One calculation in measuring the success of a surprise birthday party is fairly simple: the level of apparent surprise at the exact moment of the intended surprise. For those lined around the room uniformly hollering the surprise, it is the look on the face of the birthday person that reveals all.
When this occasion visited me on Saturday evening I utilized the limited skills one accumulates for such rare events in an attempt to look surprised. I picked up the mail in one hand, appearing to look down at it, as I walked into the ambush stridently. However I was somewhat genuinely surprised to be physically attacked by a dozen kids armed with large balloons. That detail I could not have envisaged.
I knew this whole thing was coming. It was my birthday weekend. I was not sure of the time and place, but the whole affair had been confessed to me, in whisper, some days earlier.
It was probably the power of intimating with parent that drove Havana to lean into her daddy and confide that “they are doing something for your birthday, it’s a Secret.” By bringing me into the conspiracy of the surprise I was concurrently excluded from the actual surprise.
It would have been justified to be mad at Havana. But there are many occasions when a child of diminutive vocabulary makes a parent with more vocabulary, feel short of words. This was one such moment.
I didn’t have much time to figure out how to respond. Without much thought I stopped on the sidewalk, leaned down to my daughter, and eye to eye whispered back to her. “In a couple of years your Mom will be forty. I will be organizing a surprise party for her. Won’t that be nice? However, I will not be telling you about it because it will be a bloody secret.”
She grinned back at me, “too late Daddy, ‘cause now I already know!”
Thus the parent-to-kid life lesson of this story, tossed clumsily at my daughter, made no impact before it was summarily returned so fast as to leave me once again speechless. Unsurprisingly.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Monday, September 15, 2008
Kindergarten, Dickens and the Proven Fact
Last week our almost 5-year old daughter began Kindergarten at the public elementary school two blocks from our house. Such transitions are generally anxious times for both the child and therefore for the parents too.
Wednesday evening I attended the Back to School night and along with a dozen or more parents, overwhelmingly moms, I listened as the teacher explained her hopes for the children’s year within the school district’s mandated curriculum.
“Basically, Kindergarten is the new 1st Grade” explained the teacher, a 30-year veteran of the Oakland School District. She went on to explain how the school is required to have every 5-year old be able to read by the end of the year. “We teach reading 90 minutes each day. We have 2 science classes a week and math for a minimum of one hour a day” she explained. The school day for the four and five-year olds is 7 hours long. There are 3 recesses, including lunch and no music or art to speak of.
As I left, I thought: OMG, our daughter’s childhood is over. The rat race begins here. Get up, go to school, suffer, come home tired, go to bed, get up, go to school. While children don’t have to work in factories in this country, nor are parents forced to sell their children, the earlier and earlier start of the drudgery of work is no sign of social progress.
Additionally, on the day the country of Georgia was rewarded with $1 billion from the US government for doing the oil business’ dirty work in the Caucuses, we were asked to donate toilet paper, hand sanitizer, paper, children’s snacks and other necessities on a long list the teacher gave out.
When picking up Havana the next day I chatted with the teacher. She had implied in her talk the night before that the curriculum was too much for the kids and not necessarily the best for their general development, adding, “the children start raising their hands right after lunch to ask if it’s time to go home yet. They are tired.” She explained that her hands were tied with the high-performance pressure of the curriculum. I responded that the politicians play football with our kids to try to prove, through testing, that they’re strong on Education. She smiled and nodded.
The testing-driven style of education is a retreat to pre-civil rights era education. In Charles Dicken’s critique of Victorian Schools, Hard Times, the main character is a Member of Parliament and the owner of a local school. His railroad-method of education has no room for exploration, imagination or dissent. The children are seen as ‘little vessels’ to be filled to the brim with facts. The two strains of education were taught as one: for the children expected to become managers, they learned how the teacher taught; for the children of the workers, their education was essentially about obedience and tipping your cap to the bosses’ “fact.”
Meanwhile there is the additional factor at our local school. It is considered an under-performing school. All schools with lower income children are this way. So, the school is under even more pressure than many schools to raise test results,
Our Kindergarten teacher does a great job. The mandated pressures on her to teach strictly by the book and timetable makes her job more difficult.
She alsohe mentioned that our daughter is running around, chasing the boys in the playground and generally happy.Havana confided to me that she already has two boyfriends.
On picking her up one afternoon, I noticed from a distance that while in line a boy pushed by her, she turned and jabbed the kid to get his attention. These apparently small skills, of learning how and when to stand up for yourself and how to enjoy the people around you are among the most important skills we learn as kids.
With both McCain and Obama committed to variations of No Child Left Behind, our kids will be forced to continue the monotony of fact-driven education. Working class kids are more likely to survive because they are more likely to see through the system’s veneer.
Wednesday evening I attended the Back to School night and along with a dozen or more parents, overwhelmingly moms, I listened as the teacher explained her hopes for the children’s year within the school district’s mandated curriculum.
“Basically, Kindergarten is the new 1st Grade” explained the teacher, a 30-year veteran of the Oakland School District. She went on to explain how the school is required to have every 5-year old be able to read by the end of the year. “We teach reading 90 minutes each day. We have 2 science classes a week and math for a minimum of one hour a day” she explained. The school day for the four and five-year olds is 7 hours long. There are 3 recesses, including lunch and no music or art to speak of.
As I left, I thought: OMG, our daughter’s childhood is over. The rat race begins here. Get up, go to school, suffer, come home tired, go to bed, get up, go to school. While children don’t have to work in factories in this country, nor are parents forced to sell their children, the earlier and earlier start of the drudgery of work is no sign of social progress.
Additionally, on the day the country of Georgia was rewarded with $1 billion from the US government for doing the oil business’ dirty work in the Caucuses, we were asked to donate toilet paper, hand sanitizer, paper, children’s snacks and other necessities on a long list the teacher gave out.
When picking up Havana the next day I chatted with the teacher. She had implied in her talk the night before that the curriculum was too much for the kids and not necessarily the best for their general development, adding, “the children start raising their hands right after lunch to ask if it’s time to go home yet. They are tired.” She explained that her hands were tied with the high-performance pressure of the curriculum. I responded that the politicians play football with our kids to try to prove, through testing, that they’re strong on Education. She smiled and nodded.
The testing-driven style of education is a retreat to pre-civil rights era education. In Charles Dicken’s critique of Victorian Schools, Hard Times, the main character is a Member of Parliament and the owner of a local school. His railroad-method of education has no room for exploration, imagination or dissent. The children are seen as ‘little vessels’ to be filled to the brim with facts. The two strains of education were taught as one: for the children expected to become managers, they learned how the teacher taught; for the children of the workers, their education was essentially about obedience and tipping your cap to the bosses’ “fact.”
Meanwhile there is the additional factor at our local school. It is considered an under-performing school. All schools with lower income children are this way. So, the school is under even more pressure than many schools to raise test results,
Our Kindergarten teacher does a great job. The mandated pressures on her to teach strictly by the book and timetable makes her job more difficult.
She alsohe mentioned that our daughter is running around, chasing the boys in the playground and generally happy.Havana confided to me that she already has two boyfriends.
On picking her up one afternoon, I noticed from a distance that while in line a boy pushed by her, she turned and jabbed the kid to get his attention. These apparently small skills, of learning how and when to stand up for yourself and how to enjoy the people around you are among the most important skills we learn as kids.
With both McCain and Obama committed to variations of No Child Left Behind, our kids will be forced to continue the monotony of fact-driven education. Working class kids are more likely to survive because they are more likely to see through the system’s veneer.
Monday, August 18, 2008
first swimming lesson
Today's first swimming lesson belonged to Ilyana, but of that, later.
Havana took classes this summer and lost her caution of water. She can hold her face and breath under water and paddle with a life vest. Her wee buddy Tristan and her were paired up, and in eight half-hour classes over two weeks Havana was, air-assistedly, able to swim.
Ilyana, on the other hand, miserably failed her first swim class today.
We were at the park. She was hamming it up as usual. Our newly-2 joker was yelling "I'm stuck! I'm stuck!" as she climbed around the play structure. Ritualistically, I would come to assist, she would grin and run off. The joke was repeated ad nauseam, eventually building up to the day's ultimate disaster.
Out of nowhere Illy cried out,"I wanna go potty." So off we went into the park's bathroom structure. I pull her things down and place her squarely onto the toilet seat. Then things got crazy. She raises her hands and yells,"I'm falling! I'm falling!" Then she stabilizes herself, returning her leaning arms down to her side. She laughs in my face. This is 2-year old funny. I show a slight smile. Then she does it again."I'm falling! I'm falling!" But this time. Splash! It was a sad moment in her comic career. One which all comics hope to forget.
I grab her before she disappears into the Oakland Parks Sewer system and she lets out a horrendously loud wail, demanding sympathy. I try not to laugh as I dry off her butt with the paper available.
I considered explaining the lesson of what just happened to Ilyana to her, but it seemed that her recent near-disapearence was more powerful than any words I could concoct.
Well, she managed to get back on the proverbial "bike" and pee and so all was not lost, bar a little 25-month-old's unrelenting cheekiness. And that, only temporarily.
Havana took classes this summer and lost her caution of water. She can hold her face and breath under water and paddle with a life vest. Her wee buddy Tristan and her were paired up, and in eight half-hour classes over two weeks Havana was, air-assistedly, able to swim.
Ilyana, on the other hand, miserably failed her first swim class today.
We were at the park. She was hamming it up as usual. Our newly-2 joker was yelling "I'm stuck! I'm stuck!" as she climbed around the play structure. Ritualistically, I would come to assist, she would grin and run off. The joke was repeated ad nauseam, eventually building up to the day's ultimate disaster.
Out of nowhere Illy cried out,"I wanna go potty." So off we went into the park's bathroom structure. I pull her things down and place her squarely onto the toilet seat. Then things got crazy. She raises her hands and yells,"I'm falling! I'm falling!" Then she stabilizes herself, returning her leaning arms down to her side. She laughs in my face. This is 2-year old funny. I show a slight smile. Then she does it again."I'm falling! I'm falling!" But this time. Splash! It was a sad moment in her comic career. One which all comics hope to forget.
I grab her before she disappears into the Oakland Parks Sewer system and she lets out a horrendously loud wail, demanding sympathy. I try not to laugh as I dry off her butt with the paper available.
I considered explaining the lesson of what just happened to Ilyana to her, but it seemed that her recent near-disapearence was more powerful than any words I could concoct.
Well, she managed to get back on the proverbial "bike" and pee and so all was not lost, bar a little 25-month-old's unrelenting cheekiness. And that, only temporarily.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
The Swedish Connection
I wasn't sure that the leap to punk music and hip hop was going to stick. It was Havana and I's first musical connection. Our Friday afternoon dance parties, while mom was at work, were dominated, admittedly, by music of my choice. Stereophonics, Cyprus Hill, the Stooges. Oblivious to their meanings, she learned the words. We cranked up the volume, "louder, louder" she'd cry, and we danced. We'd run back and forth across the front room. I'd swing her around. She'd try swinging me around. We'd bounce. But Havana's first love with my music was to be short-lived.
I later realized that in order to appreciate my music, it was necessary for Havana to first pass through other music. Less complex, less angry, more sedate music. Pop music. It was impossible to make the leap direct to higher forms of music. Havana needed to procede through her Abba stage. And that's where we are. Dancing Queen. Mama Mia. Fernando. SOS. Waterloo.
I suspect that her mother is encouraging her, but I cannot produce any concrete evidence. Although Karen has suggested that Abba should not be judged superficially. That the catchy exterior of their melodies are twinned with darker lyrics, overwhelmingly about sadness and loss.
Almost every evening the parents are invited to take a seat on the sofa for a SHOW. Havana rushes back to the girls' bedroom and puts on her old Halloween pink tutu, returning to look for her little dance partner. Bjorn's piano intro opens and the two are off on their performance: Illy making spins that fall before completion and Havana showing off her latest dancing mad skills, while increasingly lip-synching the lyrics.
Where are those happy days, they seem so hard to find.
I later realized that in order to appreciate my music, it was necessary for Havana to first pass through other music. Less complex, less angry, more sedate music. Pop music. It was impossible to make the leap direct to higher forms of music. Havana needed to procede through her Abba stage. And that's where we are. Dancing Queen. Mama Mia. Fernando. SOS. Waterloo.
I suspect that her mother is encouraging her, but I cannot produce any concrete evidence. Although Karen has suggested that Abba should not be judged superficially. That the catchy exterior of their melodies are twinned with darker lyrics, overwhelmingly about sadness and loss.
Almost every evening the parents are invited to take a seat on the sofa for a SHOW. Havana rushes back to the girls' bedroom and puts on her old Halloween pink tutu, returning to look for her little dance partner. Bjorn's piano intro opens and the two are off on their performance: Illy making spins that fall before completion and Havana showing off her latest dancing mad skills, while increasingly lip-synching the lyrics.
Where are those happy days, they seem so hard to find.
Monday, June 02, 2008
Glam Rock and Hair Consciousness
Havana has long hair and is very attached to it. She makes tails with it, she has it up, she has it down. Once every few weeks she will spend an hour in front of the mirror in what could either be described as playing or working on her hair.
I am regularly reminded by our children that I have no hair.
I, inturn, regularly remind them that a more accurate formulation is that I have no hair on the top of my head. In our house, like in society in general, hair that is not on one’s head is presumed to not even exist, while hair on the head gets all the special attention normally associated with the crown.
Living in a house with three persons who have hair on the tops of their heads, it would be easy to find myself excluded from the many rituals associated with hair. I have instead tirelessly forced myself into the world of hair on the head.
I do, however, find myself generally sidelined into hair maintenance. I brush and comb other people’s hair. I wash other people's hair. And it is within this narrow role that I have had to find my own style. For instance, I do not and will not use hair de-tangler, chemical, organic or otherwise. This was not an attempt to be the parent that is never picked to brush hair. I am fairly hair aware.
I am also the cutter of hair in our house. I will probably never be trusted to cut adult hair, but I have exclusive rights for the bang-cutting of our offspring.
I have developed my own style of bang-cutting. I have perfected the cute-crooked-line bang. Like all things made of great skill and talent, each haircut appears that it took no effort whatsoever.
I also prefer what we call the 90-day cut. The 90-day cut, applied only quarterly, provides the whole family with more time to spend on things beyond hair. This cut at first strikes the observer as severely short, but as each day passes it slowly and subtly becomes less and less short.
As a family, we recently watched a YouTube video of a glam-rock star from the era of my own youth. Karen half-mockingly queried if the singer’s large heap of hair was his own or a wig. Before I could reply, Havana confirmed that it was his real hair. “Mommy, didn’t you hear him sing, you can run your fingers through my hair. He didn’t say you can run your fingers through my wig.”
Hair consciousness.
Friday, April 04, 2008
Boyfriends, Marriage and our first Punch
It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. It landed on the wrong kid at the wrong time. But it landed. Zack got clocked and was down.
As the first parent to arrive, post-scream, it was somewhat of a bizarre scene. One boy standing. One boy down, with hand over eye, crying, and a third child under the covers of the bed, hiding. It didn’t take long to figure out the guilty party, from the victim, from the witness. We knew Havana could dance like a butterfly. We’d hoped she’d be able to sting like a bee. But why Zack?
I had coached Havana from a young age: "if a boy hits you, you hit them back. It doesn’t matter what the teacher tells you." We want H to be confident around men and not to flinch at male power as it eventually invades her world. So, if life proceeded in a straight, predictable, line, then the boy who should have got clocked is the boy that clocked her first.
During the post-punch investigations it became evident that the the punch was neither an accident, nor particularly justified. It was Havana's first boy-punch and I was asking her to say sorry to Zack. This isn't how I'd planned it.
Zac and Tristan were over at the house playing with Havana. In previous weeks Havana had floated the idea of marriage to Tristan. Initially the slight-framed blonde almost 4-year old, had confused Havana's overtures with woman-loyalty issues. Havana told me that Tristan had decided he was going to marry his mother, implying that no other female was going to step between him and his mom. After a while he lowered his guard and on occasion agreed to marry Havana. Unfortunately in the meantime Havana had received a commitment from Xavier and Tristan was reduced to the category of boyfriend.
On the day of the punch, Havana, in a very relaxed mood in the comfort of her own home had been yelling to Tristan, "hey boyfriend." While cute on the surface, this also represented her tug-of-friend war with Zac. Zac is really into to sports. Havana isn't. When Havana plays over at Zac's house she'll often end up just picking through his books while Zac races outside on his wheels. Today, Zac and Havana were in a tug over Tristan's attention which ended in violence.
Tristan and Zac were wrestling in the spare room. As I imagined it, Havana tapped Zac on the shoulder and clocked him. He went down. Tristan stood stunned and Havana hid amid the bedcovers.
Zac is a sweet kid, didn't deserve to be hit and it pained me to explain it all to Zac's mom. However, it was nice to know that Havana can punch and can punch a boy when necessary. If she can cleanup her selection process all will be well.
,
As the first parent to arrive, post-scream, it was somewhat of a bizarre scene. One boy standing. One boy down, with hand over eye, crying, and a third child under the covers of the bed, hiding. It didn’t take long to figure out the guilty party, from the victim, from the witness. We knew Havana could dance like a butterfly. We’d hoped she’d be able to sting like a bee. But why Zack?
I had coached Havana from a young age: "if a boy hits you, you hit them back. It doesn’t matter what the teacher tells you." We want H to be confident around men and not to flinch at male power as it eventually invades her world. So, if life proceeded in a straight, predictable, line, then the boy who should have got clocked is the boy that clocked her first.
During the post-punch investigations it became evident that the the punch was neither an accident, nor particularly justified. It was Havana's first boy-punch and I was asking her to say sorry to Zack. This isn't how I'd planned it.
Zac and Tristan were over at the house playing with Havana. In previous weeks Havana had floated the idea of marriage to Tristan. Initially the slight-framed blonde almost 4-year old, had confused Havana's overtures with woman-loyalty issues. Havana told me that Tristan had decided he was going to marry his mother, implying that no other female was going to step between him and his mom. After a while he lowered his guard and on occasion agreed to marry Havana. Unfortunately in the meantime Havana had received a commitment from Xavier and Tristan was reduced to the category of boyfriend.
On the day of the punch, Havana, in a very relaxed mood in the comfort of her own home had been yelling to Tristan, "hey boyfriend." While cute on the surface, this also represented her tug-of-friend war with Zac. Zac is really into to sports. Havana isn't. When Havana plays over at Zac's house she'll often end up just picking through his books while Zac races outside on his wheels. Today, Zac and Havana were in a tug over Tristan's attention which ended in violence.
Tristan and Zac were wrestling in the spare room. As I imagined it, Havana tapped Zac on the shoulder and clocked him. He went down. Tristan stood stunned and Havana hid amid the bedcovers.
Zac is a sweet kid, didn't deserve to be hit and it pained me to explain it all to Zac's mom. However, it was nice to know that Havana can punch and can punch a boy when necessary. If she can cleanup her selection process all will be well.
,
Thursday, April 03, 2008
Love, Love, Love
Our routine on weekends begin with Ilyana waking up, calling out and being carried with her blanket under arm into bed with the big primates. She may or may not fall asleep and gift her parents with an extra hour of shut eye. Then Havana will call out and/or trape into our room, also with obligatory blanket.
Today was special. It was the day that Ilyana (20mos.) woke up and noticed Havana looking at her. She then gazed back, stretched, smiled and spoke the words we all like to hear, this time directly to her sistie (as Havana is known). "I love you"
NOTE: the essence of any story is not in the detail. However, it should be disclosed that Ilyana's exact words were "I luh you" and "I luh you Hava."
Today was special. It was the day that Ilyana (20mos.) woke up and noticed Havana looking at her. She then gazed back, stretched, smiled and spoke the words we all like to hear, this time directly to her sistie (as Havana is known). "I love you"
NOTE: the essence of any story is not in the detail. However, it should be disclosed that Ilyana's exact words were "I luh you" and "I luh you Hava."
Monday, January 28, 2008
The Institutional Time Out
In many ways our childhoods are marked by a series of "firsts." As we grow, they become increasingly infrequent and less important.
18-month-new Ilyana can have several firsts in a day. Yesterday she turned the pages of a book one at a time, as if she had joined world of the literate. She smacked me square in the right eye, a first for both of us; and said the word "mouse."
Havana, now almost four and a half had her first Time Out at school. Led on by a five year old, she had taken sand out of the sand box. The girls were then cautioned by the appropriate authority, ignored the warning and went back and took more sand out of the sand box. This kind of thing, if not nipped in bud can lead to the collapse of a preschool.
Havana's accomplice was given a long Time Out. As a first offense Havana got a short Time Out. In adult minutes I imagine they are both short Time Outs. Havana's punishment-free run was over. For over a year she avoided this situation, either by blatant good behavior or subterfuge. I like to think a large part of it was the latter, but what's hope got to do with it.
When I picked up Havana, her teacher took me aside to let me know what happened. Havana had cried and her teacher was almost as upset.
Later in the day, talking to other parents at the pre-school, it became apparent to me that Havana was in a minority. Most of the kids have had Time Outs.
On the way home in the truck I didn't exactly know what to say to Havana. I reminded her that people can do bad things, but that no kids are bad. She echoed this, having heard that from her teachers. There wasn't much more to say so I high-fived Havana for finally having a Time Out. She was not sure how to take that.
18-month-new Ilyana can have several firsts in a day. Yesterday she turned the pages of a book one at a time, as if she had joined world of the literate. She smacked me square in the right eye, a first for both of us; and said the word "mouse."
Havana, now almost four and a half had her first Time Out at school. Led on by a five year old, she had taken sand out of the sand box. The girls were then cautioned by the appropriate authority, ignored the warning and went back and took more sand out of the sand box. This kind of thing, if not nipped in bud can lead to the collapse of a preschool.
Havana's accomplice was given a long Time Out. As a first offense Havana got a short Time Out. In adult minutes I imagine they are both short Time Outs. Havana's punishment-free run was over. For over a year she avoided this situation, either by blatant good behavior or subterfuge. I like to think a large part of it was the latter, but what's hope got to do with it.
When I picked up Havana, her teacher took me aside to let me know what happened. Havana had cried and her teacher was almost as upset.
Later in the day, talking to other parents at the pre-school, it became apparent to me that Havana was in a minority. Most of the kids have had Time Outs.
On the way home in the truck I didn't exactly know what to say to Havana. I reminded her that people can do bad things, but that no kids are bad. She echoed this, having heard that from her teachers. There wasn't much more to say so I high-fived Havana for finally having a Time Out. She was not sure how to take that.
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