Friday, December 30, 2005
The Next Science Project
Since he was quite small, Max has loved science experiments. He's predicted that a key will sink and a pencil will float and then tested his hypotheses in a big mixing bowl. He's learned how to create green and orange and purple by blending inky drops of food coloring in a water glass. He knows that a magnet will pick up a paper clip and a spoon but not a rubberband or a toothpick. Some day Max is going to create an amazing science fair project. And in the process, I'm afraid I'll be about as useful to him as flippers on a tennis court.
A couple of weeks before Christmas, Max asked to make a time machine. He wanted to see for himself whether crocodiles really lived at the same time as the dinosaurs. For several days, he beseeched anyone who would listen to take him to the toy store for the necessary parts. Finally, Babee broke the disappointing news to Max: it isn't really possible for any of us to go back in time. His dream shattered, Max abandoned the idea of time travel.
But he continues to search for answers to life's big questions. Walking to our car after dinner, he pointed out a lone star peeking through some fast-moving clouds. (It's the middle of Houston, people. You want the Milky Way or an entire constellation? Better take a long drive.) The star got Max thinking.
Max: Why are there meteors?
Me: Well, there are lots of rocks flying around in outer space, and that's what meteors are.
Max: And some of them crash into the earth?
Me: Well, most of them aren't anywhere close to the earth. And the ones that come close to us usually fly right by without hitting anything.
Lee: Or they burn up in the atmosphere before they reach the earth.
Max: But some of them hit the earth?
Me: A few of them do, yes.
Max: And that's why the dinosaurs died? Because a meteor hit the earth?
Me: That's right. A really big meteor.
Max: I want to see a meteor.
Me: Well, sometimes we can see meteors at night, when they're big enough and close enough to us. That's what shooting stars are.
Max: Oh. I want to see the planets, too.
Me: That would be interesting, wouldn't it?
Max: Yes. I want to see Saturn.
Me: Saturn! It would be incredible to be able to see Saturn, wouldn't it? Saturn's a very special planet. Do you know why?
Max: It has round things around it. Like circles.
Me: Right. They're called rings. And they're beautiful.
Max: We need a telescope so we can see the rings around Saturn. Mommy, can we make a telescope?
Me: Max, what a wonderful idea! That sounds like a great project for you and your dad.
Max: And the telescope needs to have a camera attached to binoculars.
Me: Good thinking. So then we can take pictures of the things that we see far away through the binoculars.
Max: Right.
I've got good news for Lee: at least a telescope will be easier to make than a time machine.
A couple of weeks before Christmas, Max asked to make a time machine. He wanted to see for himself whether crocodiles really lived at the same time as the dinosaurs. For several days, he beseeched anyone who would listen to take him to the toy store for the necessary parts. Finally, Babee broke the disappointing news to Max: it isn't really possible for any of us to go back in time. His dream shattered, Max abandoned the idea of time travel.
But he continues to search for answers to life's big questions. Walking to our car after dinner, he pointed out a lone star peeking through some fast-moving clouds. (It's the middle of Houston, people. You want the Milky Way or an entire constellation? Better take a long drive.) The star got Max thinking.
Max: Why are there meteors?
Me: Well, there are lots of rocks flying around in outer space, and that's what meteors are.
Max: And some of them crash into the earth?
Me: Well, most of them aren't anywhere close to the earth. And the ones that come close to us usually fly right by without hitting anything.
Lee: Or they burn up in the atmosphere before they reach the earth.
Max: But some of them hit the earth?
Me: A few of them do, yes.
Max: And that's why the dinosaurs died? Because a meteor hit the earth?
Me: That's right. A really big meteor.
Max: I want to see a meteor.
Me: Well, sometimes we can see meteors at night, when they're big enough and close enough to us. That's what shooting stars are.
Max: Oh. I want to see the planets, too.
Me: That would be interesting, wouldn't it?
Max: Yes. I want to see Saturn.
Me: Saturn! It would be incredible to be able to see Saturn, wouldn't it? Saturn's a very special planet. Do you know why?
Max: It has round things around it. Like circles.
Me: Right. They're called rings. And they're beautiful.
Max: We need a telescope so we can see the rings around Saturn. Mommy, can we make a telescope?
Me: Max, what a wonderful idea! That sounds like a great project for you and your dad.
Max: And the telescope needs to have a camera attached to binoculars.
Me: Good thinking. So then we can take pictures of the things that we see far away through the binoculars.
Max: Right.
I've got good news for Lee: at least a telescope will be easier to make than a time machine.
Thursday, December 08, 2005
Dear Santa,
During the Thanksgiving break, Max was invited to join a carpool. Now every morning and three afternoons a week, Max rides shotgun with three of his chums. For Max the Gregarious, this represents a quantum leap forward in his quality of life. Drives to and from school have become comedy central. And the fact that I see other moms every day with so little effort translates into many more after-school playdates for Max. In his view, Max has arrived at the Show.
My feelings about carpool are more mixed than Max's. I relish the additional time at home, without the pressure to get both kids into clothes and out of the house and into the car and under the freeway and over the railroad tracks and to school on time. I enjoy observing Max alongside three other kids his age and to get a glimpse into their little community. I'm tickled to get to engage the whole gaggle of kids in whimsical fantasies about where we might be headed other than to school and back. But I miss the time alone with Max, or with Max and Boo, when we'd discuss what happened at school or play silly word games or just be together in silence. As my friend Libby said long ago, the hardest thing about being a parent is helping your child grow away from you a little more each day.
This week as I drove the kids home from school, I decided to ask the bunch of them about their day at school. My query about each child's favorite part of the day didn't elicit much response, so I got more specific and asked what they'd drawn during art. (Because they're kids, I'm going to take some license with names here.)
Olivia: I didn't draw. I painted a candy cane.
Peter: I drew a gingerbread man.
Gabriel: I drew a Christmas tree.
Max: I drew an apotosaurus.
Interesting. Had the class been given a holiday-themed assignment that Max simply ignored? Or were the other children borrowing inspiration from classroom decorations or a book that had just been read? How had Max's apparent non-sequitur come about? Perhaps he was contemplating a flying, red-nosed apotosaurus.
I continued: "I think I see a pattern here. It sounds like many of you may be thinking about Christmas. What is each of you hoping to get for Christmas?" No sooner had the question left my mouth than I regretted it. I disliked focusing their attention on the material aspects of Christmas. I disdained the possibility that they might begin making comparisons amongst themselves about toys--how big, how much, how many. It was not the message I wanted to send. But is was too late.
Olivia: I want a scooter and some candy.
Peter: I want a jeep and a car and some candy.
Gabriel, hesitating for a moment: I want some candy.
Max: I want seeds.
Me: Seeds, Max?
Max: Yeah, you know, pumpkin seeds, so that we can plant a garden.
There are so many things I love about Max, but now I get to admire him, too. I admire that he's unique and uninhibited. I admire that he's unswayed by the chorus around him. And I admire that he operates on his own terms. There may be nothing I'd rather give a child than a sense of himself sturdy enough to withstand the bumps and bruises that life invariably bestows. Hang in there, dear Max.
My feelings about carpool are more mixed than Max's. I relish the additional time at home, without the pressure to get both kids into clothes and out of the house and into the car and under the freeway and over the railroad tracks and to school on time. I enjoy observing Max alongside three other kids his age and to get a glimpse into their little community. I'm tickled to get to engage the whole gaggle of kids in whimsical fantasies about where we might be headed other than to school and back. But I miss the time alone with Max, or with Max and Boo, when we'd discuss what happened at school or play silly word games or just be together in silence. As my friend Libby said long ago, the hardest thing about being a parent is helping your child grow away from you a little more each day.
This week as I drove the kids home from school, I decided to ask the bunch of them about their day at school. My query about each child's favorite part of the day didn't elicit much response, so I got more specific and asked what they'd drawn during art. (Because they're kids, I'm going to take some license with names here.)
Olivia: I didn't draw. I painted a candy cane.
Peter: I drew a gingerbread man.
Gabriel: I drew a Christmas tree.
Max: I drew an apotosaurus.
Interesting. Had the class been given a holiday-themed assignment that Max simply ignored? Or were the other children borrowing inspiration from classroom decorations or a book that had just been read? How had Max's apparent non-sequitur come about? Perhaps he was contemplating a flying, red-nosed apotosaurus.
I continued: "I think I see a pattern here. It sounds like many of you may be thinking about Christmas. What is each of you hoping to get for Christmas?" No sooner had the question left my mouth than I regretted it. I disliked focusing their attention on the material aspects of Christmas. I disdained the possibility that they might begin making comparisons amongst themselves about toys--how big, how much, how many. It was not the message I wanted to send. But is was too late.
Olivia: I want a scooter and some candy.
Peter: I want a jeep and a car and some candy.
Gabriel, hesitating for a moment: I want some candy.
Max: I want seeds.
Me: Seeds, Max?
Max: Yeah, you know, pumpkin seeds, so that we can plant a garden.
There are so many things I love about Max, but now I get to admire him, too. I admire that he's unique and uninhibited. I admire that he's unswayed by the chorus around him. And I admire that he operates on his own terms. There may be nothing I'd rather give a child than a sense of himself sturdy enough to withstand the bumps and bruises that life invariably bestows. Hang in there, dear Max.
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
The Law of Unintended Consequences
Two days a week, after I take Max to school, I have a 30 minute hiatus before Boo is due at church school. Some days that's enough time for me to order, and receive, a decaf grande non-fat latte with one package of white sugar and chocolate powder on top. On other days, Boo and I head straight to St. Luke's, arriving long before the 9:00 bells ring (the church bells, of course). Then our ritual involves a detour to the library, which, I'm happy to report, still houses a familiar-looking card catalogue. My own memories of the church library are fond ones, as both a refuge from the confines of the pew and a repository for Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys mysteries. I loved those books.
Boo's current literary taste runs more towards farm animals, with particular deference to If You Give a Pig a Pancake. In case you've missed it, the book is a whimsical exploration of what might ensue should you happen to serve flapjacks to a passing swine: If you give a pig a pancake, she'll want syrup to go with it. And then she'll get sticky and want a bath. And then she'll ask for bubbles and a rubber ducky, which will make her homesick and she'll want to go visit the farm where she grew up. So she'll go to your room and get a suitcase from under the bed. And so forth.
I was reminded of this book as our evening unfolded like this:
If you give a kid spaghetti and meatballs for dinner, he'll throw up on your white bedspread.
While you're trying to salvage the linens, he'll climb onto the dryer.
While he's on the dryer, he'll get his hand stuck in a bimetal can. (That would be the can that was on its way to the recycling bin when he threw up on the bed.)
If you extricate his hand from the can, he'll refuse to go to bed. (But no cuts, thank goodness!)
And so it went, from 7:00, when Max slid easily into bed, until 9:30, when, in spite of himself, Boo fell asleep.
I'd have happily settled for a sticky pig.
Boo's current literary taste runs more towards farm animals, with particular deference to If You Give a Pig a Pancake. In case you've missed it, the book is a whimsical exploration of what might ensue should you happen to serve flapjacks to a passing swine: If you give a pig a pancake, she'll want syrup to go with it. And then she'll get sticky and want a bath. And then she'll ask for bubbles and a rubber ducky, which will make her homesick and she'll want to go visit the farm where she grew up. So she'll go to your room and get a suitcase from under the bed. And so forth.
I was reminded of this book as our evening unfolded like this:
If you give a kid spaghetti and meatballs for dinner, he'll throw up on your white bedspread.
While you're trying to salvage the linens, he'll climb onto the dryer.
While he's on the dryer, he'll get his hand stuck in a bimetal can. (That would be the can that was on its way to the recycling bin when he threw up on the bed.)
If you extricate his hand from the can, he'll refuse to go to bed. (But no cuts, thank goodness!)
And so it went, from 7:00, when Max slid easily into bed, until 9:30, when, in spite of himself, Boo fell asleep.
I'd have happily settled for a sticky pig.
Monday, December 05, 2005
Where the Wild Things Are
On the way home from school last week:
Max: Mommy, am I going to be a daddy some day?
Me: I don't know, Max, but I hope so. Would you like to be a daddy some day?
Max: No, I want to be a zookeeper.
Me: Well, you could be both.
Max (sounding incredulous): Really?!
Me: Yep. And actually that would work out quite nicely, because they have a lot in common.
Max: Mommy, am I going to be a daddy some day?
Me: I don't know, Max, but I hope so. Would you like to be a daddy some day?
Max: No, I want to be a zookeeper.
Me: Well, you could be both.
Max (sounding incredulous): Really?!
Me: Yep. And actually that would work out quite nicely, because they have a lot in common.
