I didn't know I could feel rage--coursing through my body, making my hands involuntarily curl into claws, I-could-strangle-someone style rage--until I became a mother. It is a job that tries you in every conceivable way. Like so many of you, I am blessed with a caring partner and supportive friends and family members. I've long recognized that without them, I'm not sure I could have always managed to protect my children's bodies from those moments of rage.

But talking with this director made me realize that it's not just about our intimates. It's about our neighbors! I think of the octogenarian great-grandmother who commiserated with me in line at the post office when my children were behaving badly, a woman who exuded warmth and humor and helped me put things back into perspective. The librarian who volunteered to help us find a special book when one of the kids was about to tantrum and I was about to cry, kindly steering us away from the edge of the cliff. Or the man who ran up to me with a peach-colored rose as I pushed a crying baby in the stroller past his garden, explaining that it was the last one on the bush and he wanted me to have it.

The whole 'it takes a village' thing is often seen as a warm and fuzzy idea, the kind of thing a person who likes potlucks and church bazaars and community theater (check, check, check) might pronounce. A fine bumper sticker indeed; an excellent guiding principle for organizing family life!

But there is so much more at stake. Maybe it takes a village to keep a child alive. Maybe every time you meet someone's eyes or offer a small gesture of support, every time you tell a new mother how beautiful her baby is, hold a door, or ask if you can help, you are doing something huge. Critical. You are being a good neighbor, and perhaps good neighbors reduce isolation and educate parents better than any formal program. And given our country's stats, we are all in need of a bit more neighborliness in our communities.

To the villagers in my life, many of whom I have met only once: thank you. I am so grateful. Thank you for my beautiful, healthy children.

thankful for books

When I was at the library with Gabriel yesterday, I allowed myself a wander through the chapter book section (I can hear Frances now: they're called novels, Mama), skimming my fingers along the many delectable spines that are patiently waiting for us there. Caddie Woodlawn, more Eleanor Estes, the Lord of the Rings books, Little Women, and new potential favorites too, like The Underneath. There is an insatiable part of me that hungers to share novels with my dear ones.

But there is another kind of book, perhaps less obvious and harder to find, that is a pleasure to share with older children who are independent readers. It's the text-heavy picture book, the beautifully-written story that is most certainly not babyish, the illustrated volume that carries with it a bit of danger and mystery. Often these books are fairy tales or adventure stories. Under no circumstances do they feature lessons about how to share or be a good friend at the end. They are for brave, bold, imaginative big kids who are secure enough in their big kid-ness to take on a meaty picture book.

I've been thinking about this because a friend recently asked if I knew of any books of this sort to recommend, plus there's been a whole lot of big kid birthdays this fall and books are our favorite gifts to give. Just in case you also have a six or seven or eight year old in your life who is about to celebrate a birthday, or who may need an extra book for the home library come Christmas or Hanukah, here is a list of beautiful picture books we've enjoyed recently that are absolutely, positively not for babies:

I remember this book from when I was a child. The pictures are extraordinary (no skimping on the blood, fire, or fiery dragon breath) and the story is beautifully told. I don't think Frances and Gabriel breathe when we read Saint George and the Dragon aloud together. Even though they know the Red Cross Knight survives, every time we re-read it the suspense is paralyzing.

This version of the Merlin story is told and illustrated by the St. George dream team, Margaret Hodges and Trina Schart Hyman. Frances gobbled it up all by herself before we could read it aloud together. King Arthur, his knights, his faithless lady, and his entire milieu occupied a big, active part of my imagination as a child (reading The Mists of Avalon in the way back seat of our minivan at age 12 on a long driving trip=heaven). I was thrilled when I found this one at the library last week.

The image I found for A Ride on the Red Mare's Back by Ursula K. Le Guin is tiny; the story is decidedly not. A big sister adventures through the forbidding woods in winter to save her brother from awful trolls with the aid of her magical red toy horse. There is just enough darkness here for us to believe it.

This version of Aladdin is a pleasure to read aloud, and the illustrations are fun. Lots of pointy beards, huge well-muscled genies, brilliant jewels and shining palaces. It was all fabulous enough for Gabriel to withstand the picture-less pages, knowing that eventually we'd turn the page to find another magical scene worth the wait.

I guess The Iron Giant was recently turned into an animated movie for children. I can't help but be suspicious. This book is so strange and unnerving, it's hard to imagine...but who knows? Maybe you've seen it and it's good. The illustrations in this Iron Giant are evocative, graphic, and suit the spare language and poetic logic of the story perfectly. I'm not sure that I even liked it, but my children were absolutely rapt. Its weirdness is what makes it so compelling, and my general take when it comes to art is that weird is good. I'd love to hear from some of you think about this one.

Brave Irene is an old favorite, and really any William Steig picture book could have made this list. I love the way Steig luxuriates in language, pushing descriptions so much farther than any other children's author I can think of. He also grants his characters big, bold feelings (I am thinking of the parents' grief in Sylvester and the Magic Pebble, or Amos' spiritual ecstasy before the splendor of nature on the deck of his boat in the very fine Amos and Boris). In this story, determined Irene braves a fierce and battle-ready icy wind to do an errand for her poor sick mama. 

Finally, the New York Times just published its list of best illustrated books of 2011, and this one caught my eye. I know, I know, Brother Sun Sister Moon can hardly be a wild adventure tale, but it looks so nicely done!

Do you have any good titles to add to the list? Do share!

(In other news: I recently started a Facebook page for Homemade Time, where I'll link to new posts and other items. If you have a minute, please come visit and click 'like'!)

sewing together

Saturday morning, up long before the sun. I read a new novel in bed til I heard Gabriel stir around 6:30. Then suddenly we were all up, making pumpkin pancakes and coffee, unloading the dishwasher, talking about the day. The groceries, the empty gas tank, the birthday present to wrap, the many loads of laundry lying in wait. By virtue of that deep down part of me that resists all the shoulds that shamelessly start making noise far too early on a beautiful autumn morning, instead of bustling about I wound up on the couch in my pajamas with two creative crafters (in technique especially-see above), making sewing cards from the remains of a cardboard box that arrived earlier in the week.

The children drew pictures on the cardboard, then colored them with crayons. Together we used a nail to punch holes all around the image, then I cut it out with heavy scissors. They each chose yarn, and sewed around the perimeter with blunt embroidery needles. Then it was time for Gabriel to send his hawk aloft, and for Frances to admire her bluebird.

Gabriel turned out the first sewing card yesterday, after I saw the project here, while he was home sick from school. Of course instead of acorns or maple leaves, he chose to make a blue football, which he has been playing with (ie throwing it up in the air and crashing into the couch, yelling touchdown!) ever since. It is rather evocative, I think.

Hope your weekend is full of unexpected pleasures, friends.

book of happiness

Yesterday afternoon Gabriel was out of sorts. In the car, I asked if he was sad about something.

I'm not sad, I'm angry, he replied.

What are you angry about?

He caught my eye in the rear view mirror, to be sure I was listening. Then he said, I'm not angry about anything. I'm just angry.

Ever the social worker, I empathized, telling him that sometimes I feel angry too. I said that there are things I like to do to feel better when I'm in a bad mood, like have some quiet time or listen to music.

I don't like to do those kind of things to feel better. 

At this point you may be wondering why I persisted in the conversation, but I can be slow that way. I kept on firing away, asking what kind of things do you like to do?

Snowboarding.

Oh?

Flying in a real, superfast airplane.

What else?

Riding in a motorcycle. Hang gliding. Being a knight.

growing into reading

I can't resist sharing one more Marie Howe poem with you. After I heard her interviewed on Fresh Air and wrote about it here, I requested one of her collections, The Kingdom of Ordinary Time, through our library system. It is very fine. Here is a poem that got me thinking about how children become readers, and the unique developmental processes involved that engage the whole child.

Why the Novel Is Necessary but Sometimes Hard to Read
It happens in time. Years passed until the old woman,
one snowy morning, realized she had never loved her daughter...

Or, Five years later she answered the door, and her suitor had returned
almost unrecognizable from his journey.

But before you get to that part you have to learn the names
you have to suffer not knowing anything about anyone

and slowly come to understand who each of them is, or who each of them
imagines him or herself to be --

and then, because you are the reader, you must try to understand who
you think each of them is because of who you believe yourself to be

in relation to their situation

or to your memory of one very much like it.

on washing the windows outside, looking in

Mike and I took stock in the car this morning on to way to and from church, in between unrelated observations from the backseat. Family life: it's challenging. It's easy to feel overwhelmed. He has so much work. I take on too much, and, as longtime readers may already know, want a lot of incompatible things.

It was sobering, as confronting the limits of time, money, and good humor only can be. A new pair of fancy shoes, a new job, a private school and a new baby simple do not line up, not in this universe nor any other, no matter the contortionist fantasies I concoct in quieter moments (an unknown rich relative will die, leaving us a small fortune; a high powered literary agent will stumble upon Homemade Time and beg me to sign a book deal, leaving me free to write, start a community-oriented bilingual nonprofit, and have one, or six, more babies; an unknown well-resourced nonprofit down the street will come knocking, offering me a lucrative part-time social work job; etc.)

But dearie me, I am a grown up now and should know better! This life has its limits, and in truth that's a good thing. All the better to appreciate and be creative within the context we are given, which in my case is a wealth of blessings. The whole sober gray cloud lifted and scudded away before too long. Here is what happened:

two hundred letters later

A little over two years ago I wrote my first post, encouraged by my friend Amelia who had the foresight to sign me into Blogger, send me my password, and say go ahead, do it! I was wholly ignorant of the blog form at the time, but hoped to create a common space where my dear, far-flung friends - and maybe even their dear, far-flung friends - might find sustenance, support, humor and inspiration for the day of diaper-changing, story-telling, nose-wiping and song-singing ahead. I wanted everyone to write and read this blog together. Might as well come out and say it: I wanted a community.

The jury is still out for me on whether or not an online community can rightfully be called a community (one that satisfies, one that deepens human connection), and I quickly discovered that my friends didn't have the time or inclination to write for a blog that I imposed upon them, but I persisted nonetheless. I wrote each post as a letter to a very close friend, not the sort that are about reporting on major events, but rather letters that increased intimacy by sharing intimate details: alienation on the playground, creative energy at the kitchen table, tenderness at bedtime. Homemade Time has been a place to explore the themes that come up (and tend to stay up) in a mostly stay-at-home life: the conflicting allures of children and work, persistent feminist quandaries, finding a balance of independence and interdependence. 

This is my two hundredth letter.