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The really fun thing about having small children is taking the occasional liberty with their complete and utter gullibility. They know next to nothing and believe you know everything. That’s a recipe for fun.
You have to be careful, of course. You don’t want to do anything that lands them in therapy for years.
What Karl did tonight is probably therapy-proof. I hope.
John Matthew was looking at the pages of his oversized zoology book. He was on the freshwater animals page, asking tons of questions: What does this one do? What does that one eat? What would happen if you ran into this one? Then Karl launched into this conversation:
Karl: “John, do you know what the neatest freshwater animal is?”
John: “No. What?”
Karl: “The Pink-Horse-Moose-Fox.”
John: “What’s that?”
Karl: “It’s a freshwater animal.”
John: “Where does it live?”
Karl: “It lives in streams. If you’re ever in the woods and you sit down by a stream and you turn your back to the stream, it reaches out and taps you on the shoulder.”
John, whose command of animal facts is super-impressive for a four-year-old, is very tuned in at this point and clearly wants to know everything about this new creature.
John: “What does it do?”
Karl: “It conjugates verbs.”
John: “Oh.”
Later on, I found John engrossed in the book again. He asked me on what page he might find the pink-horse-moose fox that “conshutates terds.” He’d been trying to find it for over 20 minutes. I had to tell him that it’s a new species, so it isn’t in this old zoology book. He’s now asking constantly if we can go to the bookstore this weekend to find a book that will have the new pink-horse-moose-fox in it.
That’s the one problem with taking occasional liberties with their gullibility. It’s hard to work your way out of the story gracefully.
B.
Showing posts with label kids. Show all posts
Showing posts with label kids. Show all posts
Friday, November 7, 2008
Sunday, October 5, 2008
Where Soccer Isn't King
I love soccer, and I’m fortunate to live in a place where soccer takes a back seat to football, tee-ball, and little league.
This is a mixed blessing. On the one hand, our fields are so bad that battling for the ball in some sections stirs up a massive cloud that gives players an inadvertent history lesson on what the dust bowl days were like and leaves them coughing and sputtering as they try to see through the grit in their eyes. What would be a simple tumble on a good, grassy field can mean cuts and scrapes from a surface pock-marked with stones. And forget learning ball control when various bumps and hollows can send the ball in any direction at any time.
Then there is the stench of sewage—yes, sewage—that bubbles up in some places in the field and is connected to a problem with the civic center’s plumbing system, and the demoralizing sight of shiny, new, even, rock-less fields being installed right next door for use, I hear, by youth football.
But there is a silver lining to that filthy dust cloud. Our game days and practices are generally and delightfully free of some of the biggest problems that plague youth sports.
I’ve heard parents at soccer games talk about their experiences in other sports. They complain about parents coming to blows during games, coaches and parents screaming at each other, bad sportsmanship that goes unchecked and in some cases is ignored or even rewarded. And they worried about the example this set for their children.
This isn’t unusual. There have been countless stories from all over the country outlining the bad behavior of parents in youth sports. So I feel fortunate that my kids are able to play the sport they love without the depressing spectacle--and disturbing influence--of mom telling little Johnny to go kick that guy’s ass, Johnny’s dad screaming obscenities and threats at an opponent’s father, or either one of them locked in a battle with a referee or coach.
If soccer were king here, we’d have the same problems. And though youth soccer parents and fans aren’t perfect, the culture of youth soccer is pretty positive. You are far more likely to hear Johnny’s mom rooting for Johnny’s teammates and even, God forbid, his opponents when they do something particularly well. Johnny’s dad is probably chatting up another dad, telling him he’s noticed how much his daughter has improved over the years.
There is definite cheering and, sure, sometimes even a disappointed groan or two, but for the most part these parents are relaxing on the sidelines where they belong and letting their kids shine.
Since most kids can’t count on being professional athletes, it stands to reason that youth sports are probably more about physical activity, character, the virtue of competition, and good sportsmanship.
Here, where soccer isn’t king, my kids are able to glean those messages and values while on that pock-marked field, though, granted, their ball control skills will suffer.
This is a mixed blessing. On the one hand, our fields are so bad that battling for the ball in some sections stirs up a massive cloud that gives players an inadvertent history lesson on what the dust bowl days were like and leaves them coughing and sputtering as they try to see through the grit in their eyes. What would be a simple tumble on a good, grassy field can mean cuts and scrapes from a surface pock-marked with stones. And forget learning ball control when various bumps and hollows can send the ball in any direction at any time.
Then there is the stench of sewage—yes, sewage—that bubbles up in some places in the field and is connected to a problem with the civic center’s plumbing system, and the demoralizing sight of shiny, new, even, rock-less fields being installed right next door for use, I hear, by youth football.
But there is a silver lining to that filthy dust cloud. Our game days and practices are generally and delightfully free of some of the biggest problems that plague youth sports.
I’ve heard parents at soccer games talk about their experiences in other sports. They complain about parents coming to blows during games, coaches and parents screaming at each other, bad sportsmanship that goes unchecked and in some cases is ignored or even rewarded. And they worried about the example this set for their children.
This isn’t unusual. There have been countless stories from all over the country outlining the bad behavior of parents in youth sports. So I feel fortunate that my kids are able to play the sport they love without the depressing spectacle--and disturbing influence--of mom telling little Johnny to go kick that guy’s ass, Johnny’s dad screaming obscenities and threats at an opponent’s father, or either one of them locked in a battle with a referee or coach.
If soccer were king here, we’d have the same problems. And though youth soccer parents and fans aren’t perfect, the culture of youth soccer is pretty positive. You are far more likely to hear Johnny’s mom rooting for Johnny’s teammates and even, God forbid, his opponents when they do something particularly well. Johnny’s dad is probably chatting up another dad, telling him he’s noticed how much his daughter has improved over the years.
There is definite cheering and, sure, sometimes even a disappointed groan or two, but for the most part these parents are relaxing on the sidelines where they belong and letting their kids shine.
Since most kids can’t count on being professional athletes, it stands to reason that youth sports are probably more about physical activity, character, the virtue of competition, and good sportsmanship.
Here, where soccer isn’t king, my kids are able to glean those messages and values while on that pock-marked field, though, granted, their ball control skills will suffer.
B.
Leaving Home
So a few weeks ago, I was walking home from work when Karl met me at the front door. He’d been home with the kids for a while.
“Just want to give you a heads-up before you go in,” he told me. “I think the kids are leaving.”
“What’d you do to them?” I asked. He was perfectly calm and said nothing at all had happened. They were just ready to leave.
I went inside and set my bags down. There to meet me were Hannah and John, with bulging backpacks, somber faces, and big pillows in their arms.
“What’d you do to them?” I asked. He was perfectly calm and said nothing at all had happened. They were just ready to leave.
I went inside and set my bags down. There to meet me were Hannah and John, with bulging backpacks, somber faces, and big pillows in their arms.
“Mom, we have something to tell you,” Hannah said.
I sat down, feeling intuitively that this was one of those episodes that I couldn’t brush off with “Later guys. Gotta get dinner started,” or “Go put those things up. You’re not going anywhere.” Something about how very serious they looked told me I needed to hear them out, preferably without laughing--which was hard.
So I sat down and Hannah came to face me, with little John flanking her. Her speech went like this, with occasional interjections from John:
“It isn’t that the house isn’t clean,” she said.
(Well that’s good, I thought, because the state of the house is entirely the fault of you and your brother. Besides, if anyone gets to run away because of a dirty house, it’ll be Daddy and me. So hand over those backpacks and remember to feed the cats. But I held my tongue.)
“It isn’t that you and Daddy are too hard on us,” she continued. “It’s just that, you know, it’s REALLY hard to be in the same place every day. It’s boring. John and I…well…we want an adventure. So we’re going away for two days.”
“We’ll miss you guys,” says John, with utter seriousness and with a reassurance in his voice that I found a little jolting coming from a four-year-old.
Hannah went on: “I’ll hold John’s hand and we’ll stay together. We have books to read. We’ll be careful when we cross streets. We’ll sleep under trees.”
“We love you guys,” John interjects again, and I’m beginning to wonder if he’s been coached.
“Really,” says Hannah. “We’ve got it all planned out. We just want to see more of the world, you know? We just want to be on our own for a little while. So can we?”
Silence.
I took a few deep breaths before I answered. Not because I was angry, but because it took every ounce of energy I had to fight back the belly laugh struggling to get out and also because, frankly, I was trying to think of a good answer. I wanted to appear to take this very seriously, in the spirit in which it was presented to me. And, again, I had that intuitive sense that a lot was riding on my response. I had to give an answer that let them know I had listened, I understood, that their earnestness meant something to me.
So I did what any good parent would do: I dodged direct responsibility and kept it simple.
“I hear what you’re saying,” I told them. “And I understand. There’s only one problem.”
“What?” they asked in unison, with expectant little faces.
“It’s against the law.”
I went on to tell them that the police would return them home as soon as they saw them out alone, because children aren’t allowed to roam the streets without their parents. "You have to be 18 to do that."
“Sorry,” I said. “It sounded like a good plan.”
“So, can I do it when I’m 18?” Hannah asked.
“Sure.”
“OK!” she said. And it was that easy. They put up their backpacks and went on with the rest of the day.
When recounting this story later, I told a friend that Karl and I have since wondered why we didn’t just give them 20 bucks and send them on their merry way. Two days alone without the kids sounds like heaven.
I sat down, feeling intuitively that this was one of those episodes that I couldn’t brush off with “Later guys. Gotta get dinner started,” or “Go put those things up. You’re not going anywhere.” Something about how very serious they looked told me I needed to hear them out, preferably without laughing--which was hard.
So I sat down and Hannah came to face me, with little John flanking her. Her speech went like this, with occasional interjections from John:
“It isn’t that the house isn’t clean,” she said.
(Well that’s good, I thought, because the state of the house is entirely the fault of you and your brother. Besides, if anyone gets to run away because of a dirty house, it’ll be Daddy and me. So hand over those backpacks and remember to feed the cats. But I held my tongue.)
“It isn’t that you and Daddy are too hard on us,” she continued. “It’s just that, you know, it’s REALLY hard to be in the same place every day. It’s boring. John and I…well…we want an adventure. So we’re going away for two days.”
“We’ll miss you guys,” says John, with utter seriousness and with a reassurance in his voice that I found a little jolting coming from a four-year-old.
Hannah went on: “I’ll hold John’s hand and we’ll stay together. We have books to read. We’ll be careful when we cross streets. We’ll sleep under trees.”
“We love you guys,” John interjects again, and I’m beginning to wonder if he’s been coached.
“Really,” says Hannah. “We’ve got it all planned out. We just want to see more of the world, you know? We just want to be on our own for a little while. So can we?”
Silence.
I took a few deep breaths before I answered. Not because I was angry, but because it took every ounce of energy I had to fight back the belly laugh struggling to get out and also because, frankly, I was trying to think of a good answer. I wanted to appear to take this very seriously, in the spirit in which it was presented to me. And, again, I had that intuitive sense that a lot was riding on my response. I had to give an answer that let them know I had listened, I understood, that their earnestness meant something to me.
So I did what any good parent would do: I dodged direct responsibility and kept it simple.
“I hear what you’re saying,” I told them. “And I understand. There’s only one problem.”
“What?” they asked in unison, with expectant little faces.
“It’s against the law.”
I went on to tell them that the police would return them home as soon as they saw them out alone, because children aren’t allowed to roam the streets without their parents. "You have to be 18 to do that."
“Sorry,” I said. “It sounded like a good plan.”
“So, can I do it when I’m 18?” Hannah asked.
“Sure.”
“OK!” she said. And it was that easy. They put up their backpacks and went on with the rest of the day.
When recounting this story later, I told a friend that Karl and I have since wondered why we didn’t just give them 20 bucks and send them on their merry way. Two days alone without the kids sounds like heaven.
“We learn slowly,” I told my friend, “but we learn.”
B.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Anatomy Lesson
Today I learned that Hannah's grasp of anatomy may not be what it should. She was playing with a neighborhood cat. It scratched her on the inner thigh. Hannah screamed, "Oh no! Help! It scratched my uterus!"
In the vicinity, maybe, but a bit off the mark.
In an unrelated dialogue, John Matthew said something sweet tonight. We were having dinner and talking about the fact that tomorrow is Hannah's birthday. John asked why we have birthday parties. I said it's to celebrate a birth--to celebrate the day that someone was born. He said, "Oh. Well. It's to celebrate that Hannah's a gift from God, I think."
How true. A gift from God, delivered via my uterus, which, thankfully, is not an exterior organ somewhere around my inner thigh.
In the vicinity, maybe, but a bit off the mark.
In an unrelated dialogue, John Matthew said something sweet tonight. We were having dinner and talking about the fact that tomorrow is Hannah's birthday. John asked why we have birthday parties. I said it's to celebrate a birth--to celebrate the day that someone was born. He said, "Oh. Well. It's to celebrate that Hannah's a gift from God, I think."
How true. A gift from God, delivered via my uterus, which, thankfully, is not an exterior organ somewhere around my inner thigh.
Smell the Future
I've been collecting great quotes from my kids, and Hannah served up a new one this weekend.
Hannah and I woke up at the same time and came downstairs Saturday morning when the following dialogue took place:
Hannah: (sniffs the air) "Mom, I think I can smell the future."
Mom: (trying to find coffee pot through sleepy eyes) "Huh?"
Hannah: I just smelled pancakes and syrup!
Hannah begs for pancakes every weekend. Sometimes we make them, but many times we don't. This was either a clever new approach, or she really did smell pancakes and syrup. Regardless, she got her homemade pancakes and syrup. How can I deny her the future? Further, when will giving her a future ever again be as easy as cooking it and serving it up on plate?
Hannah and I woke up at the same time and came downstairs Saturday morning when the following dialogue took place:
Hannah: (sniffs the air) "Mom, I think I can smell the future."
Mom: (trying to find coffee pot through sleepy eyes) "Huh?"
Hannah: I just smelled pancakes and syrup!
Hannah begs for pancakes every weekend. Sometimes we make them, but many times we don't. This was either a clever new approach, or she really did smell pancakes and syrup. Regardless, she got her homemade pancakes and syrup. How can I deny her the future? Further, when will giving her a future ever again be as easy as cooking it and serving it up on plate?
Spirits, Scary Cats, and Fireflies
Summer is in full swing here. Hannah completed her first camp Friday. She signed up for Kids College Art Camp, where the children spend a week exploring a story through the arts. This year, the story was “Sadako.” The camp culminates in a simple production at the college theatre. The kids are involved in making costumes, set decorations, and other crafts during the week and then act out the story on the final Friday. Hannah was a spirit. The kids all did a beautiful job. “Sadako” is the true story of a Japanese girl who dies of leukemia as a result of the bombing of Hiroshima. You can learn more about her at www.sadako.com.
Next up for Hannah is Vacation Bible School at our former Lutheran church. She'll stay with her grandparents for a week while attending VBS.
John is, of course, too young for a camp. He got a special treat yesterday, though. Karl’s godmother sent him the movie “Napoleon” for his birthday. He watched it yesterday afternoon, and it was his first, full-length film. He handled it well, though there was a scene involving an adorable puppy being accosted by a scary cat. He talks about the cat incessantly, and likes to make cat-fight sounds. Hopefully he’ll give that up soon. A full day of John sounding like he has fur balls was enough for all of us.
Friday night we were all treated to a truly spectacular firefly display. We have hoards of them here. We were on the back patio until nearly midnight, which is apparently when they really get going. Hannah, especially, got to enjoy them. She slept outside on the trampoline with the little girls next door. Their dad slept on the trampoline with them. When I kissed her good night before I went inside, she said she wanted to go to sleep counting fireflies. I wondered if I’d hear her come in the middle of the night, but she actually did stay out there until Saturday morning. When I woke up at 7:00, I looked outside and saw her and the other two girls jumping on the trampoline in their pajamas. The girls' father was apparently still trying to sleep: his prostrate body was being flung about like a sack of potatoes.
Next up for us is a week of birthday activities. On Tuesday, Hannah’s birthday, Grandmom and Opa will come down for dinner. The following Saturday, Hannah is hosting a birthday sleepover party for three friends. We’re going to have homemade pizzas and a make-your-own ice cream sundae bar.
Next up for Hannah is Vacation Bible School at our former Lutheran church. She'll stay with her grandparents for a week while attending VBS.
John is, of course, too young for a camp. He got a special treat yesterday, though. Karl’s godmother sent him the movie “Napoleon” for his birthday. He watched it yesterday afternoon, and it was his first, full-length film. He handled it well, though there was a scene involving an adorable puppy being accosted by a scary cat. He talks about the cat incessantly, and likes to make cat-fight sounds. Hopefully he’ll give that up soon. A full day of John sounding like he has fur balls was enough for all of us.
Friday night we were all treated to a truly spectacular firefly display. We have hoards of them here. We were on the back patio until nearly midnight, which is apparently when they really get going. Hannah, especially, got to enjoy them. She slept outside on the trampoline with the little girls next door. Their dad slept on the trampoline with them. When I kissed her good night before I went inside, she said she wanted to go to sleep counting fireflies. I wondered if I’d hear her come in the middle of the night, but she actually did stay out there until Saturday morning. When I woke up at 7:00, I looked outside and saw her and the other two girls jumping on the trampoline in their pajamas. The girls' father was apparently still trying to sleep: his prostrate body was being flung about like a sack of potatoes.
Next up for us is a week of birthday activities. On Tuesday, Hannah’s birthday, Grandmom and Opa will come down for dinner. The following Saturday, Hannah is hosting a birthday sleepover party for three friends. We’re going to have homemade pizzas and a make-your-own ice cream sundae bar.
Chucking "Book-It"
"The more kids see books as a way to get pizza or some other prize, the less interest they'll have in reading itself," Kohn, a former teacher, said in a telephone interview. "They tend to choose easier books to get through faster."
That’s a quote from Alfie Kohn, one of my heroes, which appeared in a news article(http://www.cnn.com/2007/EDUCATION/03/02/reading.for.pizza.ap/index.html) about Pizza Hut’s Book It program. I read his book, Punished by Rewards, a few years ago, and it changed my outlook on a number of things. So when Hannah started school and came up against the Book-It program for the first time, she and I had a long talk about whether participating is a good thing.
Teachers have all the kids set a goal for how much daily reading they should do. They then keep track of how long they read each day for a month. If they reach their goal, they get a coupon for a free personal pan pizza at Pizza Hut. I didn’t want to tell Hannah not to do it. But we did have a talk about why she likes to read. Turns out, it has nothing to do with pizza. Also turns out that, according to Kohn and others, once you make it about pizza, even kids who love reading learn to resent it when it gets between them and pie. They also begin to read less challenging material and report enjoying reading less than children whose reading isn’t connected to a rewards program. Isn’t that interesting?
So, in kindergarten, Hannah opted out and felt fine about it. In first grade, earlier this year, it came up again. This time she wanted to try it. I bit my tongue and went along with it, just out of curiosity. She stopped after two days. Why? Because she hated keeping track of how many minutes she read. It seemed “stupid” to her, she said. “I just do it because I like it. I don’t want to count it.” So she chose to opt out of the program. When her teacher asked her why, she said, “Because a personal pan pizza is just enough for me. I won’t have enough to share with my family.” Not exactly the point, but I’ll take it.
I really dislike this program. It epitomizes all that’s wrong with American education. Kids know before they go to school that there is an inherent value in learning. They do it naturally. They love it. It’s when they go to school that their innate love of learning is attacked on a daily basis by adults who have long forgotten how natural it is for them, and who believe that a child won’t do anything without being bribed, punished, or rewarded. What a depressing and limited view of human nature.
That’s a quote from Alfie Kohn, one of my heroes, which appeared in a news article(http://www.cnn.com/2007/EDUCATION/03/02/reading.for.pizza.ap/index.html) about Pizza Hut’s Book It program. I read his book, Punished by Rewards, a few years ago, and it changed my outlook on a number of things. So when Hannah started school and came up against the Book-It program for the first time, she and I had a long talk about whether participating is a good thing.
Teachers have all the kids set a goal for how much daily reading they should do. They then keep track of how long they read each day for a month. If they reach their goal, they get a coupon for a free personal pan pizza at Pizza Hut. I didn’t want to tell Hannah not to do it. But we did have a talk about why she likes to read. Turns out, it has nothing to do with pizza. Also turns out that, according to Kohn and others, once you make it about pizza, even kids who love reading learn to resent it when it gets between them and pie. They also begin to read less challenging material and report enjoying reading less than children whose reading isn’t connected to a rewards program. Isn’t that interesting?
So, in kindergarten, Hannah opted out and felt fine about it. In first grade, earlier this year, it came up again. This time she wanted to try it. I bit my tongue and went along with it, just out of curiosity. She stopped after two days. Why? Because she hated keeping track of how many minutes she read. It seemed “stupid” to her, she said. “I just do it because I like it. I don’t want to count it.” So she chose to opt out of the program. When her teacher asked her why, she said, “Because a personal pan pizza is just enough for me. I won’t have enough to share with my family.” Not exactly the point, but I’ll take it.
I really dislike this program. It epitomizes all that’s wrong with American education. Kids know before they go to school that there is an inherent value in learning. They do it naturally. They love it. It’s when they go to school that their innate love of learning is attacked on a daily basis by adults who have long forgotten how natural it is for them, and who believe that a child won’t do anything without being bribed, punished, or rewarded. What a depressing and limited view of human nature.
Not Missing Much
I thought I'd miss television when we chose to ditch it a while back. Apparently, I'm not missing much. My ABC news feed, which I read online, had these headlines tonight:
Rats Run Wild in KFC-Taco Bell in N.Y.
Man Does 40 Squat Thrusts on Elephant
Lawmaker Comes Down on Plastic Gonads
If that's what's making headlines in the world, missing out is just fine with me.
Instead of sitting in front of the tube, we get out and do other things. Tonight, for instance, there was a concert at the college with Mamadou Diabate. He was nominated for a Grammy in 2005 in the World Music category. He's African, and plays a traditional African instrument called the "kora." He was joined by four other musicians, some of whom played traditional African instruments (the balafone, calabash, and talking drum) and some who played ones my kids could actually identify (bass and acoustic guitar). The ensemble played a lot of really rhythmic African music, but they also performed original compositions that were much more like American jazz and blues. It was a great thing for the kids to see. They bobbed their little heads and danced in their seats. We had a good time. Afterwards, one of the musicians asked me to take a picture of him with John. I couldn't get the blasted digital camera to take it, or I would post it.
You can hear samples of Mamadou's music on his Web site: http://www.mamadoukora.com/.
Rats Run Wild in KFC-Taco Bell in N.Y.
Man Does 40 Squat Thrusts on Elephant
Lawmaker Comes Down on Plastic Gonads
If that's what's making headlines in the world, missing out is just fine with me.
Instead of sitting in front of the tube, we get out and do other things. Tonight, for instance, there was a concert at the college with Mamadou Diabate. He was nominated for a Grammy in 2005 in the World Music category. He's African, and plays a traditional African instrument called the "kora." He was joined by four other musicians, some of whom played traditional African instruments (the balafone, calabash, and talking drum) and some who played ones my kids could actually identify (bass and acoustic guitar). The ensemble played a lot of really rhythmic African music, but they also performed original compositions that were much more like American jazz and blues. It was a great thing for the kids to see. They bobbed their little heads and danced in their seats. We had a good time. Afterwards, one of the musicians asked me to take a picture of him with John. I couldn't get the blasted digital camera to take it, or I would post it.
You can hear samples of Mamadou's music on his Web site: http://www.mamadoukora.com/.
Forgiven
Hannah stumped us again last night. She had a difficult row with her dad over being disrespectful. He took her into her room, gave her a stern lecture about being respectful, and left her there crumpled in tears on her bed. When I went in several minutes later to dole out her punishment (she’d have to stay in her room until bedtime), I played good cop (it was my turn), soothed her for a bit, and went back downstairs. Just before bedtime, I asked Karl to go up and make peace with her before she went to sleep. When he sat on her bed and asked if she understood why she’d gotten into trouble, she said “I said things I shouldn’t have and I was disrespectful. That’s why you yelled at me.” Then, for her coup d’etat, she added “And as a Christian, I forgive you.”
Next time I won’t leave her in her room long enough to think about what WE did wrong.
Next time I won’t leave her in her room long enough to think about what WE did wrong.
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