Saturday, August 27, 2005
Criblessness: Day 2
Boo did not nap today. No, that's not technically true. He slept in the car for 10 minutes while we returned home from a busy morning outdoors. And many hours later, he took a 5 minute snooze as we drove to dinner. He was so exhausted when we reached the restaurant that I expected him to sleep through dinner, stretched across the booth. But he fought our suggestion to remain flat, choosing to struggle into a somewhat vertical position next to his father. From across the table, I watched in amused sympathy as his eyelids began to flutter, then droop, then sag. Boo began to list almost imperceptibly to the left, and Lee, feeling Boo's imminent collapse more than seeing it, shifted his arm to catch his fading son. Boo nodded off for another minute, only to rally when the cheese enchiladas arrived.
So with just 17 minutes of nap under Boo's belt today, I was anticipating that he would crash early. Well, I suppose he crashed, in a manner of speaking, but it was more like "crash and burn" than "hit the hay." We sacheted good-naturedly through our bedtime routine, but as I laid Boo into bed, he demanded more rocking. I decided that I would need to hold firm, lest Boo spend the rest of the night in and out of bed. I recalled Supernanny's bedtime technique: cuddles and kisses the first time; "it's time to go to sleep" the second time, and from then on, just return the child to bed in a perfunctory way--no eye contact, no communication. It worked every time. I was feeling inspired.
As I began to apply her bedtime technique, I could almost imagine the Supernanny film crew careening through the house in pursuit of my son and me. No sooner would Boo's head hit the pillow than he would spring upright, slip off the bed, and charge down the hall, screaming, "More rocking! I need mommy!" Pretty soon, I began a running tally of return trips to bed. Four...five...six... Max, who was already in bed, began to feel the stress of the situation and put in his two cents. "Mommy, I think Boo wants you to rock him some more." Nine...ten...eleven.... "Boo, stay in bed. I'm right here, Boo. You can go to sleep now." Fifteen...sixteen...seventeen.... "Mommy, why don't you sit over there in the black chair so Boo can see you?" Twenty-four...twenty-five...twenty-six...twenty-seven. Boo had now been completely hysterical for 15 minutes, and Lee could take no more. "I'm going to rock him for awhile," Lee said, erasing the work of the past 30 minutes. Safe in his father's arms, Boo quieted down, but at the expense of Lee's compromised neck. After a few minutes, Lee asked me to take over. And Boo knew as well as I did that he'd won this round.
I hadn't cradled Boo for more than 5 minutes when he said sleepily, "Bed." As I settled him gently onto his new dinosaur sheets, he asked for the blanket from his crib. When I returned with it, Boo was fast asleep.
So with just 17 minutes of nap under Boo's belt today, I was anticipating that he would crash early. Well, I suppose he crashed, in a manner of speaking, but it was more like "crash and burn" than "hit the hay." We sacheted good-naturedly through our bedtime routine, but as I laid Boo into bed, he demanded more rocking. I decided that I would need to hold firm, lest Boo spend the rest of the night in and out of bed. I recalled Supernanny's bedtime technique: cuddles and kisses the first time; "it's time to go to sleep" the second time, and from then on, just return the child to bed in a perfunctory way--no eye contact, no communication. It worked every time. I was feeling inspired.
As I began to apply her bedtime technique, I could almost imagine the Supernanny film crew careening through the house in pursuit of my son and me. No sooner would Boo's head hit the pillow than he would spring upright, slip off the bed, and charge down the hall, screaming, "More rocking! I need mommy!" Pretty soon, I began a running tally of return trips to bed. Four...five...six... Max, who was already in bed, began to feel the stress of the situation and put in his two cents. "Mommy, I think Boo wants you to rock him some more." Nine...ten...eleven.... "Boo, stay in bed. I'm right here, Boo. You can go to sleep now." Fifteen...sixteen...seventeen.... "Mommy, why don't you sit over there in the black chair so Boo can see you?" Twenty-four...twenty-five...twenty-six...twenty-seven. Boo had now been completely hysterical for 15 minutes, and Lee could take no more. "I'm going to rock him for awhile," Lee said, erasing the work of the past 30 minutes. Safe in his father's arms, Boo quieted down, but at the expense of Lee's compromised neck. After a few minutes, Lee asked me to take over. And Boo knew as well as I did that he'd won this round.
I hadn't cradled Boo for more than 5 minutes when he said sleepily, "Bed." As I settled him gently onto his new dinosaur sheets, he asked for the blanket from his crib. When I returned with it, Boo was fast asleep.
Friday, August 26, 2005
The First Time
Boo escaped today. He wasn't in danger, at least not in a cataclysmic way. But he resisted mightily after I put him down for his nap. After 20 minutes of protest, I heard his voice growing decidedly louder. He'd finally done it! He scaled the crib and emerged triumphant from the confines of his room. "Boo, how did you get out of your crib?" I asked. Max was quick to answer for him: "He took a lesson from me!"
Must I tell you that this does not bode well for the future of naps in our house? Every attempt to put Boo down will now be subjected to his personal litmus test: "At this very moment, do I feel like sleeping or not?" Boo defied a nap until about 4:30, when I found him limp in a comfy armchair. I transferred him to his crib, where his body succumbed to exhaustion. But not for long. Two hours later, he appeared on the patio, his muscle memory obviously having programmed "how to spring the crib" for all time. For the sake of his well-being, Boo's crib days are officially over.
This evening, I tucked Boo into his new twin bed, poised directly across from his brother's. Max was ecstatic about the development. "Mommy, now I won't have to go into your room any more because Boo's here with me and I'm not scared. Now we need a new baby to sleep in the crib." (Ha! Enough said.)
We then began what is sure to become an elaborate new bedtime ritual. I tucked Boo under his covers and snuggled stuffed animals around him, hoping to keep him from rolling out of bed in the middle of the night. Next it was Max's turn. Boo called me back to his side of the room. "Hug!" he demanded. "Kiss!" (How could you not comply with such a tender request?) Then we borrowed a page from the Waltons: "Good night, Max. Good night, mommy. Good night, Boo. Good night, horse. Good night, dog. Good night, Harley. Good night, bed." I turned down the light and slipped out the door. "Mommy, I'm not afraid of the dark any more," Max said to my back.
It wasn't long before I heard Boo's unmistakable footsteps skittering down the hall. "Boo, do you want to sleep in your crib or in your new bed?" "Bed." "Okay, then, you need to stay there."
The next time I checked on the boys, I found Max piling mounds of toys onto Boo's bed. "Do you know why I'm putting these toys here?" "Why, Max." "So that Boo doesn't have to get out of bed to play with them." "Well, that's an interesting idea, Max, but Boo isn't going to play with toys right now. It's bedtime. Now get in your bed. You need to set a good example for Boo." "I'm going to teach him!"
When I heard footsteps in the hall yet again, I intercepted Boo as he reached the den. He headed for the bookshelves and began collecting. "Boo, if you keep getting out of your bed, I'm going to put you back in your crib. Is that what you want?" "No," Boo replied, heading back down the hall. A few minutes later I went to survey the boys' bedroom. Boo was carefully arranging his collection of horses and dogs around him, right down to the copy of Brown Bear, Brown Bear, opened to the page bearing the blue horse. "What do you want?," Boo asked. (On the road to mastering pronouns, Boo has taken the detour on which "you" and "I" are transposed. And it's easy to see why, isn't it? I ask Boo "How are you?," and somehow he's supposed to glean that the appropriate response is "I am fine." I hear this most often when Boo looks up at me with outstretched arms and pleads, "Carry you!") So when Boo asked, "What do you want?," I surmise he was really asking, "What do I want?" And then he proceeded to supply the answer: "This horse and book and dog and blanket and dog and pillow." Out slipped an inventory of his bed's contents, now arranged to his satisfaction.
"Good night, sweet Boo, I love you so."
"Good night. Love you."
The first smile, the first hug, the first "love you"--now those are "firsts" for the ages.
Must I tell you that this does not bode well for the future of naps in our house? Every attempt to put Boo down will now be subjected to his personal litmus test: "At this very moment, do I feel like sleeping or not?" Boo defied a nap until about 4:30, when I found him limp in a comfy armchair. I transferred him to his crib, where his body succumbed to exhaustion. But not for long. Two hours later, he appeared on the patio, his muscle memory obviously having programmed "how to spring the crib" for all time. For the sake of his well-being, Boo's crib days are officially over.
This evening, I tucked Boo into his new twin bed, poised directly across from his brother's. Max was ecstatic about the development. "Mommy, now I won't have to go into your room any more because Boo's here with me and I'm not scared. Now we need a new baby to sleep in the crib." (Ha! Enough said.)
We then began what is sure to become an elaborate new bedtime ritual. I tucked Boo under his covers and snuggled stuffed animals around him, hoping to keep him from rolling out of bed in the middle of the night. Next it was Max's turn. Boo called me back to his side of the room. "Hug!" he demanded. "Kiss!" (How could you not comply with such a tender request?) Then we borrowed a page from the Waltons: "Good night, Max. Good night, mommy. Good night, Boo. Good night, horse. Good night, dog. Good night, Harley. Good night, bed." I turned down the light and slipped out the door. "Mommy, I'm not afraid of the dark any more," Max said to my back.
It wasn't long before I heard Boo's unmistakable footsteps skittering down the hall. "Boo, do you want to sleep in your crib or in your new bed?" "Bed." "Okay, then, you need to stay there."
The next time I checked on the boys, I found Max piling mounds of toys onto Boo's bed. "Do you know why I'm putting these toys here?" "Why, Max." "So that Boo doesn't have to get out of bed to play with them." "Well, that's an interesting idea, Max, but Boo isn't going to play with toys right now. It's bedtime. Now get in your bed. You need to set a good example for Boo." "I'm going to teach him!"
When I heard footsteps in the hall yet again, I intercepted Boo as he reached the den. He headed for the bookshelves and began collecting. "Boo, if you keep getting out of your bed, I'm going to put you back in your crib. Is that what you want?" "No," Boo replied, heading back down the hall. A few minutes later I went to survey the boys' bedroom. Boo was carefully arranging his collection of horses and dogs around him, right down to the copy of Brown Bear, Brown Bear, opened to the page bearing the blue horse. "What do you want?," Boo asked. (On the road to mastering pronouns, Boo has taken the detour on which "you" and "I" are transposed. And it's easy to see why, isn't it? I ask Boo "How are you?," and somehow he's supposed to glean that the appropriate response is "I am fine." I hear this most often when Boo looks up at me with outstretched arms and pleads, "Carry you!") So when Boo asked, "What do you want?," I surmise he was really asking, "What do I want?" And then he proceeded to supply the answer: "This horse and book and dog and blanket and dog and pillow." Out slipped an inventory of his bed's contents, now arranged to his satisfaction.
"Good night, sweet Boo, I love you so."
"Good night. Love you."
The first smile, the first hug, the first "love you"--now those are "firsts" for the ages.
More of the Darndest Things
On the way to school this morning:
Mommy, I know a new bird.
You do?
Yes, a cedar waxwing.
Oh?
Do you know what's different about a cedar waxwing?
No, Max, I really don't.
They feed some of their food to other cedar waxwings.
Why do you suppose they do that, Max?
Because maybe they have too much food.
It's kind of them to share their food, isn't it?
Yes.
Would you be willing to share some of your food,Max?
NO WAY!
(So much for "teachable moments.")
*****
In the last couple of weeks, Max has become an exuberant builder of blocks and legos and lincoln logs. This afternoon his construction prowess took an unexpected turn: I was summoned to witness a tower of dinosaurs that he'd somehow managed to assemble. A large T-rex was riding on the back of a brachiosaurus, a parasauralophus protruding from its jaws. A small brontosaurus was perched atop the brachiosaurus' head. The brachiosaurus' back was nearly invisible, thanks to two dozen dinosaurs of various shapes and sizes protruding from one another at angles in seeming defiance of gravity. The jumble appeared to be an odd experiment in structural engineering. I was curious about Max's construction techniques.
Max, how did you get all the dinosaurs to balance like that?
With my imagination.
*****
When Max awoke up from a nap (small miracles!) this afternoon, he was despondent. He padded into the living room where I was working, curled himself into a compact lump on the floor, and began to sob.
You're not my friend any more!
Why is that?
You hurt my feelings.
I didn't intend to. How did I do that?
I wanted to stay at school. I'm going to run away.
Oh, no! I'll miss you. Where are you going?
To my room. I'm going to close my door.
*****
With increasing frequency, Max and Reed entertain themselves and each other, and nowhere is this more true than the bathtub, particularly with bubbles added. If I'm lucky, bathtime is self-contained amusement for a good half-hour, and I can sit nearby and read while they play. Good for all concerned.
I was immersed in post-revolutionary France when I looked up from my book to find Max standing in the tub, relieving himself into the red stacking cup. Ordinarily, Max would get out of the tub to use the more traditional appliance, but it just happened to be the perch on which I was engrossed in my reading.
I asked Max what he was doing, although frankly it was pretty self-explanatory, and after he'd described the nature of his dilemma and the solution at which he'd arrived, he announced, "I'm proud of myself! I used my brain to figure it out! "
Mommy, I know a new bird.
You do?
Yes, a cedar waxwing.
Oh?
Do you know what's different about a cedar waxwing?
No, Max, I really don't.
They feed some of their food to other cedar waxwings.
Why do you suppose they do that, Max?
Because maybe they have too much food.
It's kind of them to share their food, isn't it?
Yes.
Would you be willing to share some of your food,Max?
NO WAY!
(So much for "teachable moments.")
*****
In the last couple of weeks, Max has become an exuberant builder of blocks and legos and lincoln logs. This afternoon his construction prowess took an unexpected turn: I was summoned to witness a tower of dinosaurs that he'd somehow managed to assemble. A large T-rex was riding on the back of a brachiosaurus, a parasauralophus protruding from its jaws. A small brontosaurus was perched atop the brachiosaurus' head. The brachiosaurus' back was nearly invisible, thanks to two dozen dinosaurs of various shapes and sizes protruding from one another at angles in seeming defiance of gravity. The jumble appeared to be an odd experiment in structural engineering. I was curious about Max's construction techniques.
Max, how did you get all the dinosaurs to balance like that?
With my imagination.
*****
When Max awoke up from a nap (small miracles!) this afternoon, he was despondent. He padded into the living room where I was working, curled himself into a compact lump on the floor, and began to sob.
You're not my friend any more!
Why is that?
You hurt my feelings.
I didn't intend to. How did I do that?
I wanted to stay at school. I'm going to run away.
Oh, no! I'll miss you. Where are you going?
To my room. I'm going to close my door.
*****
With increasing frequency, Max and Reed entertain themselves and each other, and nowhere is this more true than the bathtub, particularly with bubbles added. If I'm lucky, bathtime is self-contained amusement for a good half-hour, and I can sit nearby and read while they play. Good for all concerned.
I was immersed in post-revolutionary France when I looked up from my book to find Max standing in the tub, relieving himself into the red stacking cup. Ordinarily, Max would get out of the tub to use the more traditional appliance, but it just happened to be the perch on which I was engrossed in my reading.
I asked Max what he was doing, although frankly it was pretty self-explanatory, and after he'd described the nature of his dilemma and the solution at which he'd arrived, he announced, "I'm proud of myself! I used my brain to figure it out! "
Sunday, August 14, 2005
Brotherly Love
The boys and I were driving home from errands yesterday around lunchtime. Boo, who doesn't miss many meals, grew cranky and began to chant, "Lunch. Lunch. Lunch." Not far from home, he suddenly grew silent. I checked the rearview mirror: Boo was fast asleep. Max caught sight of Boo's nodding head, too. "I think he's dreaming about tomatoes," Max said, alluding to the fact that Boo eats them like candy. I voiced my concern that if Boo slept too long in the car and then woke up for lunch, he might forego a real nap afterwards. Max rallied to my aid: "WAKE UP, BOO!" His brother gave no response. "Oh, well," Max sighed philosophically, "more for me!"
Thursday, August 11, 2005
While I Was Out....
My housekeeper/nanny, Araceli, almost quit this week, all because of Max. On Monday, I left the kids with Araceli for an hour and a quarter (notable only because it was such a short period of time). While I was away, Max kicked and hit Araceli, hit and pinched her daughter Karen, and told them both that he didn't like them and wanted them to leave. When I showed up, Araceli had had enough. Mind you, she's 6 months pregnant, already with a sizeable waistline, and if memory of my own pregnancies is any guide, I'd say her patience is just about shot anyway. She was sullen for the rest of the day, and I took both kids and got out of her hair. The next day morning I told her I wasn't sure she was going to return, and from her response, it was evident that she'd actually talked to her husband about that very possibility.
What I took from this episode is two-fold. First, I need to start looking for back-up help immediately, because I don't know that I can count on Araceli being around much longer. Second, Max is overdue at getting his impulsiveness under control. He and I had a stern conversation about how unacceptable his behavior toward Araceli was, and Lee followed up on that theme when he got home, to which Max replied, "You don't know. You weren't there." Clever, perhaps, but also mighty impudent.
So I'm approaching Max this week with greater scrutiny and less tolerance. We had several incidents yesterday in which Max ignored my requests and warnings. I drew a line in the sand: push or hit or take something from Boo one more time, and you'll be having dinner in your room and spending the remainder of the evening by yourself. Next thing I knew, Max had emptied the entire contents of Reed's plate onto his own, so he was dispatched to his room.
And the wailing began.
"I don't want to be by myself! I want to be with you! I want to play with Boo! Let me out! I won't do it again!" And so forth, for about an hour. He would escape from his room, and I would carry him back. At one point, as I walked by Max's room, he grabbed my legs and sobbed, "I'm not a bad person, mommy!" (That one almost did me in.)
"No, you're a good person, Max, but you've made a lot of bad choices today. When you treat people unkindly, they don't want to be around you. I told you what would happen if you took something else from Boo today, and what did you do?"
"I took his dinner."
"And I'm so very, very sad that you did that. I'm sad because I know you want to play with us, and I'm sad because I miss you. I sure hope you make better choices tomorrow."
Eventually, the tears stopped, and eventually, Max remained in his room on his own. As I walked passed his room again, Max said philosphically, "It's better to be kind to people."
"I agree, Max. When you're kind to people, they want to be around you, and you get to do more of what you want. I think you've learned a lot today."
Sometimes I wonder whether Max, at his most disruptive, isn't begging for limits, limits that will reassure him that for all his precocity, he really isn't in charge. On my third pass by his door, Max's disposition had softened further. Climbing between his dinosaur sheets, he offered up this surprising assessment: "Today wasn't a bad day, mommy. Today was a good day. I'm ready to go to bed." It was 7:00.
What I took from this episode is two-fold. First, I need to start looking for back-up help immediately, because I don't know that I can count on Araceli being around much longer. Second, Max is overdue at getting his impulsiveness under control. He and I had a stern conversation about how unacceptable his behavior toward Araceli was, and Lee followed up on that theme when he got home, to which Max replied, "You don't know. You weren't there." Clever, perhaps, but also mighty impudent.
So I'm approaching Max this week with greater scrutiny and less tolerance. We had several incidents yesterday in which Max ignored my requests and warnings. I drew a line in the sand: push or hit or take something from Boo one more time, and you'll be having dinner in your room and spending the remainder of the evening by yourself. Next thing I knew, Max had emptied the entire contents of Reed's plate onto his own, so he was dispatched to his room.
And the wailing began.
"I don't want to be by myself! I want to be with you! I want to play with Boo! Let me out! I won't do it again!" And so forth, for about an hour. He would escape from his room, and I would carry him back. At one point, as I walked by Max's room, he grabbed my legs and sobbed, "I'm not a bad person, mommy!" (That one almost did me in.)
"No, you're a good person, Max, but you've made a lot of bad choices today. When you treat people unkindly, they don't want to be around you. I told you what would happen if you took something else from Boo today, and what did you do?"
"I took his dinner."
"And I'm so very, very sad that you did that. I'm sad because I know you want to play with us, and I'm sad because I miss you. I sure hope you make better choices tomorrow."
Eventually, the tears stopped, and eventually, Max remained in his room on his own. As I walked passed his room again, Max said philosphically, "It's better to be kind to people."
"I agree, Max. When you're kind to people, they want to be around you, and you get to do more of what you want. I think you've learned a lot today."
Sometimes I wonder whether Max, at his most disruptive, isn't begging for limits, limits that will reassure him that for all his precocity, he really isn't in charge. On my third pass by his door, Max's disposition had softened further. Climbing between his dinosaur sheets, he offered up this surprising assessment: "Today wasn't a bad day, mommy. Today was a good day. I'm ready to go to bed." It was 7:00.
Monday, August 08, 2005
The Pony Sleeps Tonight
Out of necessity, both of my kids are becoming Lyle Lovett fans. The only artist to whom I regularly listen, Lovett often rides shotgun on our travels to and from the ranch. The boys' growing attachment to Lovett has begun to surface in unexpected ways. This evening we were heading home from dinner with the First Class Playgroup, a lively gang comprised of the kids and siblings from Max's St. Luke's classroom. Tonight's gathering was hosted by the parents of Max's pal, Liam, and his little sister, Fiona. I was strapping the boys into the car when I realized that one of the children had morphed into a budding pickpocket. I confiscated the plastic thermometer from Reed and returned it to its rightful owner. By the time I made my way back to the car, Max had begun to sing: "She's my one-eyed Fiona. She's my one-eyed Fiona. She's my one-eyed Fiona. She's my one-eyed Fiona." This is not one of Lovett's better known tunes, nor one we've heard recently, but it obviously made quite an impression on Max, perhaps because he could so easily free-associate to the adorable, blond Fiona whom he knows and likes. (Surely, being "one-eyed" has no meaning for Max, a deficit that will continue unfilled for the time being.)
No sooner had I turned the car for home, than Reed began to beg for "Pony." Pony is short-hand for "If I Had a Boat," Lovett's fantasy about a solo voyage astride his seafaring horse. So insatiable is Reed's thirst for the Pony Song that the final chord has not yet faded before he is clammering for it again. To placate an insistent child, I've actually tolerated the Pony Song a dozen times in a row. Max frequently interrupts Reed's demands for Pony with his own request for the "Texas Song," a tune about a man who abandons his girlfriend on the side of the road because she doesn't understand the Texas mystique. As we drove home, the boys began to volley requests across the back seat:
"Pony!"
"Texas!"
"Pony!"
"Texas!"
"Pony! Pony! Pony!"
With words sure to transcend Reed's relentless request for a song, Max replied, "Let the pony rest, Boo."
No sooner had I turned the car for home, than Reed began to beg for "Pony." Pony is short-hand for "If I Had a Boat," Lovett's fantasy about a solo voyage astride his seafaring horse. So insatiable is Reed's thirst for the Pony Song that the final chord has not yet faded before he is clammering for it again. To placate an insistent child, I've actually tolerated the Pony Song a dozen times in a row. Max frequently interrupts Reed's demands for Pony with his own request for the "Texas Song," a tune about a man who abandons his girlfriend on the side of the road because she doesn't understand the Texas mystique. As we drove home, the boys began to volley requests across the back seat:
"Pony!"
"Texas!"
"Pony!"
"Texas!"
"Pony! Pony! Pony!"
With words sure to transcend Reed's relentless request for a song, Max replied, "Let the pony rest, Boo."
Thursday, August 04, 2005
Souvenirs
This evening dad came over for our post-vacation exchange. Dad returned a bottle of Children's Motrin, Max's hooded sweatshirt, a pair of child's scissors, our well-worn copy of Where the Wild Things Are, and three dozen photos from the trip to Seattle. As quid pro quo, I sent dinner for dad and mom, whose unfortunate memento from the trip is Max's fever.
When Max spied the stack of pictures on the kitchen counter, he descended on them. Max has already been gripped by the perhaps-universal phenomenon of searching photographs for his own image. Slowly Max fingered the pictures, offering a narrative behind each one: "That's me and Babee and Boo picking blueberries. That's Uncle Paul and Kimberly at their house. That's Boo hiding in the curtains." Halfway through this exercise, Max experienced a revelation noteworthy only because it emanated from someone not yet four: "These pictures are helping me remember!"
Having finished his initial review, Max rummaged through the photos now strewn across the island. After careful editing, he selected two. In one, a black penguin floats in an aquamarine pool, its neck craned backwards for a moment's preening. In the second, Max stares enraptured at a young woman in red dancing to a banjo's tune. "These are my favorites," he announced, whereupon he carried them to his room and tucked them beneath his comforter, perhaps to come alive again in his dreams.
When Max spied the stack of pictures on the kitchen counter, he descended on them. Max has already been gripped by the perhaps-universal phenomenon of searching photographs for his own image. Slowly Max fingered the pictures, offering a narrative behind each one: "That's me and Babee and Boo picking blueberries. That's Uncle Paul and Kimberly at their house. That's Boo hiding in the curtains." Halfway through this exercise, Max experienced a revelation noteworthy only because it emanated from someone not yet four: "These pictures are helping me remember!"
Having finished his initial review, Max rummaged through the photos now strewn across the island. After careful editing, he selected two. In one, a black penguin floats in an aquamarine pool, its neck craned backwards for a moment's preening. In the second, Max stares enraptured at a young woman in red dancing to a banjo's tune. "These are my favorites," he announced, whereupon he carried them to his room and tucked them beneath his comforter, perhaps to come alive again in his dreams.
