Monday, October 09, 2006
Spanglish
Because they hail from a state whose population will be predominantly Latino in the near future, I'm happy that my kids are surrounded by opportunities to learn Spanish. The boys' pre-school begins lessons in Spanish in the two-year old class. Our housekeeper gives them instruction two days a week. And they pick up a smattering of words and phrases from children's shows such as Dora the Explorer and their new favorite, Handy Manny. Handy Manny features a handyman ably assisted by his tools, including Pat, Stretch, Squeeze, Turner, Phillipe, Dusty and Rusty. Lots of counting occurs on Handy Manny, a practice which the boys like to replicate. But trying to acquire a second language can produce some curious results, like this one today as Boo stored his tools in his toolbox:
"Uno, dos, tres, cuatro, cinco, seis, siete, ocho, nueve, diez, once, doce, Saturday, catorce...."
"Uno, dos, tres, cuatro, cinco, seis, siete, ocho, nueve, diez, once, doce, Saturday, catorce...."
Monday, October 02, 2006
Like Night and Day
In the playbook of sibling squabbles, Max and Reed have found a new pawn: lullabies. I'd already finished our usual routine: Swing Low, Sweet Chariot (a/k/a Sweet Cherry) and "Animal, Animal," sung to the tune of Lullaby and Goodnight. The kids employed one of their favorite stalling tactics--begging for more.
I started in with "You Are My Sunshine."
"No sad songs!" Max demanded.
I went with "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star."
"That's a baby song," Max protested. "I want you to sing us a song we've never heard before. Ever."
Boo offered his opinion: "No! I want you to sing us a song about farm animals!"
It might be a forgettable moment, were it not so emblematic of the differences between my two boys. Max, who is all about The New Thing. Next vacation? Africa. South America. Australia. Next pet? Hamster, parrot, snake. Sixth birthday party? At the zoo's reptile house. Trip to Saturn. Volcano in the back yard. And Boo, who just wants the tried and true, like a pair of faded blue jeans. Farm animals. Construction vehicles. And "I don't want any friends at my birthday party."
Their tendencies are as familiar to me as the two faces that share a mirror each morning: Max's curiosity and restlessness so like my own; Boo a psychological replica of his father, steady and focused.
Yearning for some small Something New, I sat with Max's request, trying to retrieve lullabies from my rusty jukebox of a memory.
Kum-ba-ya.
That's as far as my free-associating could take me.
I've got a pretty good hunch it's not even a lullaby. But I found myself immersed in sweet memories of campfires and guitars and sleeping bags and shooting stars. I would have paid someone to seranade me then and there.
I sang a verse, and Max seemed satisfied.
"Someone's sleeping, Lord. Kumbaya.
Someone's sleeping, Lord. Kumbaya.
Someone's sleeping, Lord. Kumbaya.
Oh, Lord, kumbaya."
But Boo not so much.
"I don't want a song about llamas! I want a song about farm animals!"
Llamas? Who said anything about llamas?!
So I improvised the next verse. "Someone's farming, Lord...." I pictured people in faraway places, India and Ethiopia and Haiti, trying to coax sustenance from moody patches of land. As I sang, I meant what I said.
"That's not a song about farmers!," Boo bellowed.
Max, on the other hand, had been lulled into a fast sleep.
So I changed key.
"Old MacDonald had a farm. EIEIO."
"Mmmmm." Boo's relief or joy or comfort or victory was audible.
Horses, ducks, chickens, cows, sheep, goats, pigs, donkeys, and turkeys later, I summoned Old MacDonald's bull.
"You already said cows!" Boo shrieked.
Did I mention what a pleasurable stage it is, the almost three-year old? Whoever coined the term "terrible two's" just hadn't gotten to the three's.
Once again, I had to put some mental muscle into the task.
"And on that farm he had a frog...."
Boo smiled and soon slept.
Two boys. Night and day.
I started in with "You Are My Sunshine."
"No sad songs!" Max demanded.
I went with "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star."
"That's a baby song," Max protested. "I want you to sing us a song we've never heard before. Ever."
Boo offered his opinion: "No! I want you to sing us a song about farm animals!"
It might be a forgettable moment, were it not so emblematic of the differences between my two boys. Max, who is all about The New Thing. Next vacation? Africa. South America. Australia. Next pet? Hamster, parrot, snake. Sixth birthday party? At the zoo's reptile house. Trip to Saturn. Volcano in the back yard. And Boo, who just wants the tried and true, like a pair of faded blue jeans. Farm animals. Construction vehicles. And "I don't want any friends at my birthday party."
Their tendencies are as familiar to me as the two faces that share a mirror each morning: Max's curiosity and restlessness so like my own; Boo a psychological replica of his father, steady and focused.
Yearning for some small Something New, I sat with Max's request, trying to retrieve lullabies from my rusty jukebox of a memory.
Kum-ba-ya.
That's as far as my free-associating could take me.
I've got a pretty good hunch it's not even a lullaby. But I found myself immersed in sweet memories of campfires and guitars and sleeping bags and shooting stars. I would have paid someone to seranade me then and there.
I sang a verse, and Max seemed satisfied.
"Someone's sleeping, Lord. Kumbaya.
Someone's sleeping, Lord. Kumbaya.
Someone's sleeping, Lord. Kumbaya.
Oh, Lord, kumbaya."
But Boo not so much.
"I don't want a song about llamas! I want a song about farm animals!"
Llamas? Who said anything about llamas?!
So I improvised the next verse. "Someone's farming, Lord...." I pictured people in faraway places, India and Ethiopia and Haiti, trying to coax sustenance from moody patches of land. As I sang, I meant what I said.
"That's not a song about farmers!," Boo bellowed.
Max, on the other hand, had been lulled into a fast sleep.
So I changed key.
"Old MacDonald had a farm. EIEIO."
"Mmmmm." Boo's relief or joy or comfort or victory was audible.
Horses, ducks, chickens, cows, sheep, goats, pigs, donkeys, and turkeys later, I summoned Old MacDonald's bull.
"You already said cows!" Boo shrieked.
Did I mention what a pleasurable stage it is, the almost three-year old? Whoever coined the term "terrible two's" just hadn't gotten to the three's.
Once again, I had to put some mental muscle into the task.
"And on that farm he had a frog...."
Boo smiled and soon slept.
Two boys. Night and day.
