"Are fairy tales real?," Bee asked out of the blue. We were in the car, driving home from church.
"Nope," was my short answer, but her Dad followed up: "Why do you ask?"
"Because I wish they were real."
"Which fairy tales would you want to be real?"
"Jack and the Beanstalk."
"Why?"
"Because if the giant were real, he could come down here. He could look around and see all the great food he could eat. He would think the red houses and the red cars were watermelons. And he would think the yellow things on the electrical wires were frisbees."
She turned to me. "Would you let him destroy our house, Mom?"
"Not if you were in it."
"What about your new brown chair?"
"I would probably draw a line at the new chair."
"That's what you could do. You could draw a line on the house and the chair and the parks." It took me a minute to catch up with her here, as she continued to make a long list of all the things I could draw lines on--to limit the giant's rampage through our neighborhood. She had taken my metaphorical line literally and was extending the possibilities on and on. It was magical, how powerful that "line" was.
"Do you think the giant would need a map showing all these lines?" I asked.
Bee nodded. "Yeah. But it would take a lot of paper."
We arrived home and Bee left Jack and the Beanstalk in the car. But I kept thinking of her giant, who would mistake red roofs and red cars for watermelons. I was so glad her Dad had asked her that first follow-up question: "Why do you wish fairy tales were real?" If he hadn't asked, I would never have had a chance to travel along her line of thought: or to imagine a giant biting into our house expecting a juicy morsel, only to discover that shingles and aluminum siding taste like needles and splinters. The poor giant would splutter and stomp in confusion and pain. The house would be smashed, and the new brown chair, too.
And imagine me, the all-powerful mom, drawing impossibly powerful lines around all the things I didn't want the giant to destroy. I would have to draw quickly--because he's a hungry giant, Bee pointed out.
Dear child, I want to say, never lose that creative whirl of imagination that takes you into the mind of giants, that sees our world, which so few really look at, with a freshness that beguiles the hearer.
Dear parent, I want to say, remember to ask the next question--the question each first question begs.
Dear God, I want to say,
give me a child's mind and heart
that I might frolic
in the possibilities
presented by fairy tales,
dreams, and "impossible" prayers
that might--just might--
erupt
into vibrant life...
to the surprise of us all.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Patience vs. Anger: Chocolate Wins
(Originally published March 2010)
I was ever so patient this morning. Really, I was. Until I found myself dealing with a very grumpy kid who -- in the process of getting ready for school -- was unhappy about everything under the sun. She wanted me to brush her teeth, and because she is seven, I told her she could manage that herself. Humph. She reminded me that while we were at the dentist yesterday I had been told to supervise teeth-brushing. She's right, I said, "but it's fine if I check your brushing in the morning and work with you at night and help with flossing." I tried to explain, "I'm making lunches right now and you can manage the morning routine on your own." Major humph. (Obviously I am failing the dentist's orders. That these orders have fine print is unclear to her.)
She then asked me to brush her hair, bringing her hairbrush to me in the kitchen. Once again I gently replied, "you can manage this, too." Humph.
Time to go, let's get the backpacks. "Mom, I can't find my backpack and black binder." (They're in the kitchen.) "Mom, I can't find my purple folder." (It's in the black binder.) "Mom, you know I HATE IT WHEN YOU PUT THE PURPLE FOLDER INSIDE MY BLACK BINDER... DON'T DO THAT!!!!!" She throws her backpack on the floor, takes everything out, and instructs me as she reassembles her stuff, "YOU HAVE TO PUT the binder in the backpack THIS WAY, and the FOLDER goes on top THIS WAY, and .... I HATE MY FAMILY. I wish I didn't have to have a sister, and I want another mother, and..."
Are we having fun yet?
Even walking to our car became an event. "I'm walking behind you. You go in front of me." she ordered. "But I have to lock the door," I pointed out. Humph.
Inside the car, more of the same. (Thankfully it's a short drive.) "Bee is lying. Bee is kicking your seat. I don't like my sister....I wish I had another family."
Somewhere in this monologue the thread of my patience broke. "SILENCE!!! If I hear one more word out of you -- OR YOU (I said to Bee, who was NOT helping matters by being obnoxiously cheerful. She does this to bug April.) -- You are going to be sorry."
By this time we were in front of the school, where April's speech therapist is on traffic duty, making sure that drivers don't kill the kids in the cross-walk. (She's not responsible for the drivers who might kill the kids in their cars.) April gets ready to get out of the car and pulls a very nasty face with her tongue sticking out -- at me. That did it. I said, "You're in time-out. I don't care if you're late. You're sitting here...in this car, quietly." I parked the car and turned off the engine. (I sometimes think time-outs are lame, but they're handy and easy to dole out.)
Two big tears roll from April's eyes.
The school bell rings.
"You need to apologize to me."
Mumble mumble. "I apologize," she glowered. Yeah, right. I'm ready to let her go. I don't want to sit there any longer with her fuming and Bee humming.
"Okay, go ahead," I said. My usually perky seven-year-old grabbed her backpack and walked, hunched over, toward her watching speech therapist, who's probably wondering at our behavior. (Or maybe not.)
Bee starts up a monologue, all cheeriness.
I only have one more kid to go, I think to myself. Then I'm on my way home -- to coffee and chocolate... and silence.
(p.s. Later that same day, a friend who volunteers in April's classroom noted how happy April was all day. She, in fact, skipped into school.)
THE MORNING'S CHOCOLATE FIX:
Chocolate Ricotta Muffins
(Recipe from Mollie Katzen's Sunlight Cafe cookbook) Yield 12-14 muffins
Nonstick spray
2 1/3 cups flour
3/4 tsp salt
2 tsp baking powder
6-8 tblsp unsweetened cocoa
1 cup sugar
1 cup semisweet chocolate chips
1 cup ricotta cheese
2 large eggs
1 1/3 cups milk
1 tblsp vanilla extract
4 tblsp unsalted butter, melted
1. preheat oven to 350 F. Lightly spray 12 muffin cups with nonstick spray.
2. combine the flour, salt, baking powder, cocoa, sugar, and chocolate chips in medium-sized bowl.
3. place the ricotta in second bowl, add eggs, beat well. Add the milk and vanilla and blend.
4. pour the ricotta mixture and melted butter into dry ingredients. Stir from bottom of the bowl until dry ingredients are moistened. Don't overmix.
5. spoon the batter into muffin cups.
6. bake in middle of oven for 20-25 minutes. Wait at least 30 minutes before serving. (Good luck.)
(I paraphrased some of the directions. You'll end up with good muffins, unless you eat the batter first.)
I was ever so patient this morning. Really, I was. Until I found myself dealing with a very grumpy kid who -- in the process of getting ready for school -- was unhappy about everything under the sun. She wanted me to brush her teeth, and because she is seven, I told her she could manage that herself. Humph. She reminded me that while we were at the dentist yesterday I had been told to supervise teeth-brushing. She's right, I said, "but it's fine if I check your brushing in the morning and work with you at night and help with flossing." I tried to explain, "I'm making lunches right now and you can manage the morning routine on your own." Major humph. (Obviously I am failing the dentist's orders. That these orders have fine print is unclear to her.)
She then asked me to brush her hair, bringing her hairbrush to me in the kitchen. Once again I gently replied, "you can manage this, too." Humph.
Time to go, let's get the backpacks. "Mom, I can't find my backpack and black binder." (They're in the kitchen.) "Mom, I can't find my purple folder." (It's in the black binder.) "Mom, you know I HATE IT WHEN YOU PUT THE PURPLE FOLDER INSIDE MY BLACK BINDER... DON'T DO THAT!!!!!" She throws her backpack on the floor, takes everything out, and instructs me as she reassembles her stuff, "YOU HAVE TO PUT the binder in the backpack THIS WAY, and the FOLDER goes on top THIS WAY, and .... I HATE MY FAMILY. I wish I didn't have to have a sister, and I want another mother, and..."
Are we having fun yet?
Even walking to our car became an event. "I'm walking behind you. You go in front of me." she ordered. "But I have to lock the door," I pointed out. Humph.
Inside the car, more of the same. (Thankfully it's a short drive.) "Bee is lying. Bee is kicking your seat. I don't like my sister....I wish I had another family."
Somewhere in this monologue the thread of my patience broke. "SILENCE!!! If I hear one more word out of you -- OR YOU (I said to Bee, who was NOT helping matters by being obnoxiously cheerful. She does this to bug April.) -- You are going to be sorry."
By this time we were in front of the school, where April's speech therapist is on traffic duty, making sure that drivers don't kill the kids in the cross-walk. (She's not responsible for the drivers who might kill the kids in their cars.) April gets ready to get out of the car and pulls a very nasty face with her tongue sticking out -- at me. That did it. I said, "You're in time-out. I don't care if you're late. You're sitting here...in this car, quietly." I parked the car and turned off the engine. (I sometimes think time-outs are lame, but they're handy and easy to dole out.)
Two big tears roll from April's eyes.
The school bell rings.
"You need to apologize to me."
Mumble mumble. "I apologize," she glowered. Yeah, right. I'm ready to let her go. I don't want to sit there any longer with her fuming and Bee humming.
"Okay, go ahead," I said. My usually perky seven-year-old grabbed her backpack and walked, hunched over, toward her watching speech therapist, who's probably wondering at our behavior. (Or maybe not.)
Bee starts up a monologue, all cheeriness.
I only have one more kid to go, I think to myself. Then I'm on my way home -- to coffee and chocolate... and silence.
(p.s. Later that same day, a friend who volunteers in April's classroom noted how happy April was all day. She, in fact, skipped into school.)
THE MORNING'S CHOCOLATE FIX:
Chocolate Ricotta Muffins
(Recipe from Mollie Katzen's Sunlight Cafe cookbook) Yield 12-14 muffins
Nonstick spray
2 1/3 cups flour
3/4 tsp salt
2 tsp baking powder
6-8 tblsp unsweetened cocoa
1 cup sugar
1 cup semisweet chocolate chips
1 cup ricotta cheese
2 large eggs
1 1/3 cups milk
1 tblsp vanilla extract
4 tblsp unsalted butter, melted
1. preheat oven to 350 F. Lightly spray 12 muffin cups with nonstick spray.
2. combine the flour, salt, baking powder, cocoa, sugar, and chocolate chips in medium-sized bowl.
3. place the ricotta in second bowl, add eggs, beat well. Add the milk and vanilla and blend.
4. pour the ricotta mixture and melted butter into dry ingredients. Stir from bottom of the bowl until dry ingredients are moistened. Don't overmix.
5. spoon the batter into muffin cups.
6. bake in middle of oven for 20-25 minutes. Wait at least 30 minutes before serving. (Good luck.)
(I paraphrased some of the directions. You'll end up with good muffins, unless you eat the batter first.)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)