I fancy myself a bird watcher, but it's pretty much limited to the birds I can watch from my living room. We have a seed feeder and two suet feeders just outside it, and we get a lot of chickadees, juncos, tufted titmice, nuthatches, downy woodpeckers, hairy woodpeckers and, a little less often, flickers and finches. Last year we saw pine siskins regularly; this year I haven't seen a single one (although I've heard them on occasion, their calls always reminding me of a thumb running over the spines of a plastic comb). Last spring we saw white-throated sparrows, and I hope they'll be back singing their delicate oh-sweet-Canada song, and hopping lightly on the porch in search of spilled millet.
The red-breasted nuthatches were a species new to me when we moved here; I had only been familiar with their white-breasted cousins. They are tiny things, flitting to and from the suet cages, perching on legs like toothpicks. Smaller, even. Their heads are dark, setting off a bold white stripe above each eye. Their downy sides and breasts are rusty, their backs and wings slate-colored.
What I find so enthralling about the red-breasted nuthatches, however, is not their plumage but their apparent lack of wariness of me. Countless times I have opened the creaking screen door to go out to the porch for a load of wood or to refill the feeders (swiftly emptied in the bitter months of winter), and one of these tiny birds is clinging with its minuscule claws to a suet cage, unperturbed by my presence. Or so it would seem. Have they observed that I never reach out to catch them? Do they associate me with the food they find suspended from the porch roof? Have they learned and communicated this information within their flock? Why wouldn't they flit away with the other birds, or heed the alarm calls of the chickadees?
I can't answer. I don't know how many there are, because they all all look the same to me, and so I like to pretend I am encountering the same individual on my porch each time, even though I know this is highly unlikely. I am tempted, too, to anthropomorphize -- to imagine the bird is my friend.
This is foolish, I know, because a nuthatch is a wild animal. Still, I enjoy its company as I go about whatever business brings me out into the cold, and I enjoy even more seeing it at close range: the joints of its legs, the individual feathers of its wings, its bright eye.
I was told that when I became a mother, I would develop a mother's ears -- I would be able to distinguish the unique timbre of my infant's wail, and I would be able to pick up the faintest cry from many rooms away sans baby monitor. This did not prove to be true, and it was my husband whose ears who became attuned to the sounds our children made. When, at two in the morning, I am groggily trying to understand why one of our children is -- talking? singing? sobbing? -- he is headed to their bedroom, having already identified that it is our daughter crying because she woke up from a nightmare.
So I did not get mother's ears, but I did develop a new capacity for sight. I have mother's eyes. I am obsessed with looking at my daughter and my son -- their toes and eyelashes and the curve of their ears. With my eyes I drink in the shape of their mouths when they smile, or the taught plumpness of their cheeks when they cry, the tints of my son's blue eyes and my daughter's blond hair. I can easily call to mind his uneven baby teeth or her strawberry-colored birthmark. I eat them up with my eyes, I cannot get my fill of looking at them.
And so it is with the wild birds that come so close to my domestic world: I long to and love to get a little closer, to visually seize them in all the small, fine details of their tiny, fragile bodies. My children are wild animals, too, though their wildness is subdued, tamed somewhat by home and routine and manners at the table and yes you can look at that if you're careful and no you can't play until you've cleaned up this mess. When my daughter was a newborn, I regarded her as a wild creature; she might have abilities I didn't know about (it seemed she could sense us in the room even if she couldn't see us -- was she somehow aware of the air disturbed by our breath or the heat emanating from our bodies?) and she felt almost completely inaccessible to me. Her inner world of wants and needs and preferences was hidden from me, in part because I lacked that other aural ability mothers are supposed to have, which is to distinguish one kind of cry from another: hunger vs tiredness vs discomfort. They all sounded stressful to me and raised alarm bells in my head, and I always felt I had to stop her crying or risk losing my mind.
Still, all babies are mysterious, to some extent. Even a parent adept at interpreting her baby's cry cannot know how the baby is interpreting the world. No one can remember being pre-verbal; what is it like to have thoughts, but never words? Once they are pointing and signing and speaking, babies have a much larger receptive vocabulary than they do productive; that is to say, they understand many more words than they can say themselves. The development of their inner world outpaces their ability to communicate about that world.
And this lasts for years, I think, and even adults have trouble putting into words what is in their minds, so perhaps it never ends. We are all wild and mysterious at heart, even if we are not trying to be secretive. Even if we are, in fact, trying just the opposite -- to be transparent and reveal our souls to one another -- we are at least occasionally at a loss for words.
The mystery of the wild birds is that they cannot share their experience of the world with us. The nature of their consciousness will, perhaps, be a mystery forever. The mystery of my children is that they can share their experience of the world with me, but only to a degree. My son is just starting to say words, and my daughter is just starting to have secrets, and thus there is uncertainty in our relationship. They are not always predictable, their minds have an element of wildness, and though my eyes can rove over them and see them completely, I cannot get beyond the surface to know completely their inner worlds. The frustration of this is that I want to know them perfectly and never can; the joy is that I will go on learning who they are my whole life long.
Monday, February 15, 2016
Saturday, September 20, 2014
What I'm Reading with Greta, Chapter 1: Old Friends, Familiar Faces
This is the first of a series of posts on children's literature I'll be doing, called "What I'm Reading with Greta." Greta is my three-year-old bookworm. I welcome thoughts/comments/suggestions about books you're reading with kids in your life. -AS
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"Children are made readers on the laps of their parents." — Emilie Buchwald
Greta and I visit our public library every Tuesday morning. We hold hands in the parking lot, stop at the return table to unload our bag of the books we picked out last week, say good morning to the librarian, and head upstairs to the children's section.
Just as predictable as this routine is Greta's habit of making a beeline for one short shelf on which rests a care-worn collection of Berenstain Bears books. We have checked out every one of them at least once – the original picture books, the “beginning reader” books (which, like all books of this type, make terrible read-aloud material – but I'll save that for another blog post), and last time we even found one of the books is available as an audio version. I have to admit, I was almost as happy as Greta to make this discovery, because it meant one less Berenstain Bear book that I would be reading.
Perhaps you've caught from my tone that these books aren't my favorites. The strange thing is, I'm the one who got Greta interested in the first place. I had fond (and apparently fuzzy) memories of reading about Brother and Sister Bear when I was a child, and I thought it would be wonderful to revisit the stories with her. Well... she has found it wonderful. My husband and I have found it to be a bit of a drag. For starters, our library has about a dozen of the books (and we now own a few additional titles), so we read and reread and re-reread the books, and while her ardor does not wane, ours wanes rather quickly. If there is any ardor to begin with. Because the other, larger problem we have with them is the depiction of Mama and Papa Bear, the latter of which is basically Homer Simpson, but less complex and way less funny. Along these lines, the morals at the end of some of these stories aren't exactly what we would have Greta internalizing – for example, in The Berenstain Bears and the Truth, Mama says that trust is something that, once broken, cannot be repaired. Hopefully for Greta, at the tender age of three, most of this is going over her head. Then there are the titles that deal with topics that are clearly for older children (and I don't fault the authors for this; if anything, we're introducing them on the early side, and that's our choice) – Report Card Trouble comes to mind as one that I've decided we won't be reading right now. I also try to avoid letting her check out Too Much Junk Food, since it follows the typical American narrative of food being “good” or “bad” fuel for our body-machines. I reject this for reasons I won't get into here (so stay tuned for that blog post, too).
A little bartering goes a long way at the library, and I'm usually successful in getting her to put back a Berenstain Bear book that I don't want in exchange for a book from Mercer Mayer's Critter series – or by setting an arbitrary limit on how many she can get in a given trip, or occasionally by simply telling her that the book is for bigger kids, and we can check it out when she's older (say, when she's fourteen).
Still, I think that part of what made me the avid reader I am today is that my parents mostly gave me free rein in selecting reading material. They did quite a bit to introduce me to quality authors and works, but they didn't restrict my choices, and as I grew older, I was able to start introducing them to quality material I had found as a result of their encouraging me to explore just about whatever I wanted to. I came across the above quote from Emilie Buchwald recently, and it reminded me that sometimes my job is to provide the lap and the audio, and let Greta provide the book. It may not be my idea of a good time to read The Trouble with Friends for the sixteenth bedtime in a row, but sometimes the point is just to be reading with her (and sometimes I can amuse myself by doing voices for all the characters).
I'm in the third trimester of my pregnancy. My IQ seems to dip when I'm pregnant, and my brain feels like when you're watching Netflix over a slow Internet connection and keep getting that buffering symbol. Every conversation I have, every book I read, I'm having to pause to allow buffering. I've had to apologize at least twice for appearing disinterested in someone's idea, explaining later that it was the result of my genuine inability to apprehend what was being said and respond with an appropriate level of enthusiasm. (And I was sincerely enthusiastic both times! Just very, very slow on the uptake.)
The result is that some of my more serious reading has been put on hold. I hope to get back to it when I'm nursing my newborn, with the help of Marc's Kindle (a luxury I didn't have last time). Meanwhile, I'm reading some things that I can dip into periodically without losing the thread of a larger argument or plot.* I also just finished rereading the entire Harry Potter series for the, oh, I'm not even sure how many times I've read those books. I pick them up individually every now and then when I need some light, fun reading, but it had been quite a while since I'd worked my way through all seven books consecutively.
Let me tell you now that these books never have, and never will, get old for me. I greet the characters as old friends, and fondly watch them grow from kids riding broomsticks for the first time to young adults battling the forces of evil in the world with all the courage, skill, and greatness of heart that they have acquired in their years at Hogwarts. I love the way the books grow steadily more complex, without losing the charm and winsome humor that got me hooked on Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, back when I was about eleven years old myself. The stories never fail to captivate me, and I still stay up past bedtime to read an extra chapter, especially when I get to the final books of the series and the suspense is killing me – even though I know how it ends. I still laugh out loud at the dialogue, I still feel my eyes sting with tears when characters die – alright, maybe I sound a little kooky, but these books have meant so much to me since I was in middle school, and I can't wait for my own kids to be old enough to enjoy them, too. It's partly the magic of nostalgia, partly the brilliant storytelling of J. K. Rowling, and partly the way that the books subtly change each time I read them, because I come to them each time a different reader.
So, while I was curled up on the couch one evening not long ago, relishing another hour spent at Hogwarts, my husband pointed out that maybe, just maybe, I had a mild case of pot-calling-kettle-black syndrome. He didn't need to explain what he meant, and I don't think I do, either. I immediately made my peace with my daughter's favorite series (although my husband and I still exchange eye-rolls and cutting remarks about them when she's not around). If she needs to take regular trips to the tree house down a sunny dirt road deep in Bear Country, well, who am I to say no? I still need to get my ticket punched on the Hogwarts Express every now and then. Anyway, I'd take that trip with her any day of the week rather than spend the time exploring with Dora. But that, dear reader, is a subject for yet another day.
*For the curious, I'm reading: What To Eat by Marion Nestle, Consider the Birds by Debbie Blue, and The Forest Unseen by David Haskell. I'm also reading The Nursing Mother's Companion by Kathleen Huggins, partly to fulfill a reading requirement for DONA certification, and partly to refresh my memory, since I'll be a nursing mother again in about – yikes – nine weeks!
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"Children are made readers on the laps of their parents." — Emilie Buchwald
Greta and I visit our public library every Tuesday morning. We hold hands in the parking lot, stop at the return table to unload our bag of the books we picked out last week, say good morning to the librarian, and head upstairs to the children's section.
Just as predictable as this routine is Greta's habit of making a beeline for one short shelf on which rests a care-worn collection of Berenstain Bears books. We have checked out every one of them at least once – the original picture books, the “beginning reader” books (which, like all books of this type, make terrible read-aloud material – but I'll save that for another blog post), and last time we even found one of the books is available as an audio version. I have to admit, I was almost as happy as Greta to make this discovery, because it meant one less Berenstain Bear book that I would be reading.
Perhaps you've caught from my tone that these books aren't my favorites. The strange thing is, I'm the one who got Greta interested in the first place. I had fond (and apparently fuzzy) memories of reading about Brother and Sister Bear when I was a child, and I thought it would be wonderful to revisit the stories with her. Well... she has found it wonderful. My husband and I have found it to be a bit of a drag. For starters, our library has about a dozen of the books (and we now own a few additional titles), so we read and reread and re-reread the books, and while her ardor does not wane, ours wanes rather quickly. If there is any ardor to begin with. Because the other, larger problem we have with them is the depiction of Mama and Papa Bear, the latter of which is basically Homer Simpson, but less complex and way less funny. Along these lines, the morals at the end of some of these stories aren't exactly what we would have Greta internalizing – for example, in The Berenstain Bears and the Truth, Mama says that trust is something that, once broken, cannot be repaired. Hopefully for Greta, at the tender age of three, most of this is going over her head. Then there are the titles that deal with topics that are clearly for older children (and I don't fault the authors for this; if anything, we're introducing them on the early side, and that's our choice) – Report Card Trouble comes to mind as one that I've decided we won't be reading right now. I also try to avoid letting her check out Too Much Junk Food, since it follows the typical American narrative of food being “good” or “bad” fuel for our body-machines. I reject this for reasons I won't get into here (so stay tuned for that blog post, too).
A little bartering goes a long way at the library, and I'm usually successful in getting her to put back a Berenstain Bear book that I don't want in exchange for a book from Mercer Mayer's Critter series – or by setting an arbitrary limit on how many she can get in a given trip, or occasionally by simply telling her that the book is for bigger kids, and we can check it out when she's older (say, when she's fourteen).
Still, I think that part of what made me the avid reader I am today is that my parents mostly gave me free rein in selecting reading material. They did quite a bit to introduce me to quality authors and works, but they didn't restrict my choices, and as I grew older, I was able to start introducing them to quality material I had found as a result of their encouraging me to explore just about whatever I wanted to. I came across the above quote from Emilie Buchwald recently, and it reminded me that sometimes my job is to provide the lap and the audio, and let Greta provide the book. It may not be my idea of a good time to read The Trouble with Friends for the sixteenth bedtime in a row, but sometimes the point is just to be reading with her (and sometimes I can amuse myself by doing voices for all the characters).
I'm in the third trimester of my pregnancy. My IQ seems to dip when I'm pregnant, and my brain feels like when you're watching Netflix over a slow Internet connection and keep getting that buffering symbol. Every conversation I have, every book I read, I'm having to pause to allow buffering. I've had to apologize at least twice for appearing disinterested in someone's idea, explaining later that it was the result of my genuine inability to apprehend what was being said and respond with an appropriate level of enthusiasm. (And I was sincerely enthusiastic both times! Just very, very slow on the uptake.)
The result is that some of my more serious reading has been put on hold. I hope to get back to it when I'm nursing my newborn, with the help of Marc's Kindle (a luxury I didn't have last time). Meanwhile, I'm reading some things that I can dip into periodically without losing the thread of a larger argument or plot.* I also just finished rereading the entire Harry Potter series for the, oh, I'm not even sure how many times I've read those books. I pick them up individually every now and then when I need some light, fun reading, but it had been quite a while since I'd worked my way through all seven books consecutively.
Let me tell you now that these books never have, and never will, get old for me. I greet the characters as old friends, and fondly watch them grow from kids riding broomsticks for the first time to young adults battling the forces of evil in the world with all the courage, skill, and greatness of heart that they have acquired in their years at Hogwarts. I love the way the books grow steadily more complex, without losing the charm and winsome humor that got me hooked on Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, back when I was about eleven years old myself. The stories never fail to captivate me, and I still stay up past bedtime to read an extra chapter, especially when I get to the final books of the series and the suspense is killing me – even though I know how it ends. I still laugh out loud at the dialogue, I still feel my eyes sting with tears when characters die – alright, maybe I sound a little kooky, but these books have meant so much to me since I was in middle school, and I can't wait for my own kids to be old enough to enjoy them, too. It's partly the magic of nostalgia, partly the brilliant storytelling of J. K. Rowling, and partly the way that the books subtly change each time I read them, because I come to them each time a different reader.
So, while I was curled up on the couch one evening not long ago, relishing another hour spent at Hogwarts, my husband pointed out that maybe, just maybe, I had a mild case of pot-calling-kettle-black syndrome. He didn't need to explain what he meant, and I don't think I do, either. I immediately made my peace with my daughter's favorite series (although my husband and I still exchange eye-rolls and cutting remarks about them when she's not around). If she needs to take regular trips to the tree house down a sunny dirt road deep in Bear Country, well, who am I to say no? I still need to get my ticket punched on the Hogwarts Express every now and then. Anyway, I'd take that trip with her any day of the week rather than spend the time exploring with Dora. But that, dear reader, is a subject for yet another day.
*For the curious, I'm reading: What To Eat by Marion Nestle, Consider the Birds by Debbie Blue, and The Forest Unseen by David Haskell. I'm also reading The Nursing Mother's Companion by Kathleen Huggins, partly to fulfill a reading requirement for DONA certification, and partly to refresh my memory, since I'll be a nursing mother again in about – yikes – nine weeks!
What I'm Reading with Greta: Preface
Interests and hobbies and obsessions have come and gone throughout my lifetime, but one has remained constant for as long as I can remember: books. My parents are book-lovers, and spent untold amounts of time and money immersing their kids in great books. Since middle school, I've typically had two or three books going at the same time, and felt bereft when I've been "between books" -- what to do in my free time? How else to occupy myself in a waiting room or on a bus or, these days, when I'm nursing a baby or enjoying the quiet midday hours of nap time?
My husband also loves to read, and throughout the six years of our marriage we've nearly always had a book that we're reading through together (Henri Nouwen, Bill Bryson, Debbie Blue and Michael Pollan are among the authors we've read aloud to each other). Since she was a newborn, we've been sharing books with Greta, too. We have a delightful collection of our own picture books at home (thanks in large part to generous grandparents and friends), and we visit the library at least once a week, returning each time with a stack of books to which we've each contributed new selections to try and old favorites to enjoy together again.
Since she could turn the pages on her own, Greta has been "reading" aloud to herself, making up stories and dialogue between characters (sometimes so emotionally charged that I have to double-check that she's just doing make-believe voices, and not actually in a rage). She's definitely a bookworm, and we're eager to see her learn to read -- although I'm going to savor the next few years before she's off reading entirely on her own. Once I was able to read by myself, I wasn't interested in having my parents read aloud to me anymore; I'll be happy to see Greta an independent reader, but a little disappointed when she grows out of sitting on my lap, listening to me read to her.
I'd like to capture a few snapshots of this stage of her life, when we're still reading books together (i.e. when she's still reliant on me to decipher the words). I'm seeing my daughter fall in love with books, her eyes drinking in the richly-colored pages as she journeys throughout our world and into worlds of fantasy and wonder -- and I don't want to forget it. To that end, I'll be starting a series of blog posts called "What I'm Reading with Greta" to share these snapshots. I hope you'll join me and make it a conversation, because if there's one thing I enjoy as much as reading a good book, it's discussing a good book; stay tuned!
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