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."
Thursday, April 03, 2008
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.
Monday, June 25, 2007
Sleep and Sanity: underated aspects of parenting
Once in a blue moon Havana wakes up with a scream. Her subconscious is probably processing some aspect of her mad life as a 3-year old. As I enter her room and sit down bedside, with a gentle pat on the back she will often roll over and head back to her dreams. Other times she will already have begun to semi-coherently describe her dream to me. Then mid-sentence she'd turn over and return to scene that first woke her.
Crazier dreams no doubt emanate from Havana's 11-month old sister. Ilyana, unfortunately, will probably never be able to verify the visual contents of her slumber. Most likely she dreams of crawling, of standing, and the classic dreambreaker: of falling. Either way: when she wakes she wants only one thing. Ilyana’s demanding March to drink from her mother’s font every 3 hours remains unimpeded.
One night some 5 or 6 months ago her parents celebrated Ilyana’s first full night of unbroken sleep. We celebrated without full force, aware that worshiping the false god of the return of deep sleep would likely be premature. But for a full day back in January of this year we were lighter on our feet and carelessly expended the energy that we wouldn't need for that next night of unbroken sleep. That next night never came. We instead returned to the real world of uneven, shallow sleep, lying in wait of that sweet primal scream. And like the sun and moon, it came. And one of us rose up from bedside, as if carrying the entire weight of a million years of evolution on our frames, and zombied into Ilyana's room.
Sometimes I wish I too could return to the days when I was unencumbered by social restraints and could let out my own primal scream. But it’s too late. I can’t go back. But that doesn’t prevent my envy that Ilyana can scream as loud and long as her lungs will bear. Unlike the emotionally restrained adult world, babies can emote without a care. But like all babies she can also go from terrifying screech to giggle within 10 or 15 seconds. And it’s all socially acceptable.
Of the thousands of parenting methods available on bookshelves in California, ours tends towards attachment parenting. While we do not let our kids sleep in our bed, nor hang off our bodies all day, moreso, we do not let them cry unattended nor do we view our children as an inconvenience to some notion of our “careers”. Parenting is an inconvenience and a pleasurable one. It is full of adversity and struggle, the ingredients that can add color to what may have been the greyness that went before. Our single goal beyond keeping the young ones fed, clothed and sheltered, is that we attempt to help them be somewhat emotionally secure. That’s it.
But goals come at costs and ours is that for the first 12 months, with the exception of one January night, we have not slept past four hours in one stretch.
While the demands of parenting constantly press down on us, we have managed to construct our weekends around ourselves as parents. We do the normal kid stuff: the zoo and the park. But all stands in shadow to our single weekend goal: that our two children’s afternoon naptimes coincide and that their parents get about 4 hours a week locked away in our own room. After all, as flight attendants remind us, when the air mask fall, you put yours on first, so that you can breath, then you’re in a place to help the tiny ones get the air that they need.
Crazier dreams no doubt emanate from Havana's 11-month old sister. Ilyana, unfortunately, will probably never be able to verify the visual contents of her slumber. Most likely she dreams of crawling, of standing, and the classic dreambreaker: of falling. Either way: when she wakes she wants only one thing. Ilyana’s demanding March to drink from her mother’s font every 3 hours remains unimpeded.
One night some 5 or 6 months ago her parents celebrated Ilyana’s first full night of unbroken sleep. We celebrated without full force, aware that worshiping the false god of the return of deep sleep would likely be premature. But for a full day back in January of this year we were lighter on our feet and carelessly expended the energy that we wouldn't need for that next night of unbroken sleep. That next night never came. We instead returned to the real world of uneven, shallow sleep, lying in wait of that sweet primal scream. And like the sun and moon, it came. And one of us rose up from bedside, as if carrying the entire weight of a million years of evolution on our frames, and zombied into Ilyana's room.
Sometimes I wish I too could return to the days when I was unencumbered by social restraints and could let out my own primal scream. But it’s too late. I can’t go back. But that doesn’t prevent my envy that Ilyana can scream as loud and long as her lungs will bear. Unlike the emotionally restrained adult world, babies can emote without a care. But like all babies she can also go from terrifying screech to giggle within 10 or 15 seconds. And it’s all socially acceptable.
Of the thousands of parenting methods available on bookshelves in California, ours tends towards attachment parenting. While we do not let our kids sleep in our bed, nor hang off our bodies all day, moreso, we do not let them cry unattended nor do we view our children as an inconvenience to some notion of our “careers”. Parenting is an inconvenience and a pleasurable one. It is full of adversity and struggle, the ingredients that can add color to what may have been the greyness that went before. Our single goal beyond keeping the young ones fed, clothed and sheltered, is that we attempt to help them be somewhat emotionally secure. That’s it.
But goals come at costs and ours is that for the first 12 months, with the exception of one January night, we have not slept past four hours in one stretch.
While the demands of parenting constantly press down on us, we have managed to construct our weekends around ourselves as parents. We do the normal kid stuff: the zoo and the park. But all stands in shadow to our single weekend goal: that our two children’s afternoon naptimes coincide and that their parents get about 4 hours a week locked away in our own room. After all, as flight attendants remind us, when the air mask fall, you put yours on first, so that you can breath, then you’re in a place to help the tiny ones get the air that they need.
Saturday, April 07, 2007
First Crimes
It was her first verifiable crime. Albeit, a crime that few District Attorney’s would take to prosecution.
Havana and I went shopping for ink and car batteries. Meandering around the office supply store so as to get in and out as quickly as possible, Havana was in awe. The high ceilings, the bright colors, the light and of course the candy shelves at kids’ eye level. Usually Havana gets to point and yell to me before facing the inevitable denial of her candy request. Today she picked up some sugar and chocolate item packaged in a flashy wrapper. “We don’t buy candy babe, you know that” I reminded her. She knew that, but maybe she thought that on the millionth visit to a store she would get her wish. 999,715 visits to go.
After purchasing the ink, the clerk handed me the bag. It was lightweight enough for a three year old to carry, and good work training. “Yes, I can carry that Daddy.”
We went into the Auto supply store and went up to pay for the battery. Once again, even at the Auto store there was kids’ eye level candy: tons of it.
As I picked her up into her car seat in the front of the truck she tugged the plastic bag she held firmly. “D’you want me to take that, girl,” I enquired. She replied, all adult-like, “that’s okay daddy.”
As we got home, she rushed in the front door and spilled the bag onto the coffee table with a red shiny bag of skittles skidding out across the tabletop. “Where did that come from,” I asked. These days Havana’s boilerplate response to any wrong-doing, large or small, is a complete and utter denial. “Where did the candy come from?” I asked again. “Nowhere” she replied. She sunk into the sofa. She knew she had broken some inane adult rule, but she wasn’t sure which one. Whatever she’d done wrong she realized the distance between her and her candy was going to widen.
“Did you take it from the office store or the auto store?” I asked.
“I didn’t take it.” Figuring the loss of candy possession was building too much emotion into the moment I moved on to the moral of the situation. I held back from saying that stealing was wrong. We live in a society based on stealing from the working class, so stealing will always be based on who is stealing and who is getting stolen from. “Havana, stealing from a store will get you in trouble,” I lectured. When Havana is old enough to know the whens, hows and ifs of shoplifing, she will know how not to get caught. But that’ll be several years down the road.
At 3 years of age, there’s a lot of lecturing going on about rules. It’s annoying from the parent’s perspective, but necessary. Kids are little adults with less experience, and helping them learn to be independent, dialectically entails a lot of rules.
I was of course a little proud that some massive corporate store lost 25 cents worth of profits and that Havana unawares of the big wheels that turn capitalism had played a large role in this miniscule dent.
Havana and I went shopping for ink and car batteries. Meandering around the office supply store so as to get in and out as quickly as possible, Havana was in awe. The high ceilings, the bright colors, the light and of course the candy shelves at kids’ eye level. Usually Havana gets to point and yell to me before facing the inevitable denial of her candy request. Today she picked up some sugar and chocolate item packaged in a flashy wrapper. “We don’t buy candy babe, you know that” I reminded her. She knew that, but maybe she thought that on the millionth visit to a store she would get her wish. 999,715 visits to go.
After purchasing the ink, the clerk handed me the bag. It was lightweight enough for a three year old to carry, and good work training. “Yes, I can carry that Daddy.”
We went into the Auto supply store and went up to pay for the battery. Once again, even at the Auto store there was kids’ eye level candy: tons of it.
As I picked her up into her car seat in the front of the truck she tugged the plastic bag she held firmly. “D’you want me to take that, girl,” I enquired. She replied, all adult-like, “that’s okay daddy.”
As we got home, she rushed in the front door and spilled the bag onto the coffee table with a red shiny bag of skittles skidding out across the tabletop. “Where did that come from,” I asked. These days Havana’s boilerplate response to any wrong-doing, large or small, is a complete and utter denial. “Where did the candy come from?” I asked again. “Nowhere” she replied. She sunk into the sofa. She knew she had broken some inane adult rule, but she wasn’t sure which one. Whatever she’d done wrong she realized the distance between her and her candy was going to widen.
“Did you take it from the office store or the auto store?” I asked.
“I didn’t take it.” Figuring the loss of candy possession was building too much emotion into the moment I moved on to the moral of the situation. I held back from saying that stealing was wrong. We live in a society based on stealing from the working class, so stealing will always be based on who is stealing and who is getting stolen from. “Havana, stealing from a store will get you in trouble,” I lectured. When Havana is old enough to know the whens, hows and ifs of shoplifing, she will know how not to get caught. But that’ll be several years down the road.
At 3 years of age, there’s a lot of lecturing going on about rules. It’s annoying from the parent’s perspective, but necessary. Kids are little adults with less experience, and helping them learn to be independent, dialectically entails a lot of rules.
I was of course a little proud that some massive corporate store lost 25 cents worth of profits and that Havana unawares of the big wheels that turn capitalism had played a large role in this miniscule dent.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
School Daze
Havana sat down on the sofa and read her book outloud to us. It was a combination of words, and sounds that could be words in a toddlers head. Sometimes the wordsounds were looped together poetry-like and sometimes clumsily piecemealed into sentances apparent.
Then Havana looked up from her book at her audienced parents. "Zip your lips!" Havana quietly commanded, adding, "Throw away the Key!" And then with an appropriate pause for full emphasis she raised her finger, "And listen to me!"
This re-enactment was our first exposure to life inside Havana's story time at her pre-school. We figured it was some kind of outside influence, as she topped her lesson with the hilarious, yet utterly serious, "I've told you 5 times!"
Those poor bloody pre-school teachers.
Then Havana looked up from her book at her audienced parents. "Zip your lips!" Havana quietly commanded, adding, "Throw away the Key!" And then with an appropriate pause for full emphasis she raised her finger, "And listen to me!"
This re-enactment was our first exposure to life inside Havana's story time at her pre-school. We figured it was some kind of outside influence, as she topped her lesson with the hilarious, yet utterly serious, "I've told you 5 times!"
Those poor bloody pre-school teachers.
Monday, September 04, 2006
"No One Likes a Boss"
Family mottos, like the family silver, are most commonly associated with the rich and those that try to ape them. But if a family motto is no more than the parents establishing its own slogan, its own moral banner, why should we not have them too?
So we have one. It's not in Latin and it has not found a home on a wall in our house, but Havana can recite it on command. It's short, as mottos should be and, we hope, pointed. However, just as I was helping Havana recite it, she broke out into a parallel family motto. Aparently Karen has also already established a motto with Havana. One sounds very similar to the other and each was born unaware of its motto-dopple.
So, after a half dozen recitations of "No one likes a boss," Havana broke out into Karen's family motto, the appropriate, "nobody likes a Princess."
So there you go. Two social systems for one. Capitalism and feudalism. We have them covered.
So we have one. It's not in Latin and it has not found a home on a wall in our house, but Havana can recite it on command. It's short, as mottos should be and, we hope, pointed. However, just as I was helping Havana recite it, she broke out into a parallel family motto. Aparently Karen has also already established a motto with Havana. One sounds very similar to the other and each was born unaware of its motto-dopple.
So, after a half dozen recitations of "No one likes a boss," Havana broke out into Karen's family motto, the appropriate, "nobody likes a Princess."
So there you go. Two social systems for one. Capitalism and feudalism. We have them covered.
The terrible draw of the Chupee-pacifier-sucker
"that looks good - what is it?"
"and where can I get one?"
Sunday, August 20, 2006
the hoarse whisperer
Havana recently got a cold, which may be connected to her last bout of teething, which has given her a rhaspy vocal tone. This has only added an edge to her new fixation with whispering. Now she's whispering with her hoarse voice, communication has taken a few short steps backwards.
Whispering is normally associated with secrets and not with notions such as, "I want my crayons out" or "can I play with my clay." These passtimes are hardly clandestine in our house.
The whispering coincidentally became the fashion some days after the newborn moved in. When there is a diaper to be changed or lactation to be done, someone wanted something else at that same moment. The struggle over parental attention was a war that needed to be fought and won in Havana's eyes.
Timing is important in such a struggle. Almost 6 months after Havana has been potty-trained, she now began to hide in a corner while her mom was totally pre-occupied with breast feeding Ilyana. Then she we would walk in the room bow-legged, with a lump hanging down from her pant seat. This worked. Now, while I'm at work, Karen has been known to jump up with baby secured to the nipple and chase down the dirty bomber. And all three have to make it into the bathroom before a major cleanup is required.
The war to win back full parental attention in one mind, still needed to be fought. Yelling hadn't worked. Ignoring her parents was not going to work and would also defeat the object. So, the whispering had begun. And low and beyold, one parent would stop what they would be doing and ask the other parent, "what did she say?" And it went on, "Hey, Havana what did you say?" She would reduce the decibells and increase the body language, which lured her prey in even closer. The cold and aquired hoarse voice was an asset in this fight.
Finally we cottoned on. We could've begun whispering, as parents, in retaliation. But we're not the children in this relationship. So we didn't. Well, Karen thought it was an immature response if the truth were known.
We still stoop down and ask her to repeat herself as a small concession to a small person confronted with a big change in her world.
Whispering is normally associated with secrets and not with notions such as, "I want my crayons out" or "can I play with my clay." These passtimes are hardly clandestine in our house.
The whispering coincidentally became the fashion some days after the newborn moved in. When there is a diaper to be changed or lactation to be done, someone wanted something else at that same moment. The struggle over parental attention was a war that needed to be fought and won in Havana's eyes.
Timing is important in such a struggle. Almost 6 months after Havana has been potty-trained, she now began to hide in a corner while her mom was totally pre-occupied with breast feeding Ilyana. Then she we would walk in the room bow-legged, with a lump hanging down from her pant seat. This worked. Now, while I'm at work, Karen has been known to jump up with baby secured to the nipple and chase down the dirty bomber. And all three have to make it into the bathroom before a major cleanup is required.
The war to win back full parental attention in one mind, still needed to be fought. Yelling hadn't worked. Ignoring her parents was not going to work and would also defeat the object. So, the whispering had begun. And low and beyold, one parent would stop what they would be doing and ask the other parent, "what did she say?" And it went on, "Hey, Havana what did you say?" She would reduce the decibells and increase the body language, which lured her prey in even closer. The cold and aquired hoarse voice was an asset in this fight.
Finally we cottoned on. We could've begun whispering, as parents, in retaliation. But we're not the children in this relationship. So we didn't. Well, Karen thought it was an immature response if the truth were known.
We still stoop down and ask her to repeat herself as a small concession to a small person confronted with a big change in her world.
Friday, August 18, 2006
Not exactly what we ordered
The three of us were equally excited about the eruption into our world that is Ilyana. Two of the three of us had a closer concept of what to expect from this new development. We did what we could to prepare Havana. But like birthday parties or friends about to visit, sometimes the event is so exciting in a small person's brain that it doesn't allow room for details. Such was Ilyana's birth and consequent first month of life.
Havana has done all a girl could do to get Ilyana to act like the sister she expected. She prodded. She poked. She pulled limbs. Yet Ilyana has not yet acted like a baby sister should. She doesn't talk. She doesn't walk. She can't play. She hardly engages in the simplest of all communications: eye contact. And eye contact. That's okay for teenage love but hardly the first rung of play. And that's what Havana believed we ordered: a playmate. A sister.
Eventually Havana will get a reaction out of Iyana, something more complex than a wail. And even if it's not what she thought we ordered, she doesn't want it returned.
Havana has done all a girl could do to get Ilyana to act like the sister she expected. She prodded. She poked. She pulled limbs. Yet Ilyana has not yet acted like a baby sister should. She doesn't talk. She doesn't walk. She can't play. She hardly engages in the simplest of all communications: eye contact. And eye contact. That's okay for teenage love but hardly the first rung of play. And that's what Havana believed we ordered: a playmate. A sister.
Eventually Havana will get a reaction out of Iyana, something more complex than a wail. And even if it's not what she thought we ordered, she doesn't want it returned.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Baby sister born: July 20th 2006
Finally, Ilyana emerged from her mothers bump and joined the rest of us. She came out fighting, screaming and kicking, but is slowly ajusting to our less warm and cozy world.Havana has been a big sister since Ilyana moved on from being a worm in her mom to being a little baby in her mom. She is dotingly fond of her new playmate and is not too upset that we won't let her tattoo her yet.
Her tattoo days will come.
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Karl Marx never said it'd be easy
Raising a child in an anti-capitalist household has its unique challenges. How do we help her see the importance of solidarity and the emptiness of Disney Inc. is an ongoing process. While we encourage her to pick up Marxist literature, das Kapital is a little short on the important attractive pull of goofy images that draws 2-year olds to the page.
Havana and a couple of comrades went out last Sunday to the flea market to give out flyers for people seeking to fight capitalism. Essentially the flyers had things like - "trouble with your landlord, trouble with your boss?" We were looking for a new direct action case to fight for the Campaign for Renters Rights.
Havana was pretty well behaved. She even gave out a few flyers.
A few days later Havana picked up a few flyers on our dining table and handed one to Karen, "are you in trouble? Are you in trouble?" she enquired to her mother with an empathetic look on her face. Karen had missed the flyering and slightly confused asked, "in trouble with who?" to which Havana, thought twice and answered with the only authority figure she could think of: "in trouble with teacher?"
She had picked up from her 4-year old buddy Joaquin that being in trouble with teacher was something to aspire to. As Lenin said, three steps forward and two steps back.
Havana and a couple of comrades went out last Sunday to the flea market to give out flyers for people seeking to fight capitalism. Essentially the flyers had things like - "trouble with your landlord, trouble with your boss?" We were looking for a new direct action case to fight for the Campaign for Renters Rights.
Havana was pretty well behaved. She even gave out a few flyers.
A few days later Havana picked up a few flyers on our dining table and handed one to Karen, "are you in trouble? Are you in trouble?" she enquired to her mother with an empathetic look on her face. Karen had missed the flyering and slightly confused asked, "in trouble with who?" to which Havana, thought twice and answered with the only authority figure she could think of: "in trouble with teacher?"
She had picked up from her 4-year old buddy Joaquin that being in trouble with teacher was something to aspire to. As Lenin said, three steps forward and two steps back.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Language, Thought Development and Music
When faced with difficult questions, in particular when her parents are asking her to recollect a common moment, Havana has developed a method. I ask her, do you remember such and such, to which she replies, definitively, "Yes." Encouraged that we are about to have a real conversation, I then ask her the same question, and she glazes over and says, "Tell me!" It goes something like this.
Dad: tell mummy what we did at the park today, do you remember?
Havana: Yes
Dad: well, what did we do?
Havana: Tell me
So what we have here, clinically, is either a child that honestly can't remember anything about what she did at the park today, or can't be bothered to think about it, or doesn't want to get drawn into an innevitably boring conversation at a semi-adult level.
Anyway, the new development, what I call the West Side Story phenomena, is the latest tool our daughter has developed to avoid adult-like conversations.
Havana has over the recent months developed her singing voice. What it lacks in carrying a tune it makes up for in unintentional comic content. Unfortunately, as loving parents, however bad Havana's singing is, it always sounds beautiful to us. For the untrained ear it can be compared to the singing of a happy drunk, a meandering tune that loosely strings together a combination of actual words and phrases, alongside slurred incomprehensible ones.
Karen has never liked Musicals. She conceives them as movies with plots that are irritatingly inturrupted by songs. She considered the Crouching Tiger movie in a similar vein: a plot irritatingly inturrupted by fight scenes.
Well, now after we have repeated the "Tell Me!" saga outlined above, instead of it ending there, Havana has begins to express her inner happy drunk. She just goes off into her own musical composition.
As we attempt to introduce a dialogue she replies by breaking out into song, deliberately aiming to irritatingly interrupt any adult effort to plot a conversation.
Dad: tell mummy what we did at the park today, do you remember?
Havana: Yes
Dad: well, what did we do?
Havana: Tell me
So what we have here, clinically, is either a child that honestly can't remember anything about what she did at the park today, or can't be bothered to think about it, or doesn't want to get drawn into an innevitably boring conversation at a semi-adult level.
Anyway, the new development, what I call the West Side Story phenomena, is the latest tool our daughter has developed to avoid adult-like conversations.
Havana has over the recent months developed her singing voice. What it lacks in carrying a tune it makes up for in unintentional comic content. Unfortunately, as loving parents, however bad Havana's singing is, it always sounds beautiful to us. For the untrained ear it can be compared to the singing of a happy drunk, a meandering tune that loosely strings together a combination of actual words and phrases, alongside slurred incomprehensible ones.
Karen has never liked Musicals. She conceives them as movies with plots that are irritatingly inturrupted by songs. She considered the Crouching Tiger movie in a similar vein: a plot irritatingly inturrupted by fight scenes.
Well, now after we have repeated the "Tell Me!" saga outlined above, instead of it ending there, Havana has begins to express her inner happy drunk. She just goes off into her own musical composition.
As we attempt to introduce a dialogue she replies by breaking out into song, deliberately aiming to irritatingly interrupt any adult effort to plot a conversation.
Saturday, June 24, 2006
Genius and "the name"
Alongside, cleaning behind the fridge and under the bed, our "to do" list got one item shorter this week. With four weeks left in utero, Havana's baby sister finally got a name that has stuck.
For several weeks, months ago, we had the name Catriona, which we thought was pronounced as it looks. We emailed a comrade with that name and found out that it should be pronounced kat-ree-na, which undermined the integrity of our bubble, one which finally burst when we learnt of its roots in a certain Saint Catherine. As concious athiests, we struck that one off.
SO. We kicked around many, many names until Karen told me that we needed to cross the name thing off our "to do" before the baby arrives list. So I suggested we each pick 10 names and sit down and come up with an agreed top 3 list.
Then, out of nowhere, a Name appeared to me. It was a creation of genius. It met our 2 requirements. It was political and it sounded good. I was proud of my own brilliance.
June is currently the month of the 30th anniversary of the Soweto Uprising. A movement of grade school students against the apartheid regime in South Africa which ended in bloodshed, but spirred on a huge movement which eventually brought the apartheid regime down.
Okay, I figured to myself, Soweto doesn't sound like a girl's name. However, I a small reshaping, created, "Soweta." Politically great, and it sounded beautiful. Our quest was now over.
"I've got it" I explained to Karen, "its as good as Havana! It's brilliant!"
Well, that was 2 weeks ago.
I have since run into various friends of Karen, who had heard of "the name." Karen had dismissed the name outright for sounding "just aweful" and then one by one I would overhear her friends joking about how bad "the name" was. I had outdone myself this time.
However, "the name" as it is now known with derision, did help give Karen that small push into deciding an entirely different name which did stick. Ilyana.
For several weeks, months ago, we had the name Catriona, which we thought was pronounced as it looks. We emailed a comrade with that name and found out that it should be pronounced kat-ree-na, which undermined the integrity of our bubble, one which finally burst when we learnt of its roots in a certain Saint Catherine. As concious athiests, we struck that one off.
SO. We kicked around many, many names until Karen told me that we needed to cross the name thing off our "to do" before the baby arrives list. So I suggested we each pick 10 names and sit down and come up with an agreed top 3 list.
Then, out of nowhere, a Name appeared to me. It was a creation of genius. It met our 2 requirements. It was political and it sounded good. I was proud of my own brilliance.
June is currently the month of the 30th anniversary of the Soweto Uprising. A movement of grade school students against the apartheid regime in South Africa which ended in bloodshed, but spirred on a huge movement which eventually brought the apartheid regime down.
Okay, I figured to myself, Soweto doesn't sound like a girl's name. However, I a small reshaping, created, "Soweta." Politically great, and it sounded beautiful. Our quest was now over.
"I've got it" I explained to Karen, "its as good as Havana! It's brilliant!"
Well, that was 2 weeks ago.
I have since run into various friends of Karen, who had heard of "the name." Karen had dismissed the name outright for sounding "just aweful" and then one by one I would overhear her friends joking about how bad "the name" was. I had outdone myself this time.
However, "the name" as it is now known with derision, did help give Karen that small push into deciding an entirely different name which did stick. Ilyana.
Sunday, June 11, 2006
The World Cup, TV and the cost to family-pet relations
We considered it our first gift to Havana. When Karen was pregnant with her we got rid of the TV.
Like all households, capitalism flowed in through every pore. Magazines that came home. Junk mail that came through our door. Pop ups on the computer. Radio commercials. We figured we wouldn't keep The Man's machine in the house with its sitcoms that weren't funny and ads for things we didn't want. Stopping short of putting it out on the street, we packed the TV away. That was 3 years ago.
We forgot about the bloody World Cup.
So we dug the thing back out and switched it back on. With help from the lad across the street, we were able to get enough reception to distinguish one team on the pitch from the other.
Havana was of course mesmerized by the new machine. Her clay, crayons, books, lego were discarded as yesterday's fleeting interests. They could hardly compete with the TV.
While in Wales earlier this year we had watched a couple of televised Chelsea soccer matches. My brothers and I grew up in West London, home to Chelsea Football Club. The CFC tattoo on my forearm was all that remained of my strained relationship with Chelsea.
Havana, however, immediately recalled the games we had watched in Britain and when Argentina and Ivory Coast walked on the field, sensing the excitement in the room, she quickly began chanting, "Go Chelsea Go." I explained to Havana a couple of things mum and dad had picked up as internationalists watching the World Cup. We generally supported the least economically advanced team in each game. That seemed to be the socialist thing to do. I consoled Havana also that Chelsea was not a country and would not be playing in the world cup.
I explained that although Chelsea has a single geographic location, it would need to develop a seperate language, seperate cultural identity and lead a succesful movement for national soveriegnty before it could qualify for the World Cup. She listened intently, looked back at the TV and took off where she left off, chanting "Go Chelsea."
In what may seem like an development unconected to the World Cup, Havana has also been developing her pet relationship skills. She now recognizes her place in the combat hierarchy in our house. She is below Karen and I, below our cat, Milou, who can kick any kid's ass, but above our other cat, the appropriately named, Kitten. She chases Kitten, picks her up by her bottom half and generally manhandles her. Her relationship with Kitten is frequently the basis of tedious life lessons on sensitivity and bullying.
During the Holland game today there were many shots at the goal by Serbia and the 7-foot Dutch goalie made many great diving saves. While watching the Argentina game, I noticed out of the corner of my eye, Havana standing upright on one end of the sofa. Her arms were outstretched, she pushed down and dived all the way to the other end of the sofa, as if to catch a shot at the goal. Unfortunately, the recipient of the dive was Kitten, who in a moment of stupidity had fallen asleep, awoken by 28-lbs of 2 year old landing full force on her.
Kitten lived to see another day. I don't know if she'll survive the whole month of world cup games. Perhaps in her small pet cerebrum, she blames the TV for the increased violence in her home.
Like all households, capitalism flowed in through every pore. Magazines that came home. Junk mail that came through our door. Pop ups on the computer. Radio commercials. We figured we wouldn't keep The Man's machine in the house with its sitcoms that weren't funny and ads for things we didn't want. Stopping short of putting it out on the street, we packed the TV away. That was 3 years ago.
We forgot about the bloody World Cup.
So we dug the thing back out and switched it back on. With help from the lad across the street, we were able to get enough reception to distinguish one team on the pitch from the other.
Havana was of course mesmerized by the new machine. Her clay, crayons, books, lego were discarded as yesterday's fleeting interests. They could hardly compete with the TV.
While in Wales earlier this year we had watched a couple of televised Chelsea soccer matches. My brothers and I grew up in West London, home to Chelsea Football Club. The CFC tattoo on my forearm was all that remained of my strained relationship with Chelsea.
Havana, however, immediately recalled the games we had watched in Britain and when Argentina and Ivory Coast walked on the field, sensing the excitement in the room, she quickly began chanting, "Go Chelsea Go." I explained to Havana a couple of things mum and dad had picked up as internationalists watching the World Cup. We generally supported the least economically advanced team in each game. That seemed to be the socialist thing to do. I consoled Havana also that Chelsea was not a country and would not be playing in the world cup.
I explained that although Chelsea has a single geographic location, it would need to develop a seperate language, seperate cultural identity and lead a succesful movement for national soveriegnty before it could qualify for the World Cup. She listened intently, looked back at the TV and took off where she left off, chanting "Go Chelsea."
In what may seem like an development unconected to the World Cup, Havana has also been developing her pet relationship skills. She now recognizes her place in the combat hierarchy in our house. She is below Karen and I, below our cat, Milou, who can kick any kid's ass, but above our other cat, the appropriately named, Kitten. She chases Kitten, picks her up by her bottom half and generally manhandles her. Her relationship with Kitten is frequently the basis of tedious life lessons on sensitivity and bullying.
During the Holland game today there were many shots at the goal by Serbia and the 7-foot Dutch goalie made many great diving saves. While watching the Argentina game, I noticed out of the corner of my eye, Havana standing upright on one end of the sofa. Her arms were outstretched, she pushed down and dived all the way to the other end of the sofa, as if to catch a shot at the goal. Unfortunately, the recipient of the dive was Kitten, who in a moment of stupidity had fallen asleep, awoken by 28-lbs of 2 year old landing full force on her.
Kitten lived to see another day. I don't know if she'll survive the whole month of world cup games. Perhaps in her small pet cerebrum, she blames the TV for the increased violence in her home.
Friday, June 02, 2006
simplifying the complex can backfire
Sunday morning the three of us are in bed. Havana is leafing through a book. Karen and I are splitting the weekend edition of the capitalist Financial Times.
I turn the page to an ad. It's for some high-end resort in the Carribean. The image shows a woman walking on the beach with a bellboy five steps behind carrying, we presume, her bags.
Havana peaks over and, without encouragement, explains the ad as she sees it.
"That's a worker and that's not a worker" she clarifies. Initially, I was a bit stunned. We hadn't begun our indoctrination on the issue of class and image. But I figure we're making big progress here, so I push the envelope a wee tad.
"Yes" I confirm to her and add, "worker - good" and then point, "bourgeois bad!" She looks at me with furrowed eyebrows. So I repeat, "worker -good, bourgeois - bad!" To which she retorts, "No, daddy, she's not bad. She's a woman."
Outwitted again.
Well, as one stickler for political clarification once said, "theory is grey, but the tree of life is green."
I turn the page to an ad. It's for some high-end resort in the Carribean. The image shows a woman walking on the beach with a bellboy five steps behind carrying, we presume, her bags.
Havana peaks over and, without encouragement, explains the ad as she sees it.
"That's a worker and that's not a worker" she clarifies. Initially, I was a bit stunned. We hadn't begun our indoctrination on the issue of class and image. But I figure we're making big progress here, so I push the envelope a wee tad.
"Yes" I confirm to her and add, "worker - good" and then point, "bourgeois bad!" She looks at me with furrowed eyebrows. So I repeat, "worker -good, bourgeois - bad!" To which she retorts, "No, daddy, she's not bad. She's a woman."
Outwitted again.
Well, as one stickler for political clarification once said, "theory is grey, but the tree of life is green."
Friday, May 19, 2006
broken sleep and breaking rules
The onset of another teething period has once again cut us all adrift from our full night's sleep. Perhaps the move from her crib to her big girl's bed is interrupting her sleep. Maybe the move into her new room is interrupting her sleep. Whatever the cause, the effect is self-evident: sleep for all the primates in our small tribe has become a more precious commodity lately.
There's not much we can do about broken sleep, however, as parents we can establish some rules for the road that hopefully leads our tiny offspring off to sleep.
When she got bumped up to the monkey room out of her baby room we made some concessions to smooth that process. After her good night story and we depart, she would call out for us, with new and improved excuses: she needed to poop or pee, or she needed a drink. What parent could ignore such demands?
Then there were others excuses for not sleeping. Armed with her newly expanding vocubulary and her very basic conversational skills, she would attempt to engage her parents intellectually. "Daddy, what's vovo and grandpa's dog's name?"
Family trivia exercises were not about to be added to our daughter's very short list of legitimate bed time excuses.
For the first week after Havana was liberated from the cell-bars of her crib to her big girl's bed, it was as if that old crib had left behind an invisible force-field around her new bed. Such is the power of established routine, that it NEVER even occurred to her that she could get out of bed and wander around her room.
Until that one night. The substance of her new reality finally dawned on her. And she began to vacate her bed. We had, perhaps mistakenly, conceded to allowing the light to be left on after we left her. This was a genuine attempt on the part of her caring parents to soften the blow of moving out of her crib.
She began asking for the light to be left on. That should have been a clue. We thought we were helping her transition, but in actuality, we had once again been outwitted by our 2-year old.
We would walk in on her doing all sorts of prohibited past-bedtime activities. We caught her in the act on many occasions. Pj-ed, with her sucker in mouth, looking up innocently with a dozen books scattered over her bed.
Now, as her parents leave her to sleep each night, so too the light once again goes off.
Did she complain? No.
She probably figured she had a good run for her money, but that the law was innevitably gonna catch up with her. And it did.
There's not much we can do about broken sleep, however, as parents we can establish some rules for the road that hopefully leads our tiny offspring off to sleep.
When she got bumped up to the monkey room out of her baby room we made some concessions to smooth that process. After her good night story and we depart, she would call out for us, with new and improved excuses: she needed to poop or pee, or she needed a drink. What parent could ignore such demands?
Then there were others excuses for not sleeping. Armed with her newly expanding vocubulary and her very basic conversational skills, she would attempt to engage her parents intellectually. "Daddy, what's vovo and grandpa's dog's name?"
Family trivia exercises were not about to be added to our daughter's very short list of legitimate bed time excuses.
For the first week after Havana was liberated from the cell-bars of her crib to her big girl's bed, it was as if that old crib had left behind an invisible force-field around her new bed. Such is the power of established routine, that it NEVER even occurred to her that she could get out of bed and wander around her room.
Until that one night. The substance of her new reality finally dawned on her. And she began to vacate her bed. We had, perhaps mistakenly, conceded to allowing the light to be left on after we left her. This was a genuine attempt on the part of her caring parents to soften the blow of moving out of her crib.
She began asking for the light to be left on. That should have been a clue. We thought we were helping her transition, but in actuality, we had once again been outwitted by our 2-year old.
We would walk in on her doing all sorts of prohibited past-bedtime activities. We caught her in the act on many occasions. Pj-ed, with her sucker in mouth, looking up innocently with a dozen books scattered over her bed.
Now, as her parents leave her to sleep each night, so too the light once again goes off.
Did she complain? No.
She probably figured she had a good run for her money, but that the law was innevitably gonna catch up with her. And it did.
Friday, May 05, 2006
Know your Ripes!
Havana calls me once or twice a day while I'm at work. (Mom dials.) Our chats normally consist of her telling me what she's doing at that very moment: "I'm eating cereal, daddy" or "I'm reading a book, daddy."
Yesterday while in the car, she told me that she wanted to buckle herself into her carseat while her mother was wrestling to get the job done. I told her, "tell mom, you have your rights!"
Now its her common refrain, except its her ripes,not her rights. She told me today that I had no ripes and that she had taken them from me.
I'm not yet entirely sure what her notion is of her rights. Its probably somewhat of a fusion between some basic human rights and the concept that you should always get that which you demand.
Unfortunately her Miranda rights have yet to be exercised.
Yesterday while in the car, she told me that she wanted to buckle herself into her carseat while her mother was wrestling to get the job done. I told her, "tell mom, you have your rights!"
Now its her common refrain, except its her ripes,not her rights. She told me today that I had no ripes and that she had taken them from me.
I'm not yet entirely sure what her notion is of her rights. Its probably somewhat of a fusion between some basic human rights and the concept that you should always get that which you demand.
Unfortunately her Miranda rights have yet to be exercised.
Friday, March 31, 2006
Joking, as a blunt instrument of deceit
Resistance to blatantly non-play activities such as teeth cleaning or getting dressed,has been on the rise lately. Havana's blind compliance to adult wisdom has all but disappeared.
When getting ready for bed, we have to close Havana's door or its chasey chasey down the hallway. Last night, at PJ time, she hid in her closet. I enquired on her intensions. "I'm peeing" she said. I immediately switched into cleanup mindset until Ms. Innocent added, "I't's a joke."
Cracking a joke goes beyond simply knowing right from wrong.
From a marxist perspective Havana understanding a joke is her first step into the world of dialectical thought. Joking is not about right or wrong. It demands a basic understanding of the contradiction between right and wrong. Humor I once saw described as objective reality clashing with subjective expectation. To be able to joke one must recognise right and wrong as a single component, opposites united.
But for Havana this new development of being able to joke is most important for another reason. Joking can now be added to Havana's increasingly endless arsenal of excuses for delaying her innevitable bedtime.
When getting ready for bed, we have to close Havana's door or its chasey chasey down the hallway. Last night, at PJ time, she hid in her closet. I enquired on her intensions. "I'm peeing" she said. I immediately switched into cleanup mindset until Ms. Innocent added, "I't's a joke."
Cracking a joke goes beyond simply knowing right from wrong.
From a marxist perspective Havana understanding a joke is her first step into the world of dialectical thought. Joking is not about right or wrong. It demands a basic understanding of the contradiction between right and wrong. Humor I once saw described as objective reality clashing with subjective expectation. To be able to joke one must recognise right and wrong as a single component, opposites united.
But for Havana this new development of being able to joke is most important for another reason. Joking can now be added to Havana's increasingly endless arsenal of excuses for delaying her innevitable bedtime.
Friday, March 24, 2006
Challenging the existing power structure
Havana and I were driving down the road in the truck. Her, car-seated next to me. It was a little warm so I rolled down the window and rested my elbow out into the fresh air. Then a little voice says, "don't do that!" I had no idea what she was referring to. This is not uncommon.
"Close that!" she adds, pointing at the window.
I attempted to engage her in a conversation on my intended goal of opening the window before she finally got to the point: "put your arm in......both hands on the wheel!"
There are now no areas of our life which remain uncontested in the struggle for power in our family.
"Close that!" she adds, pointing at the window.
I attempted to engage her in a conversation on my intended goal of opening the window before she finally got to the point: "put your arm in......both hands on the wheel!"
There are now no areas of our life which remain uncontested in the struggle for power in our family.
Sunday, March 19, 2006
painting the monkey room
After existing in outline for over a year we finally began to paint the monkey room. This will be the girls' room. Its a jungle mural that my brother painted in outline. Mostly monkeys plus a tiger, lion, snake and sundry tropical characters.
Completely incapable, at this point, of painting within any kind of line much of our time was spent figuring out ways to allow Havana to enjoy herself without doing too much damage to the mural. One was to give her the green paint to color the grass at the bottom. Another, we figured out as we went, wast to water down her paint so dramatically that it could be wiped clean later.
We've been talking about painting for a couple of days. As we entered the room, she turned to me and said to me, "I'm so 'cited." As we get older we learn to control our 'citedness, at our own loss.
Thursday, March 09, 2006
Valley of the Witches
Each wet morning, Havana has been walking down to school hand-in-hand with her cousins here in Cymgwrach, south wales. The village name means Valley of the Witches and the public school uniform emblem is a witch on broomstick.
The school seems well funded with small class sizes and warm staff. Saint David's Day was cancelled last week due to heavy snow and so yesterday all the kids dressed up in their traditional welsh costumes for school, including the teachers.
We have four adults and five kids aged 1 to 7 packed into a 3-bedroom terraced house this week. Havana naturally loves it. She is magnetically drawn into the collective self-discipline and chaos of the existing community of kids. She loves sitting to the table for meals with her cousins, but has also slightly overcome her fear of TV, unable to resist the gravitational pull of her young kin.
Last night was bath night, which was a high energy event, but not as crazy as the potential inherent. Havana stood on the weigh scales and announced some sequence of incoherent numbers to everyone,as she does, then walked over to 3-year old Robbie, hugged him circumferentially and announced that she wanted to `scale him' next. He was saved only by the proverbial shortness of attention spans.
Sunday, March 05, 2006
The overtures of Onur
Karen's sister and her husband from Toulouse wanted an authentic local breakfast. Stewed tomatoes, bacon,fried eggs and mushrooms all sitting on top of a fried slice (of bread). Pierre concluded that the role of the slice was to absorb the lion's share of grease and that it should not itself be consumed.
Food aside, a 3 year-old across the restaurant kneeled on the back of his plastic bench seat scoping out Havana. Kids have radars for each other when in the adult world.
"Look at that boy's eyes" our daughter exclaimed. We had fed the girl before coming out and conceded to let her wonder the floor of the cafe (pron. caff). She headed towards the young lad and stopped, distracted by some detail which would only distract a 2 year-old.
The boy moved quickly off seat and ran up behind Havana grabbing her and planting a sweet one squarley on her cheek. Stunned, she ran back to us. Some moments later he returned with a lollipop, handing it to her and returning to his seat. This appeared to be a turning point in their relationship and Havana was once again walking in his direction.
Caught off guard by a second kiss, once more she returned to her corner at the bell.
Onur is the son of the Turkish family that ran this authentic british breakfast cafe. This time the 3 year-old was sent over by his dad to brush some lost egg into a dustpan and some moments later to bus a dish or two. Onur seemed both hardworking and unencumbered by male-emotional restraint. A healthy combination for overtures to a young girl.
Finally, a kiss was accepted over the back of one plastic bench seat backed up to another.
As we stood on the windy train platform some minutes later, Havana edged in close to me and asked me, "where'd my buddy go?" The hard cold truth is that she will probably never see Onur again.
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Wales Bound
For days we rehearsed the words. “Where we going Wednesday?” “To Wales,” Havana would reply. “How we getting there?” “By Airplane!” she’d reply. Finally she got it. Despite having virtually no concept of any distance of time beyond the immediate, she figured that we were eventually going to Wales and we would be getting there on an airplane.
I knew it had seeped in when she got concerned after I informed her that all three of us would be sleeping on the plane. She responded with a little furrow on the brow asking, “but who’s going to drive the plane?”
I knew it had seeped in when she got concerned after I informed her that all three of us would be sleeping on the plane. She responded with a little furrow on the brow asking, “but who’s going to drive the plane?”
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