Beauty and Truth, Truth Beauty?

On our way home from Greta's classmate's DOG's birthday party (Beauty is 13), I listened to them philosophize about an issue of great importance--Truth.

It began on our way to the dog-party with their eagerness to finally see the dog-owner's home to determine if she had told the Truth about owning a twenty-story jumping house with a gumball machine on the top floor. Perhaps she was lying. This "lying" business carries great weight with kindergarteners. A lie, fully revealed, is capable of evoking great feelings of injustice and anger, along with discussions of consequences. And, since I was realtively certain that we, in fact, would not find a twenty-story jumping house, I thought it would be best for me to intervene, lest we accost our sweet hostess in the first minutes of her party.

What to do? I taught the girls about hyperbole. Luckily, they listened with great interest, repeated the term, and thankfully "bought" the idea that sometime people exaggerate a great deal because they want to share a feeling of excitement. They concluded that it would be fine if there a mere place to jump and gum was somewhere on the premises.

As it often happens, their new understanding turned out to be less than permanent. On the way home, an hour later, Greta's brother was the offender against Truth. He told them that, "One time I actually rode on a dolohin standing up with a penguin on back."

Three authoritative voices chimed in with, "That's not true."

"I don't think you're telling the truth, Graham."

And the big one: "Graham, you are lying."

I interjected, "Well, it depends on your defintion of truth."

huh? There was silence in the car. Was Greta's mother actually going to defend a bald-faced lie?

I needed to continue before I got a call from another parent about why I said that it was OK to lie.

"You know, Graham probably imagined riding a dolphin, so in his imagination it is true. And, imaginations are great things. That's how we get great stories to read and listen to."

Greta didn't skip a beat, "Well, in my imagination the truth is that the boy (I wonder who?) was riding a dolphin, but he was really mean and he kept tightening a string around the dolphin's neck and he was killing the dolphin. But then a beautiful mermaid came and knocked the boy off and a shark was going to get the boy, but then the boy started getting the mermaid. And then he was hurting the mermaid, but the dolphin came to rescue the mermaid. The dolphin got the boy over to the shark and the shark ate the boy and the mermaid and dolphin met a unicorn who came down to give them flowers and stuff and took them on her back to her home and they lived with the unicorn and they lived happily ever after."

Moral? Lie if you want to, but make it good or the sharks will get you in the end.

The slowers and the fasters

Graham has a new personality theory, a la Greta's circle head theory of intelligence.

After losing a race at putting on pajamas to his sister for the upteenth time, he sat in his room moping.

She had gotten her nightgown on, put away her clothes, and brushed her teeth all in the time that the Moose had taken to take his socks off and look for his pajamas. Of course, she did not hold back in relaying all of her efficiency to her brother despite his disappointment. The bitter irony was that the race had been Graham's idea.

After the victor had left him in his spoils, Graham looked at me near tears and said, "I'm a slower." Although, it came out as, "swower," so I had to ask him to repeat himself.

"You know, a slower. Not a faster. Greta's a faster."

I wasn't sure what to say, but busted out with something about how racing is not always fun. At least it never was for me.

He ignored me and added, "Mom, you're a slower too, right." (Oh, how right he is.)

I took him on my lap, feeling very Atticus Finch at the moment, and said, "Yeah Graham. I'm a slower too." Then I had to know, "What do you think Daddy is?"

"He's a faster like Greta."

He may not do it quickly, but he gets it.

astrication

Graham is not confined by the facts. At all. Today while waiting for Greta to finish gymnastics he approached another three-year-old boy and asked him if he wanted to see his really cool new car, a convertible mini-Cooper. I heard the woman reading next to them guffaw and could not resist blowing his cover. No, he does not have a convertible matchbox, let alone a convertible mini-cooper. He and the boy discovered, however, that when you throw matchbox cars into a brick wall at a certain gymnasium, thus cracking their frames, that they can become "convertibles." I'm not sure how to get a mini-cooper.

Tonight we read a preschool-oriented science story featuring the cast of Winnie the Pooh, entitled, Are Things Getting Smaller? In the book, little Roo becomes less little and is convinced that the things in the Hundred Acre Wood are becoming smaller. The author peppers the book with references to other baby animals growing and getting bigger, so I thought maybe Graham would pick up on the less than subtle hints. I asked him if he knew what was happening. He replied, "I sure don't, but I really want to find out." Sweet.

Then, he continued. "Actually, I know what it is. Do you know about astrication?"

"Asstrication?" I was going through all of the possible words that he might be mispronouncing and coming up with nothing.

"Yes."

"No, I don't know about asstrication, Graham. Tell me what that is."

"Asstrication is when they put electricity into things and they get a little bit smaller."

Grahamisms

A question: Mommy, do you think that Socks would like some lipstick on him? (I am grateful that he took my answer as definitive truth: cats do NOT like lipstick.)

magnetic poetry

It's my gift to Greta this year. It was the last thing opened, but now that it's out of the box, it is serving to amuse.

Poem One (in all honesty, it was destroyed before I had a chance to remember it, but it included a pink baby.)

Poem Two:

Imagine
bird dog flies home
to magic baby
eating

Poem Three:

Something dog is going on hold your
nose.

Poem Four:

hot pig family special see red is a cloud tiger bed window woman

All I want for Christmas

Greta has decided that she doesn't want to sit on Santa's lap this year. She doesn't want anything from him. It helps, of course, to have a birthday on December 14 when you are a child who is too shy to sit on an old man wearing a ridiculously insulated suit in the middle of suburban shopping mall. I suspect that she'll cave, but for now she has opted out of the Santa gift.

Graham told me that he too would like to stay away from Santa. Why? Because he only wants coal anyway. For what? To put in his special treasure box.

Greta was on to him and asked, "Graham, is it because TRAINS use coal?"

Yep.

feral cat

This is what Greta wants for Christmas. She spelled it on her Wishlist written at school:

ferrel cat

Do you see anything but feral cat there?

She means a FurReal Cat. It's a name brand, hot item: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B001TMA03U/ref=pd_lpo_k2_dp_sr_1?pf_rd_p=486539851&pf_rd_s=lpo-top-stripe-1&pf_rd_t=201&pf_rd_i=B00006782E&pf_rd_m=ATVPDKIKX0DER&pf_rd_r=0HRETD95RCC94N9XVNMN

Note the price is over $70. Seriously kid? We have a for real, non-feral cat. Of course, she plans on asking Santa for it. Awesome.

I can not thank the Kindergarten teacher enough for having the kids write their wish lists at tables together. Greta had never heard of this item, but saw that Katie had it written on her paper. Apparently, she trusts Katie's judgement in the toy department because she put it right at the top of her own list. Yes, indeed, for a second time, the power of the Christmas marketers have managed to find me despite my attempts to steer clear of advertising with my children. I'm still hopeful that something like a marble run will be emitted on Santa's lap tomorrow, but I'd bet on the feral cat if I had to.

dinosaurs

Our family conversation has been taken over by dinosaurs for the last few months. Apparently, this is somewhat of a rite of passage for the 3-6 year old child. I thought that, perhaps, we had avoided it with Greta. And, I have to admit that I was sort of grateful for it. For good reason.

The dinosaurs may be long extinct, but they are still capable of evoking terror in my home. I don't know if you are aware of the fact or not, but scientist don't know the answers to many of the questions about the dinosaurs. They are shrouded in mystery. For Greta, this is troubling to no end. She would like to know much about the prehistoric beasts, but she is mostly interested in how and why they died. I know the theories, but went along with checking out multiple books about the dinosaurs at the library. When it came time to say that scientists just aren't sure how they died, Greta burst into tears. "But how did they die? HOW? HOW?"

I repeated, "Well. It could have been the asteroid. It was because there wasn't food. There might have been disease. It was along time ago. Scientists have theories, but they don't know for sure."

Hysteria. "But I want to know HOW THEY DIED."

I tried another tactic. Well, you'll just have to become a paleontologist and discover this someday.

No consolation. "But, why did they all just DIE?"

I switched gears again, picking up a book, "You know what? This one says that they are pretty much sure that it was the giant asteroid."

Through tears, "Are you sure?"

This conversation has been repeated multiple times, each time slightly less intense, thankfully. But, it left such a mark on young Graham that he has been known to bring it out as a chip to play whenever Greta cries. "Greta, I will be a pawentowogist and find out how the dinosaurs died for you." This would be fine and good and even cute if it weren't for the fact that he chimes in with this at times when we are not talking about dinosaurs, thus bringing the opportunity to lament yet again to the forefront. Thanks, Graham.

lip removal

Graham: Nanamom, can you take my lips off of me?

Me: What do you mean?

Graham: Take my lips off of my body so they're not there any more.

Me: Why would you want to do that?

Graham: Because my lips are pink and I don't like the color pink.

Me: (silent, supressing the urge to mention other certain body parts that are pink.)

tornadoes

Graham has had a whirlwind of a fall. He was thrust into daily montessori school despite his protests that he'd rather not go. And, he goes every day.

He's run the whole gamut of emotions: excited that he's a big boy, sad to be away from mommy, furious over the fact that we don't let him politley decline from this daily engagement, anxiety that mommy won't come back to get him, frustration that he is expected to use the toilet at school. The list goes on.

But, recently, finally, he has decided that school is a place that is fun. He can be himself. Last week I asked him what he did at school. He told me that he sang his tornado song for the kids. I was previously not familiar with this song, so of course, I took the bait to ask how that song goes. The lyrics are really quite stunning:

The tornado. The tornado.
It goes to get the guys. Then it dies.

And the tornado's guts go up to Heaven.

And its skin comes down to go to the place where the dinosaurs dieeeeed.

I had to ask, "Graham, do you know what a tornado is?"

"A big big wind."

I hope the kids were impressed.

I just don't want to forget this one.

Graham: Where is my baby?

Me: A dolly?

Graham: No, my baby that I'm the Daddy of.

Me: I don't that baby was born yet.

Graham: I know that. But, whose belly is that baby in the inside of?

Me: Um. I'm not sure.

Marc: All I can say is choose wisely, son.

Thankfully, Graham moved on to something else.

Graham is 3?

I'm in denial that my baby is 3 already. He is too. Whenever anyone, be it family member, teacher, stranger in the store, asks Graham how old he is now, he replies, "It's a surprise." If given the chance, he will go on, "If I tell you, it won't be a surprise anymore."

I think it's cute. Greta is nothing short of exasperated. She tried telling him, "Graham, it's actually not a surprise to anyone. We ALL KNOW that you are three." Now, she has given up and chimes in, "He's three," before he has a chance to utter the ridiculous. He does it anyways, of course.

I think that he might actually be a bit befuddled about the whole affair, actually. When his preschool teacher told him, "Happy Birthday," he replied, "Happy Birthday to you."

And, when given the opportunity to choose the song for the class to sing at school ( I was present as a special birthday guest), Graham said he wanted to sing, "Thomas, James and Gordon discover Stanley."

His sweet teacher ran through a litany of choices that the kids actually sing in class, but Graham insisted on "Thomas, James and Gordon discover Stanley."

So, Miss Kelly said, "OK. We'll make up that song today." The teachers, Graham, and I sang the above lyrics to a semi-monotonous "tune." Then, Miss Kelly looked to Graham, who continued, "And they were sooooo prouuuud."

He's right about one thing. He's full of surprises.

Over Christmas

I sometimes feel like it's a shame that Christmas falls at the beginning of the winter. I get why it is when it is . . . the merging of the Christian celebration with the Winter Solstice. But, I just feel like with Thanksgiving and New Year's hovering around it, the Holidays are filled with fun wintery good cheer, and then there is THE REST OF THE GODFORSAKEN WINTER to live through. Seriously, it pains me to look at all of the fluffy snow and think, "I'm dreaming of a white Christmas, . . . except there's no Christmas right now." The void, added to the unyielding cold, is too much. We should just put Christmas on January 25. Problem solved. By the time the whole post-holiday celebration was over, we'd be almost done. We'd be so re-energized with good will that we could take on that short, thug of a month, February. I don't mean to be Christian-centric either (although decidedly Norhtern-centric.) Hanukkah could move . . . with Kwanza, Ramadan. Give all of the willing a chance to move something important to January.

Seriously, there is a dirth of celebrating from Jan 1 until Spring. It's like a cruel joke to ring in the New Year as though you're happy about it when you actually know that the next two months of this great "new year" are going to suck.

Valentines Day is hardly a holiday to look forward to with much anticipation. Don't get me wrong. I try. We do heart crafts. We exchange little presents. But, there's no Dickens to read along with it. No Santa. No radio stations devoted to the endless playing of Valentines tunes. It's an excuse to eat/ give candy.

This year, we do plan on celebrating Chinese New Year. And, that might fill my void. But, it's uncharted territory for me.

Granted, it might be particularly painful for our family this year because of my husband's decision for tree removal.

We are burning it.

Branch by branch.

Amidst the children's cries for their beloved tree, my husband told them, "I'm not hurting the Christmas tree. I'm using it to make the house warm."

I supported him despite my cringing at the sight. "It's Happy Wood. It's better than throwing it away."

But, there is still the image of the tree in our living room, ornaments gone, half of the branches eaten away, like the grinch has come and, well, eaten half the tree. And there's the image of something gone terribly wrong with the pine needles shooting huge flames right there in Santa's toy chute. The horror.

Understanding

Graham loves trains. That's an understatement. He plays, dreams, thinks, reads (well, is read to), talks, thinks, breathes trains.

Trains are a source of great joy, and great angst for him. We have a family rule: we share the toys. For a great deal of his life this has worked to Graham's advantage. And, as he has been reminded frequently, his sister is actually not a huge threat to his train-playing liberties. He apparently sees things differently. Out of the blue in conversation Graham has been repeating a troubling thought.

Says Graham: I wish I didn't have a sister. Do you know why?

Mother: Um, why? (With a tone of angst, noting that the troublesome sister is strapped in next to him. Is it really fair to pursue this conversation?)

Graham: Because, um, I don't wike to share my twains with her.

Greta: Graham, I don't even like trains. (Which is sort of true.) Well, I only like the girl trains. Molly and Lady are my trains.

Graham: But, I really, really like trains. I really, really like Molly.

Mother: That's OK, Graham. You can play with them.


Thankfully, Greta has yet to hammer him with why she could do without a little brother too. And, working to her advantage in the fair-train play department, Graham recieved a set of tracks that he has yet to master himself. Greta, however, has no trouble. Imagine his quandry when she approached him saying, "Graham, do you want to set up the racing Thomas set in the kitchen? Then, Molly and Thomas can race."

"O KAYYYYY." Graham literally gallopped about with enthusiasm as his siter began to set up the track.

Then, at the ripe old age of two 1/2, Graham must have realized the incongruency of his emotions. He said, "Greta sometimes I joke about I don't like you to pway with my twains. I just telling you a joke." He really said it. (She was so over it already, Graham, but my heart melted.)

Like all happy endings, though, Graham's warm and fuzzy feelings toward his sister faded quickly. Today, on our way to Barnes and Oboe (I will never go back to Noble), Graham told Greta, "You are going to go find fairy books, and I'm going to pway twains, Greta. Do you understand me?"

Of course, she understood him far too well. She marched right past all of her favorite books and grabbed a train right off the bat. To which Graham chimed in with, "No. This is not what I understand."

It's hard, Buddy.

that's not fair: the musical

Graham literally laments when things do not go his way. I am listening to him through the monitor lamenting over the fact that I am no longer in the room. How sweet? Here is his song (the melody is almost the blues, three or four tones, with certain words drawn out)

I want mommy, buuuuuuuuut, she is not coming.
Bad mommy. She is a bad mommy.
Buuuuuuut, I want her.

(We change keys here and turn uptempo, like the upbeat part of behemian Rhapsody, only inspired from recent trick-or-treat rhymes of Greta's. Add in the percussion of him jumping in his crib.)

Mommy. Mommy.
I'll pull down your underpants.
I'll pull down my mommy's underpants.

Trick or treat. I don't care.
I'll pull down your underpants.

(Key change again. A wail this time.)
Mooooooommmmmmmmyyyyyy. I need you. I need her, but ummm, but Mommy. Not nice.
Pop goes the weasel.

Mooommmmmmyyyyyyyyyyy. Oh Mommmmmmmmmyyyyyyy. But, I think I will go there for one afternoon. That's OK. We have something good to eat. If you don't, I don't care, I'll pull down your underwear. I'll pull down your underwear. I'll pull down your underwear.

CRIEEESSSSS. Mom. Give me something. huhhhhhhhhhhh Mom, I need something.

Huhhhh. I'm disappointed. huhhhh. I'm disappointed. What's disappointed. I don't know. Mommmmmmyyyy, I need you. I need you. I DUST (just) NEEED you.

Hysterical frenzy.

a penny for MY thoughts

There is a fountain at our public library that the designer, in infinite wisdom, decided to surround with staggered cubes -- somewhat akin to climbing equipment one might find on a playground. Do you see where I'm going? In this summer alone two children, mercifully not mine, have taken the full-body plunge.

Greta and Graham love to climb up, lean over toward the depths, and plink their little pennies in after we check out. Greta always makes a wish. Much to her chagrin, her brother never does. Last time we were there, I had only one penny. It was a parenting crisis. Sophie's choice. Who was more likely to have a melt down. I acted quickly, but reasonably, I think. I gave Greta the penny to wish on. And, Graham threw it in. It sat well for a minute or two when Greta decided that maybe her wish will not come true if she did not throw it. Rather than assure her, and risk possible tears, I threw out, "Next time you can have TWO pennies to throw." (Ugh, I can just hear the pundits. "There she goes, classic liberal, throwing money at a problem to fix it.")

Today was that "next time." Of course, Graham, too, needed two pennies. So, now I'm out four cents. It's getting steep, but it's for my favorite public institution of all times . . . the library. (I use the same logic for the fines. ;))

This time, however, Greta, my darling little optimist, turned miserly. I think it was the thrill of two pennies to clink against each other. Rather than wish for toys, candy, or another penny, her top three most common wishes, she decided that she needed to put her pennies in her piggy bank. Now, on reflection, Greta's impulse was a smart impulse, perhaps one that I should have fostered. The pennies in her bank are far more likely to buy her a Barbie than her wish is, or her mother is. I should have affected my Benjamin Franklin voice, tousled her hair, and said, "A penny saved is a penny earned, Greta. You'll get rich that way, kid."

I have to admit that the current political climate affected my parenting. I don't want to foster miserly behavior. I want her to make wishes for her future! (I, too, roll my eyes at this.) I said, "Greta, wish for Barack Obama to become president."

Greta cocked her head and said, "Noooo." She was feeling me out to see if it was a joke.

"Please. It's very important to Mommy."

So, she did it. She wished into a penny for Barack Obama to become president (for me). I hope it works, but I'm not banking on that wish. I sent my pennies straight to the campaign.

an interview

This is based on a friend's blog. She interviewed her son, so I got curious about how my two young charges would respond.

What’s your favorite smell?

Greta: Huh? Why did you ask? (Because I'm going to write it down.) My favorite smell . . . I don't know. My favorite smell is the smell of bacon.

Graham: My favowite smell is fwuit. (fruit)

Greta: Actually, my favorite smell is flowers.

What’s your favorite vegetable?

Greta: My favorite vegetable is popcorn. (watching me type) What did you spell? (popcorn) WHERE is the 'P'? Oh, OK.

Graham: Um, strawberries.

What’s your favorite fruit?

Greta: Um. Tangerine.

Graham: Strawberries.

What’s your favorite snack?

Greta: My faovrite snack is cream cheese and YOU. (laugh) Cream cheese on popcorn. (We don't eat that.) I like it though.

Graham: My favorite snack is pretzels.

Greta: Actually, that's my favorite snack too though. How is this a quiz? (It's an interview.) How is this a quiz? You said it was a quiz.

What’s your favorite thing to do when you’re bored?

Greta: um um um um . . . HUM. (no, really) Really, HUM.

Graham: Hum a little dum.

What’s your favorite song?

My favorite song is Hanna Montana (she only knows one song by HM . . . you and me together)

Graham: Uh. MMMM. (Greta, in exasperation: BIG RED CAR) Big Red Car is my favorite song.

What’s your favorite dream?

Greta: Hmmm? The one that is about me and my friend and we're being friends. (I read this back to her and she spazzes out that I misunderstood. I still don't get it. I move on, but in the back of my mind I'm logging in my concern that Greta does not dream. I'm quite certain of it. What does that mean, and is it a sign of a budding sociopath? And, would that be my fault if she was?)

What’s your favorite toy?

Greta: My favorite toy is.. is...my new fairies and my princess purse. And Grace (stuffed cat she sleeps with).

Graham: My favorite toy is legos.

What’s your favorite book?

Greta: My favorite book is fairy books. (The rainbow fairy books.)

Graham: My favorite books are Thomas books.

What’s your favorite movie?

Greta: My favorite movie iiiiiiiisssss uh . . . My favorite movie is Belle, I mean Beauty and the Beast.

Graham: Thomas and the Big Big Bridge.

Greta: That's his favorite movie, but he doesn't have that movie, but he does have that BOOK. I guess you should have said that when she asked our favorite book, Graham. (I wish I could convey the tone . . . BRILLIANT, but I'm so very tired right now.)

Who are you going to marry?

Greta: Um, Graham.

Graham: You.(to Greta, because she has been repeating the last few questions for me because my voice is being tuned out by a certain two year old.)

Who's your favorite person to play with?

Greta: Ella, Allison, Livi and Katelynn. (all neighbors)

Graham: Katelynn (Katelynn is in 6th grade and comes over to play/ be a mother's helper a few days a week.)

Eavesdropping

Consider this a live feed.

Greta: Come on, Socks.

Graham: I have a good idea. I'm going to bend him.


Greta: No, I have a better idea than bending the cat, Graham. Let's put these fairies in a fairy house.

Graham: I'm bending him. Look. He's smiling at me.

Greta: Well, I'm going, Graham. I'll be back at midnight.

Greta: (to cat) (I'mnot sure when the transfer of cat happened) Are you my little boy?

Socks: Meow

Greta: Are you my little boy?

Socks: Meow

Greta: When are you going to be my little boy?

Greta: Watch Socks go in his little house. Graham, you hold this while I look for something to block him.

Shuffling around.

Socks: a high pitched Meow.

Greta: You want a new tail Socks?

Socks: Meow.

Greta: I'll let you go.

Socks walks into the room with me, his protectress. There is a ribbon tied around his tail.

Poor little cat? Poor little cat, my ass. First, there is nothing little about this cat. Second, he never hides from them. He's a cat. He fits under the couch. But, he walks up to them asking for more every day. Just for the record.

He likes my hair

Graham likes my hair. He told me so.

"I wike you hair, Mommy. It's fuzzy and cute."

Circle heads, an intelligence theory

Call her the next Gardner.

Recently, Greta shared her theory of intelligence with her father, who was unable to remember the name of a character from a book.

"Daddy," she said. "Do you know why you can't remember but I can? You have a tall, skinny head. But, I have a big, circle head. I have more room for the memories."

He responded, "Did Mommy tell you this?"

I most certainly did not. However, I am happy to report that, according to Greta, I, too, have a big, circle head. And, I won't forget it.