KidLit: Are Today's Children's Writers on Drugs?

 I have a good imagination – one that gets me into no end of trouble – yet my grandaughter’s book about a Siamese cat who believes he’s a Mexican Chihuahua who falls into red chili powder and therefore thinks he’s on Mars, is beyond me. The illustrations remind me of a mind-expanding experience in high school and the plot leaves me confused and slightly uneasy. Several trips to the library support my suspicion that there is a subgenre of KidLit that may have pharmaceutical inspiration. Even the great Robert Munsch, representing the conservative end of silliness, was allegedly a pothead.

I think back to the good old days when KidLit wasn’t so over the top.  Yes, I grant you it’s possible that Dr. Seuss was hitting the sauce back in 1957 when he wrote The Cat in the Hat, but at least I can follow the plot: children left at home alone, over-dressed cat breaks in and wreaks havoc, fish in sloshing bowl lays down the law, order is restored.  The dramatic tension between fish and cat is enhanced by fish being the preferred lunch of cats. Cognitive dissonance is achieved by having the fish in charge.  Solid writing.

At this Baba’s house the favourite naptime book is the old story of Chicken Licken.  In it an acorn falls from a tree onto the head of a chick who logically assumes the sky is falling.  He sets out on a journey to inform the king of the coming disaster and along the way picks up a hen, goose, duck, drake, and turkey to join him.  Multiple repetitions produce rhythm.  Illustrations are matter of fact and outlined in black.

Eventually Chicken Licken invites a fox to join them (only children familiar with the food chain recognize the foreshadowing). The fox misdirects the troup back to her den where her youngsters devour the whole crew. Although we are spared the carnage, the presence of wafting feathers and the visual of fox kittens contentedly cleaning their paws and faces makes it clear the crew is not coming back. 

Imagination? Clearly.  But there’s also a moral here which I assumed was either a) don’t over-react b) keep the food chain in mind when choosing travelling companions.  However, when I Googled the story (clearly other people are disturbed by this too) several other interpretations surfaced: have courage, don't believe everything you're told, don't be manipulated by mass hysteria, etc. 

 Is that not a whole lot of bang for your buck from one little book? It’s a mystery that Chicken Licken never made the Pulitzer short list - there’s enough there to keep kiddie brain gears turning for days. I can just see them sitting with their little furrowed brows, thinking ‘What the hell was that about?’

So knock yourself out crazy Mexican Siamese cat-dog! This Baba’s going to stick to the tried and true, the illustrations lined in black, the fox and the chickens, the story with a moral – even if I can’t figure out what the heck it is….

Finding Your Inner Baba

Recently a friend describes how she brought her extended clan together for a Night to Remember party where departed kin were remembered accompanied by scalloped potatoes and ham. 

I look over at her. “You’re the Baba in your family.”

Her blue eyes grin back at me.  “ I know”.

Neither Ukrainian or a grandmother, she is as much a Baba as one can be. Babas aren’t necessarily Ukrainian, or grandmothers, or old, or even female.  My husband, I must admit, is probably a better Baba than I am. With roots in the backwoods of Arkansas and the mountains of Norway, he took up my culture.  His nature is to nurture – cooking, comforting, being there – thinking of the needs of others without inserting his will (there we differ).  I know my mother recognized this in him early on when she gave one of the last existing copies of the bible of Ukrainian recipes (Ukrainian Cookery by Savella Stechishin) to my husband, not me.  Dedicated, no less. 

Every race has its Babas. When we lived in Korea I would watch the Babas in action.  The word that comes to mind is Formidable.  Not just your kim-chi making Halmoni but judge and jury in family matters.  For me, that’s too much pressure. And you live with your kids. When we lived in Switzerland I saw the family matriarchs rule categorically.  Swiss women did not get the vote till 1971 because, as the women there clarify, “The man is the head of the household but the woman is the neck that turns the head”.  Seen it in action.  Don’t want the job.  Prefer my own head.

The trouble with archetypes is they’re often myths.  When many people think of Babas they see a wrinkled, rosy face enclosed in a huska (kerchief).  Squat and solid, with hands worn by work and legs bowed by arthritis, they hobble from stove to garden and back again. Their sphere of influence is paltry, limited to church and family.

Not today.  Today Babas are chameleons.  Jean jackets and tattoos; power suits and $200 hair cuts; polyester tummy pants and t-shirts stained with toddlers’ lunch; white hair and spike heels; sweaty and muscled; clay covered or paint spattered; birkenstocked and braless; Lulu Lemoned head to toe; wrapped in bright saris or hidden under burquas.

Some people are born Babas.  You can see them even as children, clucking and herding, watching and organizing. Babas are also made.  Though I didn’t have a Baba growing up, I watched the Super Baba, my mom, in action.  I also watched hundreds of other women fill this role, some were aunties, some I met only in a book or a newspaper, some walking dogs, some I worked or played along side of, some I invented through the eyes of a child. 

The point is that Baba, Grandma, Kokum, Oma, Bibi, Nonna, Ama, Popo is whoever you choose to be.

So don’t buy into the myths.  Find your own Inner Baba.  Whoever you are.

Circumnavigating the Block: A Late Winter Expedition

In my continuing efforts to be helpful to my pregnant daughter and daughter in law,  I insist on taking the midgets (14 and 20 months) outside.  Bundled in polar gear and (with a nod to the Myth of Coming Spring) new rubber boots, we begin our expedition to Circumnavigate the Block.

Two waddling penguins follow me down the sidewalk, one announcing “slippery!” on each patch of glare ice, the other confirming the observation by landing on her bum.  Shocked by the appearance of a forest of wire-wildlife on the lawn of a neighbor, they freeze and stare, knowing instinctively the results of sudden movement.  When none of the animals respond, they lose interest - yet another Unexplained Phenomenon. 

Out of simple curiousity or perhaps an attempt to seek help and thus put an end to the expedition, they make the long traverse of driveways, climbing the front steps of complete strangers. Trading animated gibberish on the existence of a thoughtfully placed front bench or shrieks of delight at the appearance of a bronze bunny planted in the snow, they stop and smell artificial flowers artfully placed in frozen flower boxes.  The elder navigates the crusty snow in front yards to reach a display of birdhouses, once surprising the hell out of an elderly gentleman as he reversed out of his garage to find a little snowman examining birdseed in his rockery. 

Categorizing what we see is difficult.  Truck, car, or SUV? Grey, silver, or white? These are serious distinctions I often feel unequipped to respond to. Crossing the street requires inordinate coordination.  Look left, look right, look left again.  With up to a two second delay between word and action an observer would have assumed we were a group of Tourette victims passing by.  The disappointing yet realistic decision to abandon our quest was determined by cries of Hum! Hum! (Eat! Eat!) and little arms reaching Up! Up!  

As is often the case, adventure brings us closer to local culture, occasionally with unexpected results. On the return trip home, the elder stops in his tracks, mesmerized.  There on the front porch of a neighbor is a life-sized blow-up snowman, who, in a cruel joke, is shivering with his arms wrapped around himself in an effort to keep warm.  “Noman zhoozhi!” Snowman is cold!  I melt with the dearness of it all.  In an effort to determine whether the statement is strictly observational or is accompanied by empathy, I ask him what the snowman needs.  ‘Jacket! Boots! Hat!’ I point out the snowman has a hat.  The look I receive makes it clear I am an idiot and unaware that the black hat of a snowman is decorative and not functional.  Hating to leave while he is distressed about the snowman’s fate I suggest we go home and get a jacket for the snowman.  The little one, observing the interaction, shakes her head in dismay as if to say “It’s not real you nincompoops – it’s plugged in!”. 

Tired and hungry we arrive home to the warmth of the hearth.  With high pitched gibberish and wildly gesticulating arms they recount the highlights of their escapades, sharing the camaraderie that only explorers can.  Truly they are adventurers.

The Great Nap Experiment

Science is a tricky business.  Planning an experiment should take considered effort and thought.  But sometimes, the light just comes on, and you’re in it before you’ve really thought it through. 

Recently I’d noticed how babies and youngsters of all species can, at the drop of a hat, do a group sleep.  Puppies, apes, kittens, birds, piglets, and cubs will at some unknown cue stop their rough-housing and in minutes be fast asleep in a pile.  Kindergarteners and day care kids will, when the sleeping mats roll out at nap time, knock off together. My hypothesis is that a chemical signal, a pheromone of sorts, is responsible for the shut down.

To test my hypothesis I consider several options.  One is to put both of my little charges in the same crib at opposite ends and then do the usual lullaby/story song and dance while seated in a chair outside the bars.  (The metaphor of zoo or prison is, I know, horrifying). Even I see the folly in this plan and instead opt to mimic the pile-of-puppies imagery and put them both to sleep on my lap.  I know, I know.  A thoroughly modern Baba would have set up two play pens in different rooms, handed out the bottles and blankies, read a couple of stories, passed the verdict of Nap Time, closed the doors and retreated to her computer to check her Facebook page.

But what would we learn from this?

I announce to my daughter in law (DIL) whose house the Little One Number Two and I are visiting, that I intend to put both babies to sleep at the same time on the same lap.  Barely able to contain her mirth she maintains a straight face while preparing two bottles and changing both babies in preparation for what is clearly a doomed venture. I march them upstairs to the tune of Hey Tam Na Horeh, a Ukrainian military song.

Delighted with this sudden madness they join me in climbing into the big comfy leather rocker where I distribute bottles, set up elbow cushions, and prepare to read a story.  Except that my choice in literature is not unanimous and the book is flung far across the room.  A second candidate finds more favour but the pace at which I turn pages is unacceptable and loudly denounced.  I abandon story time. 

At which point the younger cousin realizes that her tiny petite body is being squished like a bug by the burliness that is her cousin.  (My inside voice laughs hysterically to think that my lap is actually not big enough.  I make a mental note to bring this to my husband’s attention). We adjust the seating arrangement and I begin the fascinating story in which all their family, toys, food, and favourite activities are catalogued and discussed. The elder wants to hear nothing except stories about Buster the dog.  The younger, nose still out of joint from her demotion to second tenant of Baba’s lap, just wants to go to sleep.  However, she stirs to action as the Poking Wars begin accompanied by insane laughter. Not mine.

Persistence is key in any endeavor and mine is eventually rewarded as the lullabies and/or pheromones have their effect. Eyes flutter….and close.  Yesssss!

Then CRASH!  I know that my daughter in law who is pregnant is working in one of the next rooms. I shout her name.  No answer except sudden cries from the babies as they hear the alarm in my voice.  I shout again.  Nothing.  I deposit the hollering babies abruptly and unceremoniously on the floor and run, finding my DIL in the bathroom dealing with a shelf that fell off the wall.  The children are beside themselves with fear and confusion, both reaching for her after their betrayal at the hands of their formerly loving Baba.  I really can’t blame them. 

My DIL graciously suggests that my intentions were good, but perhaps ill-conceived.  This is probably true.  Still, despite complications the experiment was, all things considered, a good start. Like any good scientist I look forward to verifying or refuting my results.  

If they let me….

10 Habits of Highly Effective Babas

A struggling novice Baba who grew up without a Baba of her own is perhaps not the best authority to compile this list. However, what I did have was a mentor - the Super Baba - my mother.  On call more often than was probably good for her, her priority was always the kids – not the adults. Despite a demanding job of her own she had, in retrospect, boundless energy.  She gave freely, they love(d)her to smithereens; her house was their Happy Place. What I know about Baba-ing I learned from her. The Traditional Baba which my mother embodies is the family matriarch.  Family decisions were, even at an unconscious level, made with Baba’s reaction in mind. Things are different now and the modern Baba has to walk the line between being an asset and a liability to her offspring. So tread lightly...

1. Don’t give advice unless asked.  And should the cold day in hell arrive when you are asked for advice, be wary.  Even though I have never been suspected of holding my tongue, my tongue is, in fact, nearly severed from biting it so often. I know this is the right thing to do because when I asked my mother, a very traditional Baba, to contribute to this list, her first suggestion was: Give Advice.  And a cautionary note to all you passive-aggressive Babas out there (which is nearly all of you):  telling a story about your experiences as a parent is an underhanded way of giving advice.  Just sayin’…

2. Do not call the baby ‘my baby’.  Unless you want to see your offspring rise up and morph into a Grizzly Bear version of the Uber Parent, then do not make this mistake.  A low warning growl, pupilary dilation, extension of claw tips and the words That’s Not Your Baby, will make the distinction clear.  If you’re lucky they’ll soften the blow by adding “I’m your baby” at the end.  Which is really dear if you think about it. 

3. Do what you’re asked to do and only that. Throwing things out and re-arranging items where they cannot be found could, in retrospect, be seen as a stressor. While doing dishes and laundry are acceptable and perhaps appreciated, re-arranging the furniture and organizing your offspring’s correspondence, may not be.

4. Feed them. The true test of a traditional Baba’s power lies in her ability to feed a lot of people really well, really fast, with no notice.  Having a smorgasbord ready at any time of day is the true mark of the Super Baba. All Super Babas have at least 2 turkeys in the freezer, 8 pies, and 6 rings of kovbasa. Similarly, no self-respecting Baba will allow her kids to leave a family dinner without a Safeway bag full of Tupperware containing leftovers.  Stock phrases such as “Who’s going to eat all this?” can be used to guilt unwilling recipients into at least taking the leftovers home and disposing of them there. Modern adaptations of this rule may involve Grampa whipping up this feast while Baba goes for a swim.

5. Do not undermine parents’ decisions.  I have a certain amount of experience in this area.  Stomping my feet and brandishing my independence did absolutely nothing to discourage my mother the Super Baba from overturning my edicts regarding the raising of children.  Turns out she was usually right, but that’s not the point.  On a closely related theme, if your kids snap at you don’t take it personally.  It won’t be the last time you’ll be reprimanded so suck it up Princess and move on.

6.  Baba’s House, Baba’s rules.  While modern parents value the art of negotiation and of developing the child’s Inner Boss, at her house Baba has all the cards (a situation Grampa has lived with for what I’m sure feels like centuries).  Naps are not optional, sound-effects fruitless, resistance futile. People who wear diapers do not make decisions. It’s the army.  An army of delicious food, monkeying around, playing outside, hugging, lullabies, and silly songs.  But still the army. Complaint department:  3000 km that-a-way. Although soft-hearted Grampa is the sympathetic court of appeal, the chances of recapitulation are slim. 

7. Use the BBC:  Baba Babi Ckazala.  The literal translation, ‘Baba Told Other Babas’, doesn’t convey the beauty of this communication system between women (subset grandmothers) that has been used since the dawn of time to spread gossip at light speed.  However, the more mundane but vital use is to support one another by talking about your grandkids, your parents, your marriage, the world in general, your worries, your aches and pains, your dreams and plans, and who died recently. And bitching.  Don’t forget bitching. While men do their mental processing while watching tiny creatures run up and down a field, women share their experiences.  Any social structure that’s survived for that many millennia is there for a reason.  Use it.

8.  Be willing to change with the times.  The previous generation had one authority on child-raising and child development: Dr. Spock.  Since his book was written the world has become a more complicated and perilous place.  Research on every aspect of child-raising has resulted in rules that overturn the lessons of experience passed from generation to generation.  It is common now to read of things we did in the old days that might now be considered a sign of neglect or negligence. Although many of the new guidelines strike me as dubious at best, I do know that if we had had access to the research available now, we would have done the same thing as our kids are doing.  If science replaces the common sense lessons of time then so be it. Nostalgia is a luxury.

9.  Rejoice in the Common Enemy.  My mother used to say that the reason grandparents and grandchildren get along so well is that they have a common enemy. While the observation is counter to modern thinking where we all work as a team, it does ring true in some respects.  Baba’s and Grampa’s house is a refuge from the realities of growing up, of training for real life.  It is a place where you are always perfect.  It is Time-Out in the nicest sense of the word.  What child doesn’t need grandparents who melt like butter just looking at you, who let you set the agenda, who let you carry on in the messiest ways, whose arms and rocking chair are a respite from the increasingly serious and demanding world?  If this wholesale spoiling of grandchildren gets you in trouble with the Enemy, then so be it.

 10. Tell your kids they're doing a good job.  Because they are.  Or you would've raised Holy Hell.  

      

    

      

Buster and She Who Must Be Obeyed - A cautionary dietary tail

Overhead conversations between my handlers alerted me to forthcoming changes.  High pitched happiness (which usually precedes dog-park outings) coincided with the phrase “Buster’s going to school!”. OK, I’ll bite.  Sounds interesting. 

If only I’d known.

A short car ride (I prefer the window down even in the coldest weather) resulted in the bonanza of all dog-parks – indoor, with a playground, populated by several dogs of varying shape and sociability.  We were given 10 minutes to extract vital biochemical olfactory information from each other’s butts - an enjoyable activity that terminated in the appearance of She Who Must Be Obeyed.  There are people who can travel through dogdom without even disturbing the air around them and there are those who reek of Power and leave the Smell of Fear in their path. Her first words to my handlers are “What does this dog eat?”  Female handler replies jocularly “The usual: fresh bread and butter.” No laughter.  Male handler quickly explains my dietary regimen to which She Who Must Be Obeyed replies, “Starting today he’s on half-rations.  After two weeks, give him half of that.” 

As she speaks, the word Noooooooooooooo escapes from me and I see myself lunging in slow motion to stop the calamity unfolding before me.  Except I couldn’t lunge because I was in a Stay.  As my head slumps to the ground I know my life in its present incarnation, is over.

As the offspring of trailer park parents there is nothing in my genetic code that would allow me to find merit in starvation.  Others of my breed are scrawny and nervous, the legacy of endlessly herding sheep with the occasional reinforcement of consuming one. (The ultimate Uh-oh). I, however, enjoy my food.  Pizza nights, fresh artisanal bread, those little bits of burnt fat from steaks.  Not that it comes easy, but with stealth and intelligence, much is possible.  As a result, unlike the others canines in our neighborhood, I have accumulated an impressive layer of fat; a symbol in the animal kingdom of success - nay - victory.  I have achieved my present state not through chance but through cunning and guile, the genes for which, sadly, will die with me. Damn you Darwin.

The tactics I use to accumulate calories range from simple trolling to applied physics.  Superior mass gives me free rein to elbow my way to the cat dish.  Feline protests, though painful, are rare.  The creation of elaborate distractions provides opportunity to inhale tender morsels of Rollie Roll that are intended for my toothless Rescue Dog Roomie cowering under the table. The occasional lapsed attention of my handlers can result in untended butter dishes on the counter that somehow fall to the floor.  (I am saved from consequences by the accepted dogma that disciplining after the fact when there is no longer a clear link between cause and effect, is pointless.  At this I laugh maniacally.)  Another tried and true scam is the “I haven’t been fed yet” con.  Playing one handler against the other, inserting the wedge and with the full force of emotion, eliciting a second feeding. Brilliant. Drive-by feeding is another under-appreciated source of calories.  Plates left untended on the coffee table, tasty morsels thrown by undisciplined toddlers over the side of the high chair, garbage left by the door…. The opportunities are infinite.  In short, a dog that settles for rations lacks imagination.

One month and 10 pounds later, I reassess.  Admittedly I’ve lost my waddle.  I can jump and run with more speed.  Ok, I can jump and run. The cats have more reason to fear me as starvation has heightened my senses, making me a more worthy adversary. In agility class I am earning the grudging respect of She Who Must Be Obeyed.  Yesterday I found myself walking the spine of the couch - something that would have led to disaster one short month ago.  As a leaner meaner version of myself, my eyes are wide open. However, when I close my eyes, I can still smell the fresh bread emerging from the oven.  A dog can dream.

The Good Grandma Scale

Grandma’s Briefs, The Nana Blogs, The GaGa sisterhood, Grammology….  Having been advised by the blogmeisters to peruse sites similar to my own, I’m overwhelmed and intimidated by what I read.

Who are these people?  What sweet pot of sticky toffee did they emerge from?  Is anyone really that nice? "7 Ways to Say Congratulations, You’re Going to be Grandparents” and “Another Ponytail Donated to Love", "Bonding Bragging and Benefits", "The Great Disneyland Adventure", "Fun Sandwiches".  I am way out of my depth here. 

I’ve never thought to make a brag book, and I forget to show off my iphone photos.  I don’t get coloring, and I’d sooner eat glass than go to Disneyland again.  My idea of a good time with my grand babies is sitting opposite their high chair laughing while we chew on bones and make rude noises.  Distractions consist of going outside to wander around or having them watch in-house Dogs and Cats TV.  Treats must have fibre.  They’ve never seen any cookies I’ve made for them because I ate them all. I avoid the new children's books because the authors sound like they're on crack. I forget to positively reinforce through praise and I’ve been known to use inappropriate language.  I have no tips on Nap Time other than the use of a full Nelson in the rocking chair and an extensive repertoire of nonsense songs. My baby proofing consists of picking up after the most recent fiasco. I rarely think to buy them presents, and I’m chronically short on clean bibs. I look forward to the time when they can help sort laundry and operate a mop.  Picking weeds in the garden is a life skill I can’t wait to teach.

In short, there is little to recommend me on the Good Grandma scale.

Except love.