Thank you, Daniel Tiger

Henry loves Daniel Tiger. He watches it on “his computer” (the iPad my brother sent him). He scrolls to find the PBS Kids icon, clicks it, scrolls through their list of shows and selects Daniel Tiger. This, in and of itself, amazes me.

 

For those of you who aren’t subject to the television preferences of toddlers, Daniel Tiger is based on the original character from Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood. There’s O the Owl, Katerina Kittycat, Miss. Elena (who calls everyone Toots - rhymes with foots) and Prince Wednesday and they all ride around on the trolley. It took him a few weeks to get into this show and then one day he loved it. I prefer it over Thomas because the characters aren’t jerks to each other and they sing a lot.

 

 

Here are the Top 5 lessons we’ve learned from Daniel Tiger (you have to imagine these being sung, it makes the lesson better):

5. When we do something new, let’s talk about what we’ll do: Daniel’s ever-patient mother recognizes new things (going to the doctor, brushing teeth, etc.) can be weird and scary. She stops to explain and then Daniel, of course, isn’t scared anymore.

4. You’ve got to look a little closer to find out what you want to know: Instead of the neverending Why? Where? What? from the kids, the adults give the questions back to them and then the kids feel like scientists discovering big stuff.

3. Try new things: Ever since this episode, I’ve been able to use this one several times to get Henry to try something. “Remember how Daniel Tiger had never played that game before and then he tried and it was so much fun?” Feels a little manipulative and peer pressurey sometimes, but luckily I’m not offering him alcohol or heroin so I get over that feeling pretty quick..

2. You can take a turn and then you’ll give it back: Sharing. Are we really that attached to our stuff or is it the possibility of never seeing it again that freaks us out?

1. When you feel so mad, that you want to roar, take a deep breath and count to four: This is the one Jared and I have used the most for ourselves, and it’s the root of one of my favorite, most recent Henry stories. In the cafeteria, we’ve been letting Henry sit in a “big boy chair” (one of the regular cafeteria chairs that we use). He has a hard time staying in it and we continue to remind him (okay, threaten) the potential return of the high chair should he continue to jump down. After a particularly challenging mealtime, he bolted and ran to the exit. I went to retrieve him, picked him up and said, “Henry, we keep threatening you with the highchair and you continue to run off. It makes me really upset to have to chase you. What am I supposed to do?”

He took my face in his hands and said, “Count to four, Mommy.”

Lost Our Finesse

In October, one of the girls started sleeping in a Scooby Doo costume. It’s a full-body footied-onesie with a hoodie that has ears. I’m not joking. She did not buy this for Halloween. It looks very comfortable. After her, another girl surfaced with a similar, raccoon costume. At night, when I check on them for lights out, they are usually sitting at their desks, the heads of cartoon animals drooping down their backs. Their straight, dark hair adding fringed bangs over the animal eyes. I wonder if they wear the hoods while they sleep, totem pole animals in skinny, twin beds, staring up to their ceilings like spirit animals.

***

Over half the girls stretch their underwear on tiny hangers, like dreamcatchers in their windows. At first it was a little shocking, as if I were reading their journals. It reminds me of being at the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul where hanging thongs – the Ts like cotton Jesuses strung up on specially made circle hangers – covered walls of booths and the vendors called to my friends and me, “Angels, where is Charlie?” Being the type of person who buys underwear from bins at Target of the 5 for $20 variety, I had to ask a coworker why one would hang underwear up to dry. “It’s not good for the elastic to go through the dryer,” she told me, “or at least that’s what my friend said.” I’m glad she had to ask, too. Dangling window pendants, suspended in their rooms and the common bathrooms with pink, block letters and tiny, repeated graphics. Many of them had never done laundry, needed help with settings and soap, asked advice on what to wash together, but this they learned before my name.

***

There is a future art major rooming above our living room. She’s been creating a gianormous eyeball for the past month or so. We hear the blender as she mashes newspaper for the muscles surrounding the larger-than-a-watermelon-size eye wedged in cardboard. While her room is normally messy, the eyeball brought new levels of chaos. Recently, on a heater investigation with the Head of Maintenance, he pushed his way into her room, smashing papers on the under the door and bowls with chopsticks and things stuck to them. I wondered what he was going to say about the fact that he could only sporadically see the floor. “Someone doesn’t want her security deposit back,” he said, checking to see if her windows were open. When he spotted the impossible-to-miss-eyeball, the stunning blue of the iris, he took two steps back and shook his head.

***

I’ve started collecting their phones at dorm meetings. If I see them, I take them and they get an early bed time for the week. Yes, I’m that person. I’ve imagined keeping them to hang like Calder mobiles in our lounge area: their bright, plastic covers over slim, metal bodies swinging over couches and tables like a dorm portrait. Their various rings calling out to their owners, alerting them to messages from beyond. The vibrations causing the phones to dance in awkward, puppety swoops. When I’m on duty, I stare at the long beams crossing the room picturing the image of what I’m sure would be my masterpiece.

 

***

The other day I was writing something for one of the girls and they informed me that most kids their age cannot read cursive.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“They don’t teach it, so people don’t, like, see it and most can’t read it. Like, I can, but, like, most can’t. It’s weird, I know.”

“They don’t teach cursive anymore?” I asked. She narrowed her eyes and shook her head.

“That blows my mind.” I told her.

And immediately the quote from “Duets” came to mind: “And they say our society has lost its finesse.” If we were cutting humanities and arts and it was working – kids were mastering math and science or becoming star athletes – that would be one thing, but that’s not the case. We are just cutting. So our children are these half-formed humans who don’t read cursive and can’t not text for a 20-minute meeting. They can’t write essays or memorize poems. But these are the same kids who wear animal costumes to bed. Whose underwear is as colorful as their cell phone cases. So, why do we stop teaching curlicues and fun words? Why is it that we underestimate their imaginations? I think it says more about adults than the kids.

Seven Months

Three weeks ago I wrote a post about how monotony was dragging me down. Not even within my job, but the life part of my life. The making of beds, folding of laundry, the washing of dishes, putting away blocks, picking up crayons, wiping yogurt off tables. The life stuff. But writing about it didn’t change it or really make me feel less like stale, stretched taffy.

And then I found out my mom was coming to visit.

Then she came. And doing anything more than spending time with her or napping didn’t seem important. And then it snowed a lot. And then she left. And we all got sick. And then vacation ended. And today it was 0 degrees at one point. And now you’re caught up.   

Someone sent me an invitation to “connect” on LinkedIn today and I looked at my profile. It said I’ve been working here for seven months. I’m not really sure how that is possible and I questioned their algorithm’s math. Seven months is one month longer than I worked at Words Alive: a job that could quite possibly go down in my permanent history as my most favorite-ist group of coworkers ever (Sorry, all my other jobs, it’s true.) And yet, I’ve now been here longer.

Over the last several days I’ve driven close to 400 miles on five different trips picking up students from vacation. This has given me time to process my seven months of Maine. So much of it has to do with the weather. I came in sun and now we live in snow. It was sticky, 90 degrees, want to spend all your time in a pool, in the shade, drinking something with ice in it hot. Now it’s single-digit, dry, red-nosed, immediately freezing anything that’s exposed to the air, your hands tingle when you walk inside cold. This requires flexibility. 15 years ago Pittsfield had an ice storm that lasted for two weeks. At least ten days without power. In January. I asked my mother-in-law how many people died. “None.” She said, looking at me weird. “We’re Mainers.”

I recently had to drive in a snow storm. And again, because of the hours spent in the car very recently, I’ve thought about all the witty, clever ways that driving in “inclement weather” is a metaphor for life.

·         There is very rarely a reason to slam on your brakes as most often taking your foot off the gas works better.
·         The same goes for speeding up. Unless you’re running from a tiger, the damage and eventual adrenaline drop of going from zero to 60 is unnecessary.
·         Cutting corners doesn’t actually save time, but it does raise your blood pressure and piss off the people around you.
·         Jerky movements are for jerks.
·         Courtesy waves should be law.
·         Pay attention.

 In reading this back through, it needs to be edited. Some of this stuff doesn’t even make sense together. But, since I hate editing and would probably just put that off for another week, I’m going to post as is. I promise to get back into the swing of things (aka, edit) soon.