crooked house

Holly, Luke, and the pumpkin cat.

Luke and his babysitter Holly just made this pumpkin cat out of the Martha Stewart Halloween issue.  There's a slideshow of more elaborate pumpkin creatures on the Martha site.  We're really into pumpkins today. Last night we went to Mahone Bay's Scarecrow Festival. (I've posted a few of our photos -- they don't do it justice -- on flickr.) Every year Joanne (of Joanne's Market, of course) carves about a hundred and fifty pumpkins that rival Martha Stewart's. She sets them up on a hill overlooking the bay, between the three churches and the settlers' graveyard, and at sunset when they're all lit up at once, it's magic. People stroll up and down the hill taking them in and for the past two years,  Belinda (the woman who manages the quilt shop) has sung folk songs a cappella in her beautiful voice. She is very talented. The year before that, a group of tiny girls in angel costumes were supposed to dance. They did, a little, and they were pretty talented, too. But their dance teacher, who must've been inspired by the atmosphere -- or maybe the cider -- got caught up in her own improvised choreography and danced a lot more. She was... enthusiastic. The whole thing is always a lot of fun. Next year you should come.

Do you remember that pumpkin Luke and David carved about a week ago? Well, we had a couple of really hot, humid days this week and it developed a black eye and then a terrible case of brain fungus. I had to throw it in the compost pile. I should have taken pictures. You know, to help in the advance of medical science.

While I'm still thinking about arts and crafts projects, I want to mention 1) Kids Craft Weekly and 2) the Amos silky crayons.

1) Kids Craft Weekly is a beautifully designed biweekly email newsletter featuring the kinds of crafts you can do with very small children. Each contains three to five crafts on a particular theme. It's put together by Amber Carvan, an Australian woman who has two little kids who show off their work in the photos. You can browse the old newsletters, on topics as varied as Mice, Shopping, and Outer Space, here.

2) Amos silky crayons are billed as "crayons, pastels, and water color paint rolled into one." I don't really understand the "water color paint" part -- it's never occurred to me to use water with them. I think of them more as a cross between a crayon and a pastel. Luke got them a couple of months ago at Woozles (the oldest children's bookstore in Canada and possibly in North America).  They are much nicer than regular crayons or even washable markers and Luke is now more interested in scribbling because of them. Thicker than crayons and shorter than markers, they are easier for his fingers to control and the marks they make are much thicker and creamier. They are also easy to wash off hands, clothes, walls, and furniture. (By the way, this isn't one of those paid blog entry commercial things, although it probably sounds like one -- I just want the world to know about them. They're really that good.)

I've developed the horrifying habit of constantly referring to myself in the third person maternal.  As in: "Here, let Mama wipe your face." I know how it started. By the time Luke was around ten months old, I was desperate for validation. I wanted to hear him call me by The Name. And so, in an effort to model the use of the word, I began behaving like an insane person,  detailing every action I performed -- and almost every thought I had -- like an omniscient third-person narrator. And now I can't stop. It's gotten so bad that the other day I caught myself saying, "Mama will be back in a couple of hours" to the babysitter. In thirty years, long after Luke has moved out of the house, people in the grocery store will hear me muttering things like, "Mama needs the unsalted butter, not the salted stuff. No, no, no, not the regular eggs. Mama needs the ones with the Omega-3. That will keep Mama from developing Alzheimer's." Unless it's already too late.

Those leaves up there? That's Luke's collage. It's hanging in our front window.

We were inspired by the collage section in First Art: Art Experiences for Toddlers and Twos, a terrific book that stresses the process of making art rather than the end result. In addition to lots of great ideas for art projects to do with very small children, it's full of  anecdotes about all the different, and sometimes unexpected, ways toddlers end up experimenting with the materials. And at this age -- really, at any age -- that's what it's all about.  It reminds me not to mind the mess too much.

This collage was really simple to make -- and hardly messy at all. First, Luke and his grandfather collected some leaves and sticks out in our yard. Then they arranged them on the sticky side of a sheet of clear contact paper. We removed the paper backing from only half the sheet. When they were satisfied with their arrangement, we removed the backing from the rest of the sheet and folded it over, sandwiching the leaves between the two sticky sides.  That's it. We used transparent tape to hang it on the window. I don't know how long it will keep the leaves from drying out but it's looked fresh and bright for several days now. Mama will let you know what happens.

Little People

You've probably already seen these hilarious and moving photos of teensy tiny people in "actual size" urban settings. The site featuring them was a Yahoo Pick of the Day back in 2006.  You’ll have to excuse me – I missed most of 2005 and 2006. While you were surfing the net and going to movies and watching television and, I don’t know, possibly keeping informed about important world events, taking showers, even sleeping, I was being held hostage by my own little person, one with apparent manic-depressive disorder and major control issues (i.e. Luke-as-a-baby). He required cult-like devotion. And brainwashing usually means no access to outside media of any kind. Unless you count Barney.

When I was a kid, some of my favourite books featured tiny people or people-like creatures or dolls that were somehow alive. I still reread The Borrowers books periodically and I recently rediscovered two others: The Dolls' House and Miss Happiness and Miss Flower by Rumer Godden. I had only the haziest, most tantalizing memories of these, particularly of Miss H and Miss F (and the companion volume Little Peach, which I have yet to locate as it isn’t in any public library in Nova Scotia nor does it appear to be on Amazon). I’d searched for them a couple of times before but to no avail as I couldn’t remember either the titles of the books or the author. Yes, I’m one of those people. I have to watch it or I find myself saying “Do you know that book about that, you know, thing? By that author?” to librarians and clerks in bookstores.

Miss H and Miss F was the one I liked best as a child – it’s sort of like  The Secret Garden but with the construction of a Japanese-style dollhouse (the plans are included in an appendix!) rather than the cultivation of a neglected garden. Both books are British and feature an unhappy orphaned little girl who used to live in India, although Nona is more timid and depressed than the cranky, bossy Mary of Secret Garden fame. Now I’m more taken with The Dolls’ House. First published in 1947, it’s the story of a motley, makeshift family of dolls and their, you guessed it, desire for a house. The sad, creepy, even frightening events of this one are narrated in a deceptively light tone. It ends with the destruction of one of the main characters and left me a little shattered and wondering if the war had made publishers of the time more comfortable with the concept of death in children’s books. I’d be careful about giving this one to an especially sensitive child – I’m not sure it would find a publisher today, although, of course, it should.

It doesn’t take much thought to see why authors of children’s literature frequently feature characters like these. It’s more than just the cuteness factor, the undeniable and inexplicable appeal of littleness. Children can identify -- they themselves are physically small, like the dolls in Godden’s stories or the just plain tiny people in ones like the Borrowers, and they are physically powerless. They are also powerless in other important ways – emotional and social ones.

Of course fiction for adults tends to explore the theme of powerlessness in different ways. Not including the Lilliputians in Gulliver's Travels, I believe the only similar encounter with little people I’ve had in adult fiction is in “End of the Line,” the best – and most disturbing – short story in the collection Willful Creatures by Aimee Bender. It’s about a “big” man who holds a “little” man hostage. And things deteriorate from there. There’s an interesting tension in this one – for at first we believe that the little man, the traditionally powerless one, has the upper hand. The power then shifts to the still-somehow-pitiable but evil big one.  (Incidentally, this shift is the exact reverse of what might typically happen in a children's book on this theme.) The device is a powerful one, perhaps precisely because it does remind us of the stories of our childhood and of that time when we were at our most powerless.

It's with some anticipation, then, that I wait for the arrival of Kathryn Davis's Hell: A Novel (for adults, I guess I should add). Apparently it features, among other things, " a dollhouse whose inhabitants are not quite lifeless."

If you can think of any particularly good books featuring little people (or dolls that are alive) for children or, better yet, for adults, please do email me at stephka at eastlink dot ca. (Oh, I've just thought of another piece of adult fiction that fits: the short story A Real Doll by A. M. Homes. It's collected in her book The Safety of Objects.)

Halloween Costume Ideas for Babies

Yes, I know it's insanely early but Luke and his dad couldn't wait. They carved that pumpkin this evening.

Last year I figured Luke was too young for Halloween. Then our friends Kat (the mom) and Ella (the toddler) said they were coming over to show off Ella's gorgeous little bee costume. So I rushed to pull something together. One of Luke's nurses had given him a tiny set of scrubs before she left and we had already purchased a toy doctor's kit in an attempt to make his constant visits to the doctor less terrifying. (It didn't work.) I ran out and picked up a shower cap and a face mask. Once he was clad in all that, I put his dad's work id cards around his neck and handed him his naked baby doll of indeterminate sex to hold. Et voila! A tiny OBGYN was born. I went as A Mother Too Heavily Invested In Her Child's Future.

Luke wasn't exactly cooperative, though. Every time I tried to put the shower cap on his head, he tore it off. And forget about the face mask.  In hindsight, he wasn't too young for Halloween, he was too old. You've got to dress up your children when they are too small to refuse to wear whatever you've selected. Those of you who are new parents might want to try one of the following ideas.

Why not dress your child as a whoopie cushion? If your baby is anything like mine was, there will be plenty of appropriate sound effects.

For those of you whose babies still have that nice newborn smell, how about dressing him or her up as an air freshener?

If you plan to have your infant support you in your old age, as I do, you can dress him or her as a bag of money now. You know, to instill the appropriate values early on.

If your baby is delicious (and whose isn't?), maybe he or she should go as a slice of pizza.

And for those who have triplets: a hot dog, ketchup, and mustard. Just expect the two who end up as condiments to have a lot of   "But why wasn't I the hot dog?" conversations with their therapists in a couple of decades. If you're lucky. If not, they'll be having that conversation with you.

A (Dangerous) Thing A Boy Can Do

This afternoon we drove about an hour down the coast to Shelburne* for their annual Whirligig and Weathervane Festival. After we'd had our fill of whirligigs* and fish cakes,* we stopped by the Whirligig Bookshop  where we found A Book of Things A Boy Can Do.  Our copy is missing its  dust  jacket:

There's no date of publication but the book looks like it's from the 50s. It's one of those great old how-to books that inspired the retro -- and currently popular -- Dangerous Book for Boys. This one includes instructions for pass-times as varied as making a pin-hole camera, keeping a nature diary, and getting your name in print (i.e. writing letters to the editors of newspapers). The copy we found belonged to one Frederick Bower (his name is written in the front), who added his own thing a boy can do at the end of the table of contents:

That handwritten bit, underneath "Plaster Casting for Pleasure and Profit" and "Making Gifts For Your Friends," says "Kissing Girls. " (You can click on these photos if you want to enlarge them and see for yourself.)

When we turn to page 154, as directed by Frederick, we find:

Can you read that? It says: "Kissing Girls. You hold them tight squeeze them a little then contact your lips make a smack and then let go." Thank you for the instructions, Frederick. Maybe Frederick grew up to be an editor. I'm sure the book would have sold many more copies and perhaps even still be in print if it had contained more information like that from the start.

*Only about 2000 people live in Shelburne now. But in 1783, some 15,000 Loyalists escaping the American Revolution settled there. (Well, we Canadians call them "Loyalists" -- I suppose Americans call them "traitors.") The streets and lanes down by the waterfront are laid out exactly as they were at that time and a number of pretty pre-19th century buildings are still standing. Apparently some of them were restored for the filming of The Scarlet Letter, that really awful film adaptation starring Demi Moore. At least something good came of it.

*A lot of folk artists here in Nova Scotia make whirligigs. They are decorative lawn ornaments, usually carved out of wood and brightly painted, that feature some animated scene powered by wind. Luke loves them. They beg for video. Unfortunately, my video camera wasn't working properly so I took a bunch of photos  instead. Including this one, of a dog humping a man's leg:

If you want one, the man who made it said that he can customize the dog for you. I didn't think to ask but I suppose he could also customize the person getting humped.

*Fish cakes are a traditional local dish, made out of salt cod and mashed potato, served with green tomato chow and, usually, baked beans. This one was a giant and thus there was no need -- nor any room -- for baked beans.

Please Look After This Bear

Britain is an uproar: Paddington Bear is appearing in a television advertisement  for MARMITE. Marmite may share the first four letters of its name with Paddington's favourite sandwich filling, which as everyone knows is MARMALADE, but that's about it. I tried marmite  once and it is absolutely disgusting. They claim it's made out of some sort of yeast extract but the actual recipe is a trade secret. That means that no one really knows what it's in it. Shades of Soylent Green , if  you ask me.

Apparently Michael Bond, Paddington's creator, is upset by the commercial. He says that his daughter Karen Jankel, who now runs the company that controls Paddington's image, didn't tell him about the spot until "the point of no return." He told the The Independent that there is no way that Paddington would ever switch to marmite as it "doesn't have chunks ."

Bookshelves of Doom has rounded up press reactions.

(The sweet, hilarious Paddington books were among my favourites as a child. I've been planning pick a couple up to read to Luke as he's falling asleep -- he'll actually listen to chapter books at night -- but I haven't seen any in stock around here. I don't think they're as popular as they used to be and that's a shame. The Paddington bear pictured above is very similar to one that belonged to my friend Sara, except hers wore a yellow hat.  I still covet it.)

Why Are Canadian Book Prices So High?

Proust's cork-lined bedroom, in the Hotel Carnavalet in Paris.

Let's take Kathryn Davis's The Thin Place, the book that's sitting right here at my elbow,  as an example.  When I flip it over, I see that it is priced at $13.99 for Americans and at a whopping $17.99 for Canadian buyers. This price difference has been ludicrous for some time but it is especially so now that the Canadian dollar is worth as much as the American one.

I've  heard this issue discussed a couple of times on CBC radio and frankly, the reasons that publishers and booksellers have offered just don't make any sense. One disingenuous publisher actually suggested that his company would have to reprint all their books in order to change the Canadian prices on the covers. I guess he'd never heard of price stickers.

Since Luke was born, our main source for books has become our local library. The money we used to spend like water on books is now spent like water on diapers. So for at least a year now when I've wanted to purchase a specific book -- one that I've seen reviewed online, say -- I've been buying it from Amazon instead of from Canadian stores or online booksellers. (And I include Amazon's Canadian site in that category, even though it probably doesn't belong there.) Ever since the Canadian dollar really started to climb in comparison to the US dollar, it's been much cheaper to purchase books this way, even factoring in the cost of shipping.

Of course I'd like to support our independent bookstores. I visit the two tiny ones in our area as much as I can. If they don't happen to have what I'm looking for (and that happens a lot in such a small market), I still try to buy something else that looks interesting. But our budget doesn't always permit that. In the case of The Thin Place, which I happened to stumble upon locally the other day, I actually did fork over the extra dough.  It turned out to be a terrific book and I don't regret spending the extra money. That isn't always the case.

Back in June, David went to work at the Paris Air Show. Nearing a state of complete exhaustion, I tagged along -- sans Luke.  I hadn't had any kind of real rest since before he was born and all I really wanted was the chance to sleep in. And maybe, when I would finally manage to drag myself out of bed, the leisure to sit quietly with a book and to drink a cup of coffee undisturbed.   But Paris is one of those rare places that actually lives up to, and even possibly surpasses, the hype. I did a lot of sleeping and sitting and drinking coffee, yes, but, inspired by that incredible city and by Edmund White's lovely book, I became a flâneur. (In other words, I did a lot of aimless strolling around.)

In the Tuileries Garden:

I came across this unfortunate fellow:

Oh my god, there is a bird on my head.

Oh my god, there's a bird on my head and I am naked.

Oh my god, there is a bird on my head and I am naked. Plus, there's a big stick up my butt. And I just noticed I'm in the middle of some fancy public garden next to the Louvre. Jeez, this is like those nightmares I used to have in high school. Or something out of a Greek tragedy.

It's two o’clock on a white-hot September afternoon. LUKE and GRANDPA are sitting in the back seat of the car in the parking lot of the grocery store waiting for MAMA to return. MAMA is taking a long time.

LUKE: When Mama coming, Grandpa?

GRANDPA: I don’t know, Luke. I hope she comes back soon.

LUKE: When Mama coming, Grandpa?

GRANDPA: I don’t know, honey. Soon, I hope.

LUKE: (wailing, throwing head and arms back against seat in exasperation) WHEN MAMA COMING, GRANDPA?!

GRANDPA: Honey, I don’t know. Soon, soon. Mama will come soon.

LUKE: (whimpers)

There is a short silence.

LUKE: Be dark soon.

A Fact of Life

Luke, on the staticky slide at the playground.

Luke's babysitter, Holly, is about six months pregnant.  Ever since she's had a visible bump, I've been trying to explain to Luke that Holly has a baby growing inside her. I'm not sure why I'm so fixated on him getting the idea. Partly it's because I want him to be more gentle with her -- up till now, ramming his head and shoulders full-force into her stomach has been an acceptable way to give her a "hug." And partly I guess it's because I'm like some shiftily gleeful kid on the playground who feels absolutely compelled to share this kind of information. After all, the process of human reproduction really is amazing. I mean, WOW! HOLLY! HAS A BABY! GROWING INSIDE HER!

If this keeps up, I'll probably become a total embarrassment by the time he hits high school, the kind of mother who eavesdrops on his conversations and then tries to lend a tattered copy of The Joy of Sex* to his friends. "Let's call your mother right now and see if it's okay for you to borrow this! If she says yes, and I don't see why she shouldn't, be sure to read the section on armpit hair!" I can hear myself saying now. "The hair on women's bodies is natural! It enhances sexual attractiveness; it doesn't diminish it!"

Note to self: do not do this.

The last time Holly was here, about a week ago, I actually downloaded a diagram of the cross-section of a pregnant woman to show to Luke. He finally seemed to make the connection. He looked carefully at the picture and then ran to Holly and put his head gently against her stomach. “Baby in Holly’s belly!” he said.

So when Holly showed up this afternoon and we started chatting a bit about how she’s been feeling, I turned to Luke and, ever the pedant, reminded him, “Holly has a baby in her belly!

Luke looked incredulous. "Again!?" he said.

(*If you click  through to The Joy of Sex on Amazon, you'll see that you can "share your own customer images." Thank God no one has felt compelled to do that. )