random daily life observations
from a short two days ago:
“Does Santa have a penis?”
:pause:
“Well, yeah. If he’s a boy, he has a penis, right?”
“What color is his toilet?”
“Red. Santa’s toilet is red.”
:pause:
“Welllll….mine’s only white.”
(muttering under my breath) “Don’t even…”
I’ll be around later today or tomorrow, but I wanted to throw this up on here because…just because. It’s from The One Hundred Languages, which is a part of the Reggio education philosophy. My daughter attends a Reggio school.
No Way. The Hundred is There.
The child is made of one hundred.
The child has
a hundred languages
a hundred hands
a hundred thoughts
a hundred ways of thinking
of playing, of speaking.
A hundred always a hundred
ways of listening
of marvelling, of loving
a hundred joys
for singing and understanding
a hundred worlds
to discover
a hundred worlds
to invent
a hundred worlds
to dream.
The child has
a hundred languages
(and a hundred hundred hundred more)
but they steal ninety-nine.
The school and the culture
separate the head from the body.
They tell the child:
to think without hands
to do without head
to listen and not to speak
to understand without joy
to love and to marvel
only at Easter and at Christmas.
They tell the child:
to discover the world already there
and of the hundred
they steal ninety-nine.
They tell the child:
that work and play
reality and fantasy
science and imagination
sky and earth
reason and dream
are things
that do not belong together.
And thus they tell the child
that the hundred is not there.
The child says:
No way. The hundred is there.
Loris Malaguzzi
(translated by Lella Gandini)
Damn. I haven’t been around much, have I? Oy. And how were your holidays? Ours were awesome. A quiet, peaceful little cocoon of quirky goodness.
Except that Santa flubbed a gift due to a last minute, virtually impossible request from my kiddo, who I suspect either got her holidays mixed up or is attempting to fuse Halloween and Christmas together, ala Tim Burton.
What was Miss Wheedle’s hearts desire? A skeleton costume. A freaking skeleton costume!
“Why Mommy, why? Why didn’t Santa bring me my skeleton costume??”, pleaded little Cindylou Who in despairing tones.
“(sigh). Because he couldn’t find just the right one. Anywhere, my sweet.”
Gah! Just what was she going to do in that thing? Besides dance around the tree and chant in it? Just where was she going to go wearing that? Actually, I know. At the playground, where she already prowls around in her black masquerade mask, looking oddly like some strange little bird.
I awoke the next morning to find she’d also perched, upside down, her coveted, overpriced Webkins batty-bat on the bottom boughs of the Christmas tree. “Just like Stella Luna, Mommy!” Another Christmas present, by the way.
The big event during the holidays, though, were a pair of unexpected guests; two tiny, adorable elves. Noooo, not new birds. Twin, one year old boys we’d taken in over the week. Long story. Pretty cool though. Surprisingly easy; no fuss, no muss. Shocked myself. I could have had twins and managed that. Yep. Pretty cool.
Oh, and the new birdies, you might have asked? (or not.) They are flying. They are showing their new plumage and they are….boys. Both of them. One resembles Stella the fawn, and one resembles Miles the grey. Teenagers, they are; with croaky voices attempting to find their own song, just like the Fraggles. Adorable.
Happy New Year to you and yours, peeps!
“You have to help me!”
“Nope.”
“But you have to! I can’t take it! I just can’t take it!.”
“I said no.”
“But I’m dying!”
“Well, at least pick up your crayons, then.”
And she does. Fini. The worst thing in the whole world that I can do to her, apparently, is to ask her to pick up her own damned stuff. Cuts her deep, it does. But the entire living room looks like the bins have violently vomited up cars, trains, markers, crayons, little people, blocks, lincoln logs….ugh. I can’t take it anymore. I just can’t. Doesn’t she know I have cleaning issues? Or maybe she does. Maybe she’s seeing something I do…or don’t do….and is just copying what she’s seeing. Well, that’s not giving her a free pass. No way. I’m not picking up her shit. N-uh.
I’m stubborn. She is, too. Her friends have begun to notice. She has ideas about how everything should be….the Christmas tree, the obstacle course they set up in the backyard, and which movie to watch, of course. I’m really looking forward to the holiday weekend together, but I think of the future of us, and I see us fighting like cats and dogs; a collision of wills drumbeating against each other. As long as she knows I always love her, anyway.
The baby birds are doing very, very well. They are twice their original size now, and their previously naked wings are sporting tiny feathers. I don’t think their eyes have opened yet, and they still kind of resemble aliens. Their beaks are black, and will remain so until the first molt, when they’ll become either orange if they’re female, or red if they are males. The parents have been doing a great job. I can tell every time I look at them, by observing the crops along their necks, which are little sacks stuffed with seeds and greens. The first time I saw this yellow bulge on my birds, I thought it was a tumor. But it’s actually a very, very good sign. They are developing right on que and moving around more and more.
It’s all particularly exhausting for the parents, who need all the extra protein they can get, in the form of mashed eggs. I recognize that weary blinking of the eye I catch in Miles.
How far we’ve both come.
–The hosts of the local radio show this morning invited callers to describe, using one word, how they were feeling this morning with regard to the election results. Depressed. (cautiously) Optimistic. Relieved. Hopeful. Deflated. I feel….inspired.
–The kiddo spotted turkeys on the morning ride today. Her reaction: “We have to catch them and eat them!” Gas is my second biggest expense with this commute to school, but the quality time we have together on our commutes is priceless.
–Not to be outdone by my finch Prudence, little Stella is expecting. Her eggs are different, not ivory white like Prudence’s, but more of a faint grey-greeny color. I suspect its all the spinach she scarfs down. She’s kookoo for spinach. I’m thrilled for Miles, and for Stella. I should have just named her Queenie. Every time I look at her, I see an imaginary crown atop her little head.
–Yesterday, when I arrived to pick up the kiddo, she was deeply engrossed by some magnetic building toy. She apparently didn’t want to leave and told the teacher’s aide that I wasn’t her mother (!). Crafty.
on my other post because I’m a bit overloaded with the holiday festivities. I’m loving them more and more as the kiddo gets older. She’s a tiger this year. She IS a tiger. Or a lion. She takes on those qualities whenever she’s challenged. She’ll growl when she’s scared or in a new situation…the kids at Headstart were a little confused when she came along. I have a warrior.
Yesterday I ran into my rockstar former therapist. I was delighted….I’ve missed her. Alot. She just returned to town from a tour of Africa. Africa. Sheesh! I’m ready to start planning for travel myself now that the kiddo is older. Africa. Wow.
One of my sweetest, semi-guilty pleasures is watching Grey’s Anatomy in bed. It’s the only show I watch. Ok, it’s also the only channel I get, too. Christina Yang is my favorite character—brilliant, flawed, a little capricious (best line ever: Oh, it’s like candy, but with blood. Which is so much better. (on surgery). But it’s Meredith’s issues that have me coming back for more. I get her. I loved last night’s episode when she was carrying childhood doll Anatomy Jane around and playing with her during a meeting to solve a surgery. Quirky and creative. And now she’s found her mother’s diaries! I love diaries. Er, journals. I call mine a journal. I have my high school art teacher, whom I’ve always regarded as a painter/football coach in soul, to thank for a habit I’ve kept up for decades. It all started with those little black and white bound notebooks he’d issued us freshman year. I still use those from time to time, but my favorite are the tall, bound accountant notebooks. There’s something elegant about their size. My art teacher believed anyone and everyone should do art. And he has a point. But I would add that everyone should journal. Even badly. Just journal. One could say that in the age of blogging, it’s not neccessary, but I don’t count blogs as journaling because of their public nature. Journals are private and a good place to put thoughts of such a nature. I’m not sure I want the kiddo perusing my journals someday, but I do wish my parents were the journaling sort. I’d be all over them like white on rice for sure.
O.k., lastly, my little finch Prudence is expecting. Really. Three eggs and counting. In the feed dish. The fact that my first expectant bird is named Prudence kind of amuses me. Dear Mom loves her name. Go figure. Anyway, I’m going with this, even though I have zebra finches coming out of my ears– I had already scooped up two eggs a week ago, but I haven’t the heart to take these new ones away. Which means I’m building an aviary this spring. Doesn’t this one look sweet?
I have seven new finches. That is all.
No, not really. I DO have these beautiful creatures, adopted from a lady with too little time for them. They were all stuffed into a tiny cage. I had to rescue them! But I’m giving a few to a good home; a pal of the kiddo’s. The rest will fit nicely in my big flight cage.
The kiddo’s poison ivy is stubborn, and all over her face. Poor thing. But school is good, and she is greeted by clamoring hugs everyday. Her preferred lunch is a crab sandwich and Spiderman fruit snacks. She’s hinting to pack some octopus. Will that scare the little kiddies?
I had problems hunting for a suitable thermos. My one flask; engraved with Samhain 1991, wouldn’t do. Wanted to start the year on a good note.
And now, that is all. For real.
Ciao!
First of all, let me just say that I really did believe Paul Newman would live forever. May he rest in peace. Wonderful, wonderful man.
Also, the drama here is the news that, after some confusion and panic, followed by a consult with her ped, the kiddo has poison ivy. I’m a bit at a loss. I have no idea where this stuff is! I’m so busy these days that wracking my brain and scanning all of our activities and locations is not too much too ask, but nonetheless, a challenge. I thought perhaps it was a reservoir where we like to stop by on our way from home. So quiet there. We live in what is called a small city, but what I regard as a large town. We see people all of the time, which is fine…the kiddo likes the little people of her own size in particular. But we have nowhere to go that is relatively quiet and unpopulated. And, since the beginning of school, the high school band has taken to practicing practically right outside our doorstep until 9:30 P.M. So our communing in this quiet respite of a spot has been a godsend. I don’t think the stuff is there, however, because the rash has spread from its original spot (her face) down to her legs, a good five days later. So I’m thinking it’s back to the drawing board, Sherlock. It looks worst than it is; she’s only just begun scratching at it. It’s a surprise, but not a surprise…her Babci gets a rash just looking at poison ivy. I’ve never had it.
My zoo is well. Clinca the parakeet is charming me everyday. I had no idea ‘keets were so smart! I love making toys for him/her. Still not sure which sex this one is yet.
I am missing the kiddo a lot these days, but she loves the school and has become a much more outgoing social butterfly…my house usually has a crowd around. We found a dead lizard-sort on the driveway at school today. She notices everything!
This month is Domestic Violence Awareness month. I’ll probably do a few postings relating to my own experience here and there. It was just under a year ago this week that the kiddo and I entered a shelter to begin a new life of our own. I’d wanted to wait at least a year in order to process that before sharing anything in detail. So, nothing gory, but I think knowledge is power, and I’d like to share what I do know from experience if I can here.
Ciao, peeps!
late to the party, again. I have a secret: I didn’t listen to or watch the last game played at Yankee stadium. I haven’t listened to many games this season at all, actually. I did buy commemorative newspapers of the passing event, though. For dear Mom, who collects such things. I have mixed feelings about the stadium closing. I truly believe is it is hallowed ground not to be messed with. Couldn’t they at least dig up the dirt and stick it over there? It’s practically across the street. They can afford the expense. And the right field tiered fence: take it, too. And this bugs me. How can they not have at least mentioned Joe Torre on this special night? Sheesh.
My first visit to the stadium was sort of a coming down to earth as far as the structure though. Once inside, past the facade that never failed to captivate me on passing trains and buses, I was let down by the somewhat discrepit interiors. Let’s hope that improves.
My favorite visit was en route in a stretch limo with dear Pentyne, alongside two Red Sox fans I’d never met. With the kiddo in utero. It was memorable even before we hit the stadium. Just like dear Roz (my mom) before me, any sight of cars moving in opposite directions brought out the morning sickness in full force. Thank goodness I thought to bring along a ziplock bag. I think the Red Sox fans assumed a hangover, until I confessed. Then they were all cool and got all nostalgic over their own experiences (they were middle aged and not the rowdy sort. At least I don’t think they were. But we didn’t sit with them at the game).
El Duque, the greatest post-season pitcher I’ve ever witnessed, started that game and he was the only pitcher I’d wanted to see. It went into extra innings. We were late returning to the limo on account of our getting lost and stuck at the barricaded exit for the players. Saw Jeter, natch. The best part was sharing with Pentyne the game I’ve so loved and studied since I was eleven years old. Oh, and the binoculars were handy for checking out the player’s bods. Seriously, they look sooooooooooo incredible up close. Distracting, but I wasn’t complaining.
_____
Another secret: I almost accidently killed Clinca the gimpy parakeet. While trying to help him, of course. He has splayed legs that stick straight out, spread eagled. He can’t perch in the normal fashion, instead he kind of lounges on his tummy while clinging to whatever is nearby. So I’ve modified all of his eating/drinking stations flush with a platform for him, since he can’t perch on a normal feeding cup. Well, I came home one day, after insisting to the kiddo that we not stop anywhere. Walked in, and thought to check on Clinca, who was in a new location in the house, where he can be a more active part of our “family”. He was face down in his drinking cup, soaking wet. My blood froze, and something, probably my heart, sank deep in my stomach. But he was ok. He’d thrashed all of the water out of the cup, and was “merely” stuck in the cup, but alive. It still took me the rest of the night to get my bearings though. So, to anyone cruising by this blog on the search term “parakeet”, “splayed legs”: a regular fountain feeder will wet your birdy’s beak without possibly drowning the little guy.
___
kind of not a secret, unless it’s the kiddo’s: Nathan has begun composing poems and gifting the kiddo with original works of art. Like the kiddo, he’s an Aquarius, and a talented artist. Anyway, if she’s anything like her mother, she’ll fall for this.
I’ve been waiting for him to come along. A no nonsense, down to earth sort who takes no prisoners. Talks tough when he has to. Doesn’t kiss ass, or sway whichever direction the wind blows.
No, I’m not talking about a man. Or a candidate. I’m talking about an equal, my friends. For the kiddo. Heaven knows she needs one.
The kiddo is liked by many of her peers, but not until very recently, has she mingled with anyone her own size who doesn’t fuss over her and tend to her like the baby she prefers to be, or who (usually a male) lets her run the show and is more than willing to fight with others for the privilige of doing so. Know where we found him? Practically in our own yard, where he (Nathan) can be found often, hanging out with her on her Little Tykes playcube.
Nathan doesn’t relate to her on turf other than level, equal, fair and square ground. He will not be pushed. He is not a passive tourist in whatever play itinerary the kiddo attempts to force upon him. Her pouting moves him not. He’ll walk away when it comes to that. Of course, five minutes later, probably when there’s a commercial on, I’ll here the sliding glass door of his patio open, and he’ll be out looking for her again. This is guaranteed to happen at least three or four times an hour. But tedious as it is, I’ll take it. She needs a dose of reality on this level. They’re like siblings, spatting with each other one minute, clasping hands and proclaiming their mutual admiration for each other the next. Nathan wishes the kiddo were a boy, so they could have sleepovers. The kiddo just wants a brother. It appears that she’s found something like that. Good for both of them.
Toni Morrisson has another book coming out. As far as I’m concerned, she should just live forever so she can keep writing great stories and characters. And I’ve discovered Ghada Amer, a painter and sculptor whose works in embroidery on the themes of eroticism, pornography, the myths of beauty, and gender roles intrigues me. Her work can be seen in the current addition of Fiber Arts.
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