January 24, 2019 § 4 Comments
On the morning of Christmas Eve, I drove down to the river to watch the sun rise. I hadn’t been able to sleep, my heart bruised from the words of a loved one the night before. As an adult, I have found the holidays to be such an intermingling of joy and sadness: a time of excitement and celebration, but also a time when the losses in my life assert themselves and leave me vulnerable.
I stood alone in the brisk-but-not-intolerable air, at the same spot along the Potomac where my son had taken me this past summer. A place he had picnicked with his sailing camp. A place he told me, while we were walking there, had “a bench perfect for you to sit on.” I wanted a place where I would feel love. « Read the rest of this entry »
December 7, 2018 § 1 Comment
And the award for the 2018 picture book that I will never tire of reading aloud goes to “A House That Once Was” (Ages 4-7), written by Julie Fogliano and illustrated by Lane Smith. This book is pure loveliness. As always, Fogliano’s contemplative, free-verse lyricism makes us feel at one with our subject—in this case, the mysteries of an abandoned house. As always, Smith’s inventive, breathtaking art transforms the everyday into the extraordinary. (These two brilliant creators have a special claim-to-fame in my blog, as this gem by Fogliano and this one by Smith were the very first books I ever wrote about.) « Read the rest of this entry »
October 18, 2018 § 1 Comment
When my kids were younger, there was a nearby house which went all out in the weeks leading up to Halloween. I have never seen anything like it; rumor has it the entire second floor was dedicated to storing the decorations during the other eleven months of the year. There was no discernible theme. It was simply a collection of macabre paraphernalia thrown together on a front lawn: dark hooded figures wielding axes; skeletons with gaping eye sockets; dismembered body parts robotically twitching. For young children, I thought it would have been repulsive at best, terrorizing at worst.
Instead, my children adored it. “If we go to the grocery store, we can drive by the Halloween House,” I’d say, and you’ve never seen kids fly out the door faster. “Can we take our pictures next to the scary guys?” they would shout. And we did. « Read the rest of this entry »
May 11, 2017 § 8 Comments
Last week, I was at Trader Joe’s buying flowers for my daughter, who would have the unique opportunity of performing at the Kennedy Center that evening with her community choir. My head was spinning while I was waiting in line to pay, going down the mental checklist of what needed to happen before heading to the concert hall (iron Emily’s uniform, print the parking pass, get the snacks together, etc.). Suddenly, the checkout woman interrupted my train of thought. “These flowers are such a gorgeous orange,” she remarked. I halfheartedly explained that the flowers were for my daughter, that she had a performance that night, and that orange was her favorite color. “These little joys make parenting so worth it,” she mused. “Yes,” I agreed, assuming she was talking about my being in the audience in a few hours. “It’s going to be so exciting.”
“Oh, I’m sure the performance will be great,” she replied, “but I was talking about getting to pick out flowers for your little girl.”
November 5, 2015 § 7 Comments
It is possible to chart my daughter’s growing up against the backdrop of our games of hide and seek. Not but two years ago, whenever we played hide and seek, I would look up after slowly counting to ten and discover Emily standing but a stone’s throw away, beside a giant bush (beside, not behind, the bush). At which point, I’d do the thing that all parents do at one time or another: I’d turn my back to the bush and speak loudly into the air, I wonder where Emily is hiding. Where, oh where, could she be? To which she’d inevitably blurt out, I’m right HERE, Mommy!
Fast forward to last spring, when my daughter and I were playing hide and seek outside her school after dismissal one afternoon. You have to pick a really good hiding spot, she instructed me, before covering her eyes and commencing her counting. I ran across the lawn, turned down a little garden path, and squatted behind a bench. Moments later, I heard her exclaim, Ready or not here I come! And I waited. I waited some more. I waited so long that my quads started shaking and I thought I might die of boredom, and so I snuck a peek back in her direction. And there she was: climbing a tree at the other end of the lawn, singing gleefully with her friends, our game completely abandoned.
Finally, there was last month, when Emily walked over to where I was seated on the sidelines of the playground and pleaded with me to play with her. I’ll hide first, she proclaimed. And so I covered my eyes and counted to twenty. Ready or not here I come! I started at one end of the playground and methodically worked my way towards the other, bending down to peer under picnic tables and around garden plots. Nothing. I peeked inside the tunnel slide. Nada. I swear to you, it felt like hours had passed, and still I could find no sign of her. I began to run, zig-zagging across stretches of blacktop and grass, my heart pounding, flashes of child kidnappers tearing through my mind (oh God, did I ever warn her about men who approach with promises of puppies?), shouting to my friends and her friends, Where’s Emily? Where is Emily? Have you seen Emily?
It was my son who finally located her: she’s behind that tree. And sure enough, I could see her navy school uniform sticking out from behind a maple at the farthest end of the remotest part of the park. I raced over to her, expecting her to be as frantic as me.
She looked up and beamed. That was a really good hiding spot, don’t you think, Mommy?
And then it hit me like a ton of bricks: she had grown up so much. My daughter had transformed into this brave, confident, fiercely independent little girl standing before me. I couldn’t stop the tears from leaking out, as I pulled her close and muttered into her hair, You got me good, little bird. You got me good.
Hide and seek—with its endless opportunities for experimenting with independence and togetherness—just so happens to be the theme of Barbara Joosse and Randy Cecil’s Evermore Dragon (Ages 3-6), a follow-up to their original picture book, Lovabye Dragon, which I fell in love with three years ago. It is rare for me to declare a sequel every bit as good as the original; it is even rarer for me to deem a sequel better than the original. But I’m going to go out on a limb here and tell you that this companion book is every bit as enchanting as the first—and possibly even a smidgen better.
With the same sing-songy narration as Lovabye Dragon—not quite prose and not quite poetry, sometimes playful and sometimes solemn, a princess story without being a princess story—Evermore Dragon presents “a very little girl” and “a very biggle dragon,” two best friends who originally discovered each other when Girl’s lonely tears led the equally lonely Dragon straight to her castle doors. In Evermore Dragon, the friendship is now in full swing. At the wake of derry-day/ the friends decided what to play. Yup, you guessed it: hide and seek.
It’s a bit of a lost cause for a dragon to conceal wings, tail, long spiky neck, and great big bulging eyes amidst your typical park scenery. But our Girl has a touch of parental compassion about her and pretends not to notice “his Drag-enormo self” sticking out from behind the rock upon which she stands.
And she stood upon a rock
such a very little rock
and she sighed a little sigh
such a very little sigh. Oh, my.
“Dragon’s so good at hiding,
I’m not sure I can find him.
What to do?”
When Dragon suddenly pops up behind her, Girl wraps her arms around his neck and assures him, Oh, Dragon, you’re so clever./ You’re the smartest dragon ever.
Now it’s Girl’s turn to hide, and she has Big Plans. She races through the forest and across the bog and over a tall bridge and climbs inside the hollow of a tree. And then she waits.
And then everything goes to pot.
Our hearts go out to the Dragon (been there, done that), who earnestly overturns every stone, peers beneath every ridge, searching and searching for his friend. Until at last, the panic welding up inside him, he bellows into the darkening sky, ARE YOU LOST?
Our hearts go out to Girl (And she was), who finally climbs out from her tree and wanders frantically through the pitch black forest, amidst “cricking and cracking,” “flipping and flapping,” “moaning and groaning.” (Are there monsters in the night?)
Oh, she tried not to cry!
But she cried silver tears
worry worry tears
and her heart thumped a sound
a trem-below sound
that only Dragon friends,
very very special friends, can hear.
It is a testament, not only to Joose’s meticulous word choice and lyrical delivery, but also to the range of emotion that Cecil captures in the bodies of girl and beast, that my Emily clutches my arm and buries her head in my armpit every time we get to this part.
“Girl!” thundered Dragon.
“I hear you!” thundered Dragon.
The worry, the anticipation, the relief finally at this cry for help being heard: it feels utterly palpable to us parents and children. Only once Dragon swoops down from the sky and “wraps his wings around her/ so everly around her,” can we breathe again.
“I am here,” rumbled Dragon.
“You’re a dear,” whispered Girl.
Dragon held her and he sang,
“Evermore, evermore, I am here.”
There’s a time for hiding. There’s a time for seeking. There might even be a time for growing out of hiding and seeking. I know that all too soon the day will come when Emily doesn’t want to play with me anymore. But I’d like to ask whomever she chooses as her playmates in this game of Life: will you hear the cry she makes when she has strayed a little too far off course? Will you care enough to help her find her way back? Will you take her in your arms and hold her close?
Because we’re never too old to want to be found.
Did you enjoy this post? Make sure you don’t miss any others! Enter your email on the right hand side of my homepage, and you’ll receive a new post in your inbox each week.
Review copy provided by Candlewick. All opinions are my own. Amazon.com affiliate links are provided mainly for ease and reference–although I prefer that we all shop local when we can!
March 5, 2015 § 2 Comments
Who’s ready for a good snooze right about now? I’m not talking about the fall-into-bed-eyes-already-closing-ready-to-be-awakened-at-any-time kind of snooze, which is par for the course when parenting young children. I’m talking about a luxurious, heavenly, finest-Egyptian-cotton type snooze…a long, uninterrupted, sleep-in-as-late-as-you-want sort of snooze…a snooze in a silent house, where the only sound you have to worry about is the steady pit-pit-patter of melting ice outside.
If that sounds too good to be true, it is. But, for those of us who prefer to live life in the tiny space between reality and fiction, I have a close second. The newly-published Snoozefest (Ages 3-7), written by the always witty and clever Samantha Berger, and charmingly illustrated by British newcomer Kristyna Litten, is a book you can gift with abandon (you know, when you’re not sleeping) to all those kids of parents who shoulda, coulda, woulda be sleeping more. It’s a book that celebrates snoozing. And not just any snoozing. We’re talking snoozing so deep, so restorative, that it warrants its own festival. Welcome to Snoozefest: a Lollapalooza for people who love to sleep (yes, my fellow almost-forty year olds, this is what it has come to). « Read the rest of this entry »
September 25, 2014 § 1 Comment
On a Saturday morning towards the end of summer, on our way to go swimming, we swung by our local bookstore, so that I could run in and grab a gift for a birthday party later that day. My kids waited in the car with my husband, and when I returned a few minutes later, they asked with excited curiosity, “What book did you get?” I told them that I had picked a brand new one, by Kim Cooley Reeder, titled The Runaway Tomato (Ages 2-6). “RUNAWAY TOMATO?!” they shrieked, throwing their heads back in laughter. And thus commenced twenty minutes of their regaling us with their own ideas of where a runaway tomato might come from and what it might do.
Perhaps it’s because our attempt at growing tomatoes this year was such an Epic Failure, that my children think the idea of harvesting gigantic tomatoes is pure absurdity. Or perhaps there is just something innately hilarious about stories starring fruits and vegetables gone rogue (Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs has always been a favorite of JP). Either way, we had to return to the bookstore a week later to get a copy for ourselves. « Read the rest of this entry »