crooked house

One Day, My Child, You Will Be

A bishop, a boxer, a bullfighter. Eric Maloberti imagines what the future may hold for his three-month-old daughter June.

And of course, DON'T MISS Lotte Time Lapse: Birth to 12 years in 2 min 45, which makes me want to weep.

Are You My Mother? Maud Interviews Alison Bechdel

Can't wait to get my hands on a copy of Are You My Mother?: A Comic Drama, Alison Bechdel's graphic memoir (is that a thing?) about her relationship with her mother. Maud Newton talks to her about it in this really intriguing interview.

AB: One of my earliest, most powerful memories of my mother is playing this game where I would be a crippled child like the kids I would see at the orthopedic wing of the hospital when I would go to get my fallen arches checked up on. I was just fascinated with these children, with their external signs of disability, their crutches and braces and big shoes. There was something about that that I needed to reenact, and my mother entered into that imaginary space so willingly with me and in such an encouraging way. Even though I knew there was something weird about having this fantasy about disabled children, she didn't sensor it. She encouraged me to go with it, and I feel like she probably did that with me in lots of imaginary games as a kid but for some reason this is the one that I remember the most vividly. And I speculate in the book that it's because it was a fantasy that she shared to a certain extent as well.

 

BNR: And when your OCD was making it really difficult to keep the diary, your mom would write down your entries. I remember that from Fun Home, too, and both times it gave me chills. The devotion implicit in it.

 

AB: Oh my God, that was another pivotal moment. She would sit there and write down everything I said. It was amazing. It also becomes weirdly this template for my relationship later with therapists, other women who would sit there and take down notes on what I was saying.

What I Want for Mother's Day

Custom silhouette charms of the kids. One of my minor obsessions is collecting charms. I've seen the generic silhouette charms around but never really coveted one because, well, they are generic heads. But this artist will make actual silhouettes of your children's heads using photos you submit. Genius. I'm putting in my order right now. Are you reading this, D?

Lego for Girls

The Ivy on her memories of playing with Lego and the new Lego stuff targeted at girls. What she said.

Rite of Spring: Mayflowers

Nicholas Roerich, Kiss to the Earth.

On Sunday we went looking for mayflowers. They're called mayflowers but they come out in April here in Nova Scotia, at the tail end of winter. Their tiny pink and white blossoms, so delicate in comparison to the thick hairy brown stems and broad rusty leaves that protect them, smell heavenly -- sweet, wild and, beyond that, indescribable. Finding them -- and you can only find them in the wild  -- means that it is definitely spring.

Luke, unconvinced that mayflowering would be very exciting, brought his Lego Ninjago sword, which he used to fight off a number of invisible monster skeletons he happened upon. He also explained to me, as I peered into the underbrush looking in vain for tiny pink and white buds, that just the sight of his sword would be sure to terrify any bears we might stumble across, as surely at least a few of their ancestors must have been killed by swords. I nodded and kept looking for mayflowers, wondering how the bears might've communicated this ancestral fear of swords to their children. Sylvie, pushed along in her stroller by her father, bounced over tree roots and babbled about owls.

After some fruitless searching, we came out onto the hiking trail that has been made out of a defunct railway line. Luke and Vivi, who by now had tumbled out of her stroller, started to lag behind and to complain. Grampa's sharp eyes managed to discover three tiny unopened mayflower buds on the side of the trail. "Maybe it's still too early," I said and suggested that we make a quick detour to the nearby town graveyard, to see the children's grandmother's grave, before going on to the playground.

Luke's grandfather's name and birthdate are inscribed to the left of his grandmother's but of course, as Grampa is still with us, there is only a smooth empty space where the date of his death would go. "Who knows? Who knows? Who knows?" said Luke cheerfully, as  he pointed one by one at the blanks where the month, day, and year will be.

Vivi caught sight of a small gravestone carved in the shape of a teddy bear. She ran off toward it. I went after her, to make sure she didn't take any of the flowers away. It was the grave of an 8-month-old baby. "We love you, silly bird" was inscribed along the bottom. Sylvie giggled and stumbled away in her bumble bee boots. I followed her, looking down at my feet, my eyes suddenly filled with sunlight and tears. And there, in the dead brown grass all around the children's grandmother's grave, were dozens of mayflowers.

 

Thank you, Gramma Linda.

Retro First Moment

An iPhone photo of Luke, at his grandfather's house, reading the comics page for the first time. The comics page in an actual newspaper -- we don't subscribe to any physical papers anymore. I taught a lot of kids to read (or at least helped them learn) but  it is so much more amazing when your own child starts to do it, as exciting as when he said his first word or took his first step. It's as if he were the only child in the world clever enough to figure out how to do such a miraculous thing.

Babies in Literature: Troll Babies

From the fascinating D'Aulaires' Book of Trolls:

[The troll children] screamed and yelled from morning to night, and that was just the time when the trolls wanted to sleep.

No wonder the troll-hags looked with envy at the good little babies on the farms down in the valleys! They did their crying at night and slept peacefully during the days.

Whenever a troll-hag had a chance, she would snatch an infant from his cradle and put one of her troll-brats in his place. Then there was just one way for the mother to get her own child back. She had to take the ugly changeling behind the barn on a dark Thursday night and spank him soundly. If she was lucky, his howls would melt the stony heart of the troll-hag and she would come running back, toss the human child to his mother, grab his own and storm back into the mountain with him. If this did not work, her poor mother had to live for the rest of her life with a troll in her house.

Lego Shell for Hermit Crab

Harry the Hermit Crab, who lives in Legoland, Windsor, UK, chose a shell of Lego bricks. Of course.

Before the Birthday Party

Luke turned seven on Good Friday and we had his party on Saturday in the church hall just up the street from our house. Last year I gave myself barely half an hour to set up so this year we went two hours early. That was a bit too early.

Sylvie insisted on wearing a pair of plastic high heels throughout the entire event. They had clumps of marabou-like fluff on the tops with  purple jewels nested in the middles. For some reason the purple jewels offended her sensibilities so she tore them off, leaving only shreds of fake marabou. Inappropriate summer sun dress also chosen by Vivi herself.

I should've had the sense to take aftermath photos but I was too exhausted at that point. I am afraid the Easter bunny was rather lame this year.

Vivi's Hello Kitty Kitten Heels

This pair of black patent leather kitten heels belongs to Vivi's stuffed Hello Kitty doll. She likes to wear them around the house. If she'd been one of Cinderella's stepsisters, she would've MADE that glass slipper fit.