We read right through to the bottom of our book piles last week. Here are some highlights:

Babymice — Elder daughter re-read Queen of the World and Our Hero… a few times. Much discussion ensued about the good old days of Dodgeball and the comeuppance Ms. Felicia Furrypaws inevitably faces.

The Sisters Grimm — We read the first in this series aloud, with much edge-of-our-seats hilarity. Sisters Daphne and Sabrina discover they’re descendents of the great Grimm brothers, and then must come to terms with the family baggage — a mysterious and uneasy alliance with the Everafters (fairy tale characters) living in rural New York. Personally, I found some of the literary allusions a bit forced, but the girls were delighted and are begging to start on book #2 right away.

The Five Lost Aunts of Harriet Bean — I really adore reading Alexander McCall Smith, from The #1 Ladies Detective Agency series to the Akimbo books for kids. He’s a master at subtle humour and wisdom, and his books are eminently readable. Harriet Bean is a departure — more high hilarity and madcap mischief of the Pippi Longstocking variety — but still fun. 

Amazing Whales — Younger daughter checked this out at her school library and read it three times through during our week away. She’s still a beginning reader and was bursting with pride at reading science. The series (which includes Amazing Snakes, Gorillas, Tigers and more) is the brainchild of The Wildlife Conservation Society, a preeminent player in the conservation world and, incidentally, employer of my dear brother-in-law, fighting the good fight in the wilds of Tanzania.

A Pale View of Hills — One of the books I read to myself when kids were sleeping or otherwise occupied. It’s a quiet and trecherous little read that touches on everything from Japanese society to a woman’s role in the 1940’s to the bomb dropped on Nagasaki. Not uplifting — it’s full of heartache and tragedy — but beautiful like poetry.

Who I Was Supposed to Be: Short Stories — More adult reading. I’m a huge short-story fan and these were some goodies. There’s something a little voyeuristic about them, peeking in on the quirky underbelly of everyday folk. But they’re mostly compassionate and dang compelling. More Lorrie Moore than Alice Munro (and not quite as good as either of them), I zipped through ’em in a day.

The New Yorker — I completely caught up on my mag reading, including a really moving piece about the Miami Police Chief, Seymour Hirsch’s latest on our efforts in the Middle East, and some very, very funny cartoons. My husband, by the way, still hasn’t won the cartoon caption contest, his fruitful muse notwithstanding. Wish him luck.

Half Full — We vacationed last week in the Bahamas! Have you seen the color of that water?

Half Empty — Both girls had stowed away nasty viruses in their luggage.

Half Full — Ibuprofin exists.

Half Empty — I’d only brought about 3 doses of the kid stuff because, heck, we weren’t gonna get sick in the Bahamas!

Half Full — Both girls learned to swallow the adult version with nary a blink.

Half Empty — Kids Ibuprofin must be mixed with something soothing and highly digestible. Adult Ibuprofin must not be.

Half Full — Dear Dr. Gunabi drove the length of the Island to check on daughter #1 who was not getting well. He also showed us a walletful of photos of his beloved 6-year-old.

Half Empty — Daughter #1 didn’t recover quickly enough to come snorkling.

Half Full — Daughter #2 did.

Half Empty — We ran out of books to read.

Half Full — The family from the bungalow next door left us a stack of theirs when they left.

Half Empty — Most nights the kids crashed too early to see the stars.

Half Full — When they made it past 9:00, they declared that the sky had “chicken pox”. I love getting a city kid away from ambient light.

Half Empty — We had to head for home.

Half Full — When I told Daughter #1 that I was sorry she’d been sick, she laughed and said, “It’s not like it was the worst vacation in the world!” And began reminiscing about the kayaking and the beach walks and the impromptu talent shows we put on in our room every night. 

Half Empty — We’re home now. And I’m coming down with something.

Half Full — Which probably means I’ll have a little time to catch up on my blog. Bottoms up…

Just a note to mark an unhappy anniversary. 

Today kicks off Year #5 of the Iraq war.

(I mean, technically, shouldn’t we call it the U.S.-Iraq war since we, y’know, started it?)

But semantics aside, I’m sitting here thinking about ways to recognize opportunity in the middle of the mess, how to translate some of our frustration and desolation into something productive. As parents,  teachers and children’s writers, librarians and artists, what can we bring to the table that’s both realistic and hopeful (since kids really deserve both)?

Well, here’s a start. A Parent/Teacher Guide to Children’s Books on Peace and Tolerance, by Bob Blumenthal, serves as a clearinghouse for all things righteous. 

Before you pass on account of preachiness, know that Blumenthal’s annotated list includes everything from Leo Lionni’s The Alphabet Tree to Robert Cormier’s The Chocolate War and M.E. Kerr’s Slap Your Sides. 

The book is divvied up by audience age but also includes a thorough subject matter index (Abuse, Bigotry, Homosexuality, Justice) making it easy to match suggestions to what kids are actually wondering or worried about.

None of this changes the fact that we’re ripping off another calendar page today and finding it harder and harder to keep up with the number of dead on either side. But in the meantime, maybe we’ll sleep a bit better at night if all our kids have peace as part of their lexicon, and tolerance on their lips.

Just a note to say that if you haven’t yet discovered The Writer’s Almanac, you oughtta. 

It’s a most quirky and delightful 5-minute segment by Garrison Keillor, chronicling all things word-ly. 

On our own beloved KUT, it plays every weekday morning at 10:25. See if you can find it on your public radio station — or you can listen online which, to my midwestern ears, is a comfort. More so than mere reading…

Keillor closes each day with a poem. Here’s an excerpt from Monday’s, by Todd Davis:

While We Wait for Spring

On that note, I’ll sign off for a week. 
We are headed to warmer climes (yes, even warmer than Texas) to kick around in sifted sand and blue waters.

Be well…

Critiquing students’ creative work is never easy on the old heart — a truth that’s exacerbated by “Distance Learning.” 

This semester, one of my classes is being held entirely online. No up-close-and-personal witticisms or warm fuzzies, no sitting-in-a-circle pow-wows. Just a web site, a discussion board and a whole heap o’ emails. Many of which are requests for revisions. 

I fear I’m getting a reputation as Mean Mrs. Red Pen.

I post announcements about the value of revision — and the value of imperfect drafts. I reemphasize process. I give examples of all the writers in the world and all the drafts in their desk drawers. But try as I might to create the same safe space online as I do in a classroom, it must be a bit disarming for students to have their poetry deconstructed and shot back at them with no discernible human attached. 

Sometimes a student sends a revision with a wistful, “I hope this one is better.” Others admit being overwhelmed by my requests to reconsider line breaks or word choice or imagery that’s cliched. I scramble to repeat my reassurances.

So this morning, I’m in the middle of a yoga session, bent over sideways in the triangle pose, when my teacher presses her hand against my hip and rolls my shoulder open, and I think, “Maybe this is what I do for my writing students. I offer adjustments.” 

And as the class moves forward, the comparison grows vivid. (I know — not very yogic to let the mind wander this way. But it was enlightening!)

Annick moves around the room, leaning and tilting and tweaking each one us, so that we can move more deeply into the poses, more fully realize the beauty of the craft at hand. And isn’t that our objective — yours, mine, and all the Mean Mrs. Red Pens out there? To help our students dig a little deeper, wring as much out of the language as they can and, at the same time, relish the process?

I bring this thought back to my desk today, with the hope that some semblance of it will transcend the barriers of screens and cables, that my intention can be executed effortlessly, that my students enjoy the push.

Namaste. 

Many mamas birthed babies yesterday, including a beloved cousin of mine. I fell asleep last night thinking about them falling asleep in their new little world, inside the baby bubble. 

There is nothing more astonishing than those first days and weeks with a baby — getting to know her, letting her get to know you. 

It is a mutual study, both scientific and sensual. 

First, there is that examination of every crease of every finger and every toe, of the little stump of umbilical cord, of the blotchy skin. If I were that thorough and detail-oriented in my day-to-day life, imagine the administrative productivity! 

And then, on top of that precision, there is the intuitive touch and dreamy exploration of scent and sound, the falling in love one little breath at a time. This phase of observation is less orderly, more womblike, and requires no experience or skill beyond mere presence. 

This is a time, I think, we never stop missing. My husband closes his eyes when he remembers one of our babies falling asleep with her head in the crook of his neck. There are times when I ache with a vengeance, watching a nursing mother. And those snapshots of our daughters — tiny blinking eyes, skinny arms and legs swaddled in buntings — they might as well be 3D and scratch-and-sniff they’re so visceral.

It is a lot to leave behind. 

But it occurred to me last night, during my tossing and turning, that we sustain this intimacy best when we read, out loud, to our children. In the rocking chair with a toddler on your lap. On the couch, one child under each arm. In bed, under the covers, morning or night, sick or well. 

Even as they grow ganglier, and learn to add and subtract, and skin their knees, and choose an instrument, and clear the table, and hang from monkey bars, and write in their diaries, they soften and slow down when we offer up the stories and lyrics, pretty pages and imaginative wanderings that are books. 

I know, from what teachers tell me, that lots of folks stop reading to their kids when their kids learn to read. And I know from reading to my daughters, from reading to my students, even from reading to my husband on long road trips, that we don’t outgrow the pleasure, the comfort, the sensual connection inherant in being read to. It’s ageless.

Tonight, my cousin’s baby girl will fall asleep at her mama’s breast and again, later, in the crook of her father’s neck. I will nestle into the cushions of the couch with my babies, whose legs are nearly as long as my own, and read.

Just back from an elementary school visit — a Young Writers’ Workshop for 3rd-5th graders. 

I love this age. They’ve grown thoughtful and astute, but are still delighted enough with themselves to stick their hands in the air and shout, “me, me” whenever they’re asked a question.

Today we talked about using language that is Specific, Active and Vivid in Every line, in order to SAVE poetry. Cute, hunh? 

Then they tried out their new chops on some riddle poems. Here are two they wrote together, as a group. I was wowed.

Who Am I?
I’m round like a beach ball
and I spin.
I’m mostly blue
as the ocean 
but I’m vividly detailed
with many other colors.
A golden rod
circumferences my spheres.
I represent something you walk on.
Who Am I?

Who Am I?
I’m white, with sockets
like two caves,
old as mold
and inside of you.
I’m smooth as silk
and hard as a hammer.
I’m silent
as a graveyard.
Who Am I?

What do you think? Any guesses?

Yea!!! 
This is gonna bring the house down. 

Or maybe not, since everyone else in the blogosphere already seems to have a solid handle on how to link and tag and invite and post and download and what not. 

But me? I’m still thinking papyrus and birchbark are good ideas. When my computer goes wonky on me, I either shake it like a soda machine or get out the sage smudge stick and try something ceremonial. 

So, it’s a red-letter day when I get a little better handle on anything around here. Under the tutelage of folks more technically gifted than I, like the luverly Shannon Lowry, I have figured out how to input aesthetically pleasing links rather than just having folks click on long, ugly, cumbersome url addresses. 

It was a post about a week ago that convinced me I better make the leap into deeper waters. It was littered with hightlighted html gobbledy-gook, illegible really, but not now! 

Lest you think that I’m going to go back and retroactively clean up all my posts, let me assure you that even I am not that driven to waste time. I just tidied up that one for practice. As my kids would say, “Easy breezy lemon squeezy.”

I’m loathe to say how easy it was, in fact. But it’s like all the other forward motion in our lives — so much possibility there for the taking… whenever we’re ready. Yee haw!