Tag Archives: children

Dialogue Toward Having a Baby, Illustrated By Children’s Books

The discussion began when I said, “There’s a wocket in my pocket.”

So Kimberly shouted throughout the house, “Bedtime for little bears!”

That being taken care of, I said, “Come on over, baby, and hop on pop!”

But she wanted to know, “Where’s walrus?”

So I told her, “Watch me grow, Kitten.”

She responded, “That is a very hungry caterpillar.”

That’s when I showed her the “Sweethearts of Rhythm”.

Kimberly announced she would recite aloud from “Falling Up”.

I said, “And that’s the wonderful way babies are made.”

To which she replied, “We’re having a home birth.”

And that was pretty much all the talking we did.

Snuggle Time

Most dads are familiar with that classic daddy moment of having  baby fall asleep on top of them while they drowsily nap along with him.

May I endorse to you the same moment, but with your toddler instead of your infant? The moment is harder to come by, but the payoff is very satisfying.

This little guy is almost four.

Every day he randomly declares “Snuggle time!”, usually when wifey and I are conferring alone in the bedroom. He’s been trained to yell “Snuggle time!” from the outside, without barging in. Once we allow him in, he jumps between us on the bed and swings one arm around each parent. He considers himself to be in charge of snuggling in this family.

I Will Continue To Praise Your Failure

How You Play The Game?

Oh how we love to tell our children that “it’s not whether you win or lose, it’s how you play the game.” Last year I wrote a post on the limitations of Mr. Grantland’s dictum, although Mr. Grantland is not at fault for the non-Victorian foibles of succeeding non-Victorian generations. That post focused not so much on playing the game “the right way”, but instead on playing with and behaving toward others with honor. The loss of a general concept of honor has meant that for us, “it’s how you play the game” has degenerated into “be a good loser” and “shake hands”.

Although that post called for a more general ethic to be employed, the call was for that general ethic to be brought into play in a very specific arena in which it is lacking. Today, for funsies, I write to endorse the “it’s how you play the game” ethic, but instead of limiting it to sport specifically, I will propose it as a salutary window into learning how to teach kids stuff. All stuff.

So, then, I entitle this post either “It’s How You Play the Game” or, better yet, “I Will Continue To Praise Your Failure”.

Cutting The Mustard

When fathers are teaching skills to their children, it is necessary that they have the long view in mind, and teach accordingly. I have said elsewhere that I am effusive in my praise of good performance on the part of kids placed under my authority, but that I also tell them in no uncertain terms when what they’re doing is just not cutting the mustard.

That being said, fathers should know what doesn’t cut the mustard. Doing things badly never cuts the mustard. Laziness, half-assery, anger, impatience…these do not cut the mustard. Failure, on the other hand, ought to bother no one. There is nothing wrong with failing; in fact, sometimes it’s better to build in a little failure as you’re teaching, not as some sort of sadistic “make ‘em tough” sort of thing, but because teaching things the right way will often involve more failure than teaching things the easy way.

Like your favorite Southern Baptist preacher on a fall Sunday morning, this is the part of the post where I move to a sports example. It’s like when Alabama was facing a fourth-and-goal…

Actually, it’s like teaching a five-year-old kid to shoot a basketball. From the girl who insists on shooting the ball like a Rick Barry underhanded free throw to the boy who cocks the ball behind his ear like a football to the kid whose form looks pretty good but uses too much arm. Those kids have been shooting the basketball their way for a while, and they’re okay at it. The grown-ups can all tell how awful and limiting some of those styles are, but all the kids see is that when you ask them to shoot it properly, they can’t even get the ball to the rim.

One girl I coached took weeks to start hitting the rim the way I showed her how to shoot. And then a couple more weeks to start making shots regularly. But by the end of the season she was doing just that, and in situations where she wouldn’t even have been able to get her old shot off.

The way to do that is to praise failure. Praise doing it the right way. Which I did every practice.

Trust & Grace: Make a Promise

Teach the right way, but don’t do it saying “because I said so.” “Why should I hold the hammer this way, dad?” “Because I said so.” That kind of response comes from frustration, and won’t give the kid the faith to believe what you’re telling him.

The kid needs faith in what you’re telling him, which means he needs two things. First, he needs to trust you. If your “because I said so”s could be substituted for “have I not been trustworthy so far?”, you’re good. If they could be substituted for “just shut up and do what you’re told”, it will be harder to build trust. After trust, the kid needs a promise. “I promise that if you do things my way (body, soul, mind, whole-ass) it will be better. And here’s how.” “I promise the models will be sturdier if you build them this way.” “I promise that your shot will be more accurate.” “I promise that you’ll do better on your next quizzes.” Deliver on your promises. Build trust. Promise more. That is how to teach.

In the gap between the promise and the performance is the place to praise. Once your kid can shoot from all over the court, you should be closing the tap on the praise. It’s when your kid is still struggling, but on the right path, that you must be generous. I will continue to praise your failure, my child. Just keep doing things the right way.

Joffre Wasp-Killer

It’s spring time, and that means the wasps are coming out. They’re building nests under the porch awning, and under the back stairs, and by the back shed. But most of all they’re building just under the peak of the house, way up on the second story where it’s more difficult to get to them. This makes the prime real estate for wasps in our creaky cranny 1890s house right by windows to the girl’s and boys’ rooms.

Every spring and summer for the past few years knocking down the nests and killing the wasps that crawl in to the house has been a part of keeping the house. Wifey might be willing to go up and kill one if I’m at work, but usually the job waits until I get home. Then dad takes a flip-flop upstairs and takes care of business.

The wasps come in through the weirdest places. One season we had a recurring problem with wasps crawling in to daughter’s room through the in-ceiling light socket in her room, which didn’t have any glass around it.

Last year Joffre and George would come up to the killing ground with me, little men going up with dad to take care of the men’s mission. This obviously falls to dad because it’s dangerous and we’re protecting women and children. So my then six- and four-year-old boys would crawl up the stairs behind me, and watch from the doorway while I did the killing.

Wifey told me the other day, while I was trying to knock nest off the boys’ window, that I probably wouldn’t have to bother with killing wasps inside the house.

Apparently a few weeks ago a wasp intruder was reported while I was away. L’il Joffre felt himself ready to assume a manly responsibility and asked mom if he could be the one to kill it. He picked out a fly-swatter (a one-chance weapon I would have been too frightened to use, I prefer to crush them for several seconds with a flip-flop or a book), took a deep breath, and prepared to ascend the stairs. According to wifey the mission was nearly aborted as Joffre screwed up the courage to mount the stairs. There were agonizing moments while the audience wondered if he was up to the task he’d set for himself. When he did begin to climb, he walked up very slowly and very deliberately, before disappearing into the bedroom door, leaving the rest of the family to wonder what his fate would be.

A buzz was heard. A smack. A cry. “I got it!”

Wasp-killer.

So that’s not my job anymore. Now younger brother George will sometimes creep up the stairs behind L’il Joffre and watch him stalk the wasps. I guess next year we’ll have two wasp-killers trained.

C. S. Lewis on Writing

Over at Letters of Note via Fat Souls.

That’s where we find a transcript of C. S. Lewis’ wonderful letter to a young fan living in Florida in 1956 (a wild and exotic place). The whole letter is well worth reading. In it he gives advice on writing, which is good advice for communication generally.

Dig this:

1. Always try to use the language so as to make quite clear what you mean and make sure your sentence couldn’t mean anything else.

2. Always prefer the plain direct word to the long, vague one. Don’t implement promises, but keep them.

3. Never use abstract nouns when concrete ones will do. If you mean “More people died” don’t say “Mortality rose.”

4. In writing. Don’t use adjectives which merely tell us how you want us to feel about the thing you are describing. I mean, instead of telling us a thing was “terrible,” describe it so that we’ll be terrified. Don’t say it was “delightful”; make us say “delightful” when we’ve read the description. You see, all those words (horrifying, wonderful, hideous, exquisite) are only like saying to your readers, “Please will you do my job for me.”

5. Don’t use words too big for the subject. Don’t say “infinitely” when you mean “very”; otherwise you’ll have no word left when you want to talk about something really infinite.

His Love Is Serious

I would not have expected Sinead O’Connor to write one of the sexiest songs in the universe, but it seems she has. For over ten years now she has been very, how to put it, spiritually active in some fringe groups of the Roman Catholic church, but I haven’t really kept track of her. I would guess that she’s a big fan of the mystics, and if she is, she seems to have taken the “all shall be well and all shall be well and all manner of things shall be well” lesson to heart.

If there’s one thing that permeates this tune besides sexiness it’s contentment. And that’s how I like my sexiness, thank you very much. A definitive love song about romance, domesticity, and fruitfulness. With just a touch of sexual innuendo. I’m going to have to get home quick so I can give wifey a buggy ride of her own.

(There’s more to this post below the video.)

The song is 4th and Vine from the 2012 album How About I Be Me (And You Be You)? It is interesting to note, as an aside, that a Catholic church on 4th and Vine in Philadelphia was burnt down by rioters in the 1840s.

Why do I like this song so much? Because it’s perfectly feminine, in praise and in love with the perfectly masculine.

This from the woman who ten years ago declared herself a lesbian, then married a man less than a year later. The contentment part doesn’t seem to have quite settled in with the artist (she’s been married three times since she was ordained as a priestess in a break-away Roman Catholic group). So I’m not saying she’s a model, but the song certainly is.

She makes herself pretty, she knows it will “look real nice” for her man, who is sweet, gentle, kind, and “no wuss”. They’re going to live happily ever after, so they go down to the church and get married. They’re going to have six kids, who will sing all the time because “their mama and their pa a-love them so right”. And it makes her warm inside when he takes her for a buggy ride.

Aw yeah.

The Most Melancholy Dunk In The World

I had a nice little time yesterday afternoon. It was a beautiful spring day and the city basketball courts were full. I played a couple of games.

At one point I brought the ball up court, and someone who wasn’t my man picked me up, bumping me the whole way down. I dribbled with some power to make him commit, then pulled up five feet outside the three-point line while he kept going. Nothing but chain.

Hadn’t done that in a long time. I even said “get off me!” and tried to look him in the eyes, which I’m a little embarrassed about.

Played well the rest of the time. Hit a couple of threes. Had some nice passes. The nice thing about being me is that when a 300-pound man beats his guy by dribbling behind his back, everyone on the sidelines does that whole “Oh! Dang!” thing. What can I say? *humblebrag* It’s what I do.

After one of the games, while the next team was picking a side, one of the guys, who looked like he might still be in high school, asked if I’d dunk the ball. Just to show him. When guys asked me that ten (+) years ago, I’d throw it off the backboard, or tomahawk it. This time I had to tell the guy I might not be able to (the neighbor kid had asked me the day before and I hadn’t quite managed it), but since my legs were warm from playing I did a straight one-handed dunk pretty easily.

Then this kid wanted to throw me an alley-oop. Which he did. I missed, but was thankful that I threw it off the back of the rim instead of the front.

On the last play of one game I pump faked, which was credible because for the first time in a long time I was hitting from outside, drove baseline, and dunked with the left. The dunk was strong, because I’m huge, and it was on a double rim with chain nets. The sideline erupted in jeers and yelled advice about stopping me. Like in the old days.

The truth is, I barely got up high enough. And I had a running start.

I had taken my seven-year-old boy along to watch. I believe he was the reason I was so focused; I wanted to impress this little boy. I couldn’t wait to see if he’d bring it up when we left, I had to ask him right away: “Did you see your old man dunk?”

I said “old man” because I wanted to sound casual. I didn’t want to sound desperate. But I realized as I said it that I really am his old man. And I was desperate that he be impressed.

He was. More by the three-pointers than the dunk, but I didn’t care. I was happy. And I realized as we walked home that this might be the last time he sees me dunk a basketball.

I suppose it’s a little late for me to be realizing this, but I guess I’m passing the torch, whether I like it or not.  I still play organized sports, and the younger kids are as impressed by me in my St. Andrew’s rugby kit as they are by professional athletes. But it’s time.

I’m not the basketball player anymore. They are. Little Joffre has a spin move, and I’m working on his crossover. I’m sure it’ll feel like no time at all when we’re in the driveway and he dunks on me. I’ll be very proud. I hope I’ll be ready.

The next generation.

Reading Poetry For Fun & Profit

On the Moral Instruction of Children Through the Reading of Poetry; or the Inculcation of Manly Virtues & Feminine Graces Through Verse

Oooh, how very Victorian of me. And truth be told, 19th century poetry is very suitable for children.

L’il Joffre and I had another bath-time poetry reading session last night, which reminded me I should post about this.

My daughter is eight, my oldest boy is seven. Of course, the bath-time readings are limited to the males (the younger ones will hang out with us occasionally). Except for the occasional book of poems for children from the library, or readings of humorous collections such as T. S. Eliot’s Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats, the kids’ exposure to poetry for a while was L’il Joffre reading me poems I enjoyed, which I didn’t think unsuitable to his age. Billy Collins, T. S. Eliot, G. M. Hopkins, or maybe some selections from an anthology. My personal favorites.

I soon realized, however, that I was missing out on two opportunities. I now take those opportunities, and you might want to as well.

1. Read ballads or epic poetry to your kids. It’ll be a while before we tackle anything truly epic, such as The Poem of the Cid, or Beowulf, or even The Ballad of the White Horse. The kids are reading prose versions of The Iliad and The Odyssey for school, but of course, that doesn’t count as poetry. But I do think their appetite is already whet for such things when they’re ready. Several weeks ago we all sat down in the living room to hear me read Coleridge’s The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. They loved it, and are still talking about it. I stopped every few verses so we could talk about what was happening and to make sure everyone was following the story. Even the five-year-old was able to follow the poem that way. We’ve read The Highwayman and The Lady of Shallot, which my daughter especially enjoyed (she has a Loreena McKennitt album in her room with sung versions of both poems).

The children’s own ability to read poetry has begun to improve as they hear me read. Joffre, for example, is now getting over his annoying habit of ending lines in an overly-dramatic whisper. The children have always imitated my rhetorical style when reading prose stories to each other, and the example of poetry emphasizes all the more the importance of reading well for effect.

Their sense of rhythm in particular is improving. And the potential to mix this with music, particularly in our family, which seriously lacks any musical gifting, is enormous. I’ve mentioned the McKennitt ballads. You can work in the other direction as well. I’m a big fan of folk ballads, so reading versions of songs like John Henry, Barbara Allen, or The Dreadful Wind and Rain is a great way to expose them to good music.

And of course, as with fairy tales or any other folklore, ballads and epic poetry are an excellent way to place the kids in the story-context of their own lives…it helps them to understand that they are part of a people, and a part of humanity.

2. This one is kind of new on me. I use poetry as a tool of moral instruction. I don’t necessarily mean that poetry can teach you what is right and what is wrong, although that is certainly true, as it is with any kind of story-telling. And it’s true of any good poetry. I’m not speaking strictly of story-formats of poetry, as I was in the section above.

The other day, when Joffre offered to read me some poetry (he values the dad time, poetry or no), I decided to take an opportunity. I wanted him to read some poems that were particularly English, because we’d been talking a bit about the English context of our cultural background. I love the English story, and I am of the opinion that a sense of Americanness without a sense of Englishness can lead to some unfortunate historical and philosophical myopia. With that in mind I had him read some martial English poetry. L’il Joffre read me Rupert Brooke’s The Dead (“blow out, you bugles”) and The Soldier (” there’s some corner of a foreign field/ that is for ever England”). We read Alan Seeger’s I Have A Rendezvous With Death (“I to my pledged word am true/ I shall not fail that rendezvous”). We read Kipling’s Recessional (“God of our fathers, known of old”).

The session ended up not really being about Englishness. Which I suppose I should have foreseen. The conversation ended up revolving around the ethical and moral elements of the poetry.

Okay, so Alan Seeger was actually an American who served in the French Foreign Legion.

None of the poems we read were stories, really. But they painted vivid pictures of certain kinds of men, and a certain ethos. Do I want a British imperialist for a son? Of course not. But I would like a son who has a sense of duty, of honor, of courage. I loved the things we got to talk about through the reading of the poems. And this is beside the basic educational comprehension stuff (“Who was taking the writer’s hand?” “Death.” “That’s right.”). We talked about everything from burial rites to keeping promises to what happens when a nation forgets God.

Poetry as a tool of moral instruction. I just love saying that. So Victorian of me. But also very fun of me, no? They already love reading poetry, so this actually ends up being an enjoyable way for them to learn about what is meet and proper so to do. Like basketball.

I just gave two didactic reasons for the reading of poetry with your children. But of course, there are many other reasons, not least that which is common to every art: the glimpse of beauty.

Which is why we might have to read High Flight this evening.