It’s been a long time since “a dollar an hour per kid” made me a rich tweenager, and the cost of babysitting now makes me suck my breath in every time. We’re feeling the burn of double day care payments and fifty other increased expenses, and as worried as anyone about our financial future, but lately our usual friends-and-family sitters have been unavailable for one reason and another, so over the past couple of months we've ended up paying for babysitting several times. The extravagance is enough to make me almost grind my teeth down.
But how fantastic to leave the house with A, practically empty-handed, walk in silence down the steps, open and close two car doors, and drive away together.
Saturday was A’s and my sixth anniversary. Ingrid’s old teacher, T, came at 5:30, fed the girls dinner, played with them a bit, and put them to bed. We went to a new Indian restaurant in the neighborhood, and I (swaggering a little before the young waiter who questioned my ability to handle the heat) ate a meal of chicken vindaloo that threatened to sear a layer of skin out of my mouth and esophagus. We discussed what would happen if we both lost our jobs. (“We’d still love each other!” I gushed, grabbing for my ice water again. “We could live in my parents’ basement!”) We progressed to a new-ish neighborhood bar, where the greatest hits from our junior high years were playing, and A convinced me to order a Belgian beer that came in a round-bottomed glass with a wooden stand.
“Do you notice how it’s staying cooler that way?” he asked, when I was about a third of the way into it.
“No, but I notice I am getting very drunk.” It turns out I have become even more of a lightweight than I used to be.
Rumor has it that this year will bring the seven-year itch. “What do you think that involves?” A asked.
In our relationship, there is one person with itchy, dry skin, who does a lot of scratching in the privacy of her home. And one person who doesn’t even scratch his own mosquito bites and can’t bear the sound and sight of the scratching. I am the scratcher. “Lots of scratching,” I answered. “Probably lots of scratching.”
Ingrid, it turns out, loves it when T comes over. After three weeks of T taking care of the girls while A was traveling and I was at poetry class, she was a little disappointed that Daddy would be the only adult around while I was at class yesterday, and confused about why T wasn’t coming.
“Mama, when will you and Daddy go to your university again?”
Aaah, right. Five syllable word with “versuh” in the middle. “Probably soon, kiddo. Probably sometime soon.” As soon as we can afford it.
Showing posts with label what they say. Show all posts
Showing posts with label what they say. Show all posts
10.08.2008
7.30.2008
Postcards from the Best Summer Ever
I spent last summer slowed by the sweet weight of Iris, first in my belly, then in my arms. The summer before that, I was barely emerging from the fog of the first year of motherhood, and afraid, still, of getting my baby dirty. The previous year I was frozen in the heat, shuffling through sweaty, milky postpartum days. And before that trails a string of nondescript grownup summers, indistinguishable, almost, from winter in their bland air-conditioned office chill.
But this summer. This summer the weather is gentle and we spend hours at the park, the girls and me, getting filthy. A joins us after work for picnic dinners, and we add watermelon juice to the layers of sweat and sand and sunscreen. Ingrid is brave on the ladders up to the big slides, even swings alone on her tummy while A and I eat and Iris showers her own back with fistfuls of sand.
...
Ingrid is in an easy time—eager, interested, easily soothed. During Iris's morning nap, we do special fun things together. I build us an obstacle course ("oxtable horse") in the backyard, and we follow each other under the low pear tree branches, over the picnic table, and along the winding line of the garden hose in the grass.
We raid the fridge and empty all the eggs into a bowl so we can cut the carton into cardboard caterpillars. We each paint one, sitting on the warm backyard path, and then rinse our purple hands in the sandy wading pool.
I lay paper over an ivy leaf and rub across it with the breadth of a blue crayon, touching foreheads, almost, with Ingrid, as we watch the veins of the leaf emerge—the thick, prominent lines first, then the finer ones...more on the paper than we can see in the leaf itself.
...
One night last weekend after Iris was in bed, I was cleaning up the kitchen, and A and Ingrid were in the backyard. "Caro," I heard him say. "Come here for a sec." I dried my hands and stepped out the back door to see him lying on his back on the concrete walkway, his head resting on the bottom porch step. "Lie down here with me. The ground is warm, and the air is just perfect."
The ground was warm; the air was perfect. We lay watching the high-up wind drag the thinnest veil of cloud across the sky. We could hear cars on the next street over and each leaf of the neighbors' elm tree rattling just slightly. Ingrid puttered between porch and living room, bringing blankets and stuffed animals to drape over our chests and nestle near our necks—we were her dental patients, receiving rewards for our "good cooperating". We lay there for minutes and minutes, quiet, resting.
...
But this summer. This summer the weather is gentle and we spend hours at the park, the girls and me, getting filthy. A joins us after work for picnic dinners, and we add watermelon juice to the layers of sweat and sand and sunscreen. Ingrid is brave on the ladders up to the big slides, even swings alone on her tummy while A and I eat and Iris showers her own back with fistfuls of sand.
...
Ingrid is in an easy time—eager, interested, easily soothed. During Iris's morning nap, we do special fun things together. I build us an obstacle course ("oxtable horse") in the backyard, and we follow each other under the low pear tree branches, over the picnic table, and along the winding line of the garden hose in the grass.
We raid the fridge and empty all the eggs into a bowl so we can cut the carton into cardboard caterpillars. We each paint one, sitting on the warm backyard path, and then rinse our purple hands in the sandy wading pool.
I lay paper over an ivy leaf and rub across it with the breadth of a blue crayon, touching foreheads, almost, with Ingrid, as we watch the veins of the leaf emerge—the thick, prominent lines first, then the finer ones...more on the paper than we can see in the leaf itself.
...
One night last weekend after Iris was in bed, I was cleaning up the kitchen, and A and Ingrid were in the backyard. "Caro," I heard him say. "Come here for a sec." I dried my hands and stepped out the back door to see him lying on his back on the concrete walkway, his head resting on the bottom porch step. "Lie down here with me. The ground is warm, and the air is just perfect."
The ground was warm; the air was perfect. We lay watching the high-up wind drag the thinnest veil of cloud across the sky. We could hear cars on the next street over and each leaf of the neighbors' elm tree rattling just slightly. Ingrid puttered between porch and living room, bringing blankets and stuffed animals to drape over our chests and nestle near our necks—we were her dental patients, receiving rewards for our "good cooperating". We lay there for minutes and minutes, quiet, resting.
...
We drive to the CSA pickup spot with the windows open, nixing the A/C and letting the breeze cool us and mess up our hair, blasting the Music Together CD and singing Jumpin' Josie with every set of words we can think of, wearing clothes that have seen a day of play. We pull up in the driveway next to a spotless Saab. I watch a well-pressed suited woman emerging from the cool of her car on her way home from work. Looking at all that neatness, all that control, I am surprised to realize that for a change I lack envy. This is what I want. This is freedom.
6.25.2008
Polish
Just now as I was helping Ingrid get ready for bed:
"Mama?"
"Yeah."
"H has polish on her fingernails."
[H is a girl at Ingrid's extra crunchy Waldorf-y wonderfully free-thinking day care, where all the women are strong and half the kids (including H) have two mamas.]
"Oh! That's very grown up!"
"Mama, I want polish like H's.
"Oh, hmmm..."
"H's is purple."
"Oh, wow! Who helped H put on her nail polish?"
"Her mama."
"Mmmm."
"I want mine to be purple, too! On my fingers and my toes!"
"That sure sounds like fun. We'll have to think about that."
"I want to do it now."
"Well, we don't have any nail polish in our house right now. We'd have to get some from the store. I'll have to think about that. It's a very grown up thing to do, wearing nail polish. We'll think about it."
Good grief, am I ever unprepared. I don't know if I'm for this or against it. Damn hippie lesbians.
"Mama?"
"Yeah."
"H has polish on her fingernails."
[H is a girl at Ingrid's extra crunchy Waldorf-y wonderfully free-thinking day care, where all the women are strong and half the kids (including H) have two mamas.]
"Oh! That's very grown up!"
"Mama, I want polish like H's.
"Oh, hmmm..."
"H's is purple."
"Oh, wow! Who helped H put on her nail polish?"
"Her mama."
"Mmmm."
"I want mine to be purple, too! On my fingers and my toes!"
"That sure sounds like fun. We'll have to think about that."
"I want to do it now."
"Well, we don't have any nail polish in our house right now. We'd have to get some from the store. I'll have to think about that. It's a very grown up thing to do, wearing nail polish. We'll think about it."
Good grief, am I ever unprepared. I don't know if I'm for this or against it. Damn hippie lesbians.
6.23.2008
Sisters
Iris wakes up first. I feed her bananas and drink tea and tickle her feet, and then Ingrid wakes up. "Maaa maaa!" She sleeps in a big girl bed, but she treats it like a crib, sitting there calling for me to come and get her.
I balance Iris on my hip, and all the way up the stairs she kicks her legs and bounces. "Gidd! Gidd!"
I open Ingrid's door. "Hi, chunkster!" she croons. "Good morning, little bear! Come here and let me give you a little kiss, darling."
As we cross the room Iris leans toward her big sister, doing her best to levitate and swim across the air to her.
There is still the squashing. But besides that—and even right up out of the middle of it—something sweet and powerful is growing.
Ingrid pushes Iris on the swings at the park, and for many minutes they are both amused and calm. I crouch in the sand watching them grin at each other and am shocked: they are both happy at once, and I am not doing any work at all.
They take baths together. Neither of them has ever used a pacifier, but they are both taken with sucking on the heads of little yellow rubber ducks. They sit across from each other in the water, pale little wet-haired girls, each giggling face stuffed with yellow ducky.
They play peekaboo—with blankets, or with their hands, or with Ingrid in the hall closet and Iris flinging the door wide to laugh and laugh as the finds her big sister inside over and over.
There is squabbling and tipping and squishing, but also Ingrid finds toys for Iris to play with. When she has a snack, she asks whether Iris is old enough to have some, and wants to feed it to her. She wants to dress Iris up in winter hats and blanket capes.
And as far as Iris is concerned, Ingrid's every move is material for delight. I know she is learning extra quickly because she has such a fascinating example to observe. Watching Ingrid, she swipes at her own head with a hairbrush, claps to music, tips her head back to drink from her sippy cup with a dramatic flourish.
The life of two sisters seems mysterious and wonderful to me and full of scary power. I have a brother. A has a brother and a sister. I watch sisters differently now—older kids, adults. Maybe they'll be like that. Or that. It has such potential for terrific closeness, and also for unique pain.
Almost a year ago, at the park with Emmie and her boys, Ingrid and I and the newborn Iris watched N and O slide down side-by-side slides holding hands. "N and O are brothers," Emmie told Ingrid, "just like you and Iris are sisters. When she's old enough, you'll be able to slide like that with her, too."
From there, with tiny, boneless Iris snoozing on my chest, the prospect of sisterly friendship seemed about as likely as a cascade of ripe tomatoes did in the face of my scrawny May plantings. Which is to say, darn near inevitable, and yet so far off as to be really, really hard to imagine.
But here is the start of it. Sisters. What a treasure.
I balance Iris on my hip, and all the way up the stairs she kicks her legs and bounces. "Gidd! Gidd!"
I open Ingrid's door. "Hi, chunkster!" she croons. "Good morning, little bear! Come here and let me give you a little kiss, darling."
As we cross the room Iris leans toward her big sister, doing her best to levitate and swim across the air to her.
There is still the squashing. But besides that—and even right up out of the middle of it—something sweet and powerful is growing.
Ingrid pushes Iris on the swings at the park, and for many minutes they are both amused and calm. I crouch in the sand watching them grin at each other and am shocked: they are both happy at once, and I am not doing any work at all.
They take baths together. Neither of them has ever used a pacifier, but they are both taken with sucking on the heads of little yellow rubber ducks. They sit across from each other in the water, pale little wet-haired girls, each giggling face stuffed with yellow ducky.
They play peekaboo—with blankets, or with their hands, or with Ingrid in the hall closet and Iris flinging the door wide to laugh and laugh as the finds her big sister inside over and over.
There is squabbling and tipping and squishing, but also Ingrid finds toys for Iris to play with. When she has a snack, she asks whether Iris is old enough to have some, and wants to feed it to her. She wants to dress Iris up in winter hats and blanket capes.
And as far as Iris is concerned, Ingrid's every move is material for delight. I know she is learning extra quickly because she has such a fascinating example to observe. Watching Ingrid, she swipes at her own head with a hairbrush, claps to music, tips her head back to drink from her sippy cup with a dramatic flourish.
The life of two sisters seems mysterious and wonderful to me and full of scary power. I have a brother. A has a brother and a sister. I watch sisters differently now—older kids, adults. Maybe they'll be like that. Or that. It has such potential for terrific closeness, and also for unique pain.
Almost a year ago, at the park with Emmie and her boys, Ingrid and I and the newborn Iris watched N and O slide down side-by-side slides holding hands. "N and O are brothers," Emmie told Ingrid, "just like you and Iris are sisters. When she's old enough, you'll be able to slide like that with her, too."
From there, with tiny, boneless Iris snoozing on my chest, the prospect of sisterly friendship seemed about as likely as a cascade of ripe tomatoes did in the face of my scrawny May plantings. Which is to say, darn near inevitable, and yet so far off as to be really, really hard to imagine.
But here is the start of it. Sisters. What a treasure.
6.22.2008
Things I would have written today if I used Twitter:
Revising complaint letter to awful children's dentist...replacing "half-assed" with "insincere" and "piss-poor" with "unacceptable".
Peered at bathtub turd like a medium reading tea leaves for several seconds before realizing I didn't actually want to know whose it was that badly.
Purchasing an ark's worth of Schleich animals to bribe Ingrid to poop on the potty.
Also, a case of size six diapers.
Ingrid's first really good poem:
Corn, corn, what do you say?
I put a spoon on my tray!
One day I will look back with nostalgia at my evening routine of rinsing the sand out of my lilypadz.
Peered at bathtub turd like a medium reading tea leaves for several seconds before realizing I didn't actually want to know whose it was that badly.
Purchasing an ark's worth of Schleich animals to bribe Ingrid to poop on the potty.
Also, a case of size six diapers.
Ingrid's first really good poem:
Corn, corn, what do you say?
I put a spoon on my tray!
One day I will look back with nostalgia at my evening routine of rinsing the sand out of my lilypadz.
4.25.2008
Bedtime Stories
After book reading time and before bedtime, I tell Ingrid a story. For several months the stories were always about Yogurt Dog and featured details gleaned from Ingrid’s day (plus magical pairs of wings made out of leaves, snowflakes, or butterflies).
At the end of a hard day earlier this week, Ingrid and I looked at some of her baby pictures together, and I hit on another kind of story: It starts with Mama and Daddy wanting a baby very much, goes on (skipping all mention of genitalia or pharmaceuticals) to tell how happy we were to find out a tiny baby was growing inside of me, how long we waited for the baby to be ready to be born, and how happy we were when it turned out to be a beautiful baby girl named Ingrid. We wrap up the story with any number of sweet cozy details about Ingrid’s infancy (napping and nursing curled up on the couch). She beams, listening to it, and asks me to repeat it, sometimes five times in a row.
I'd told that story for the past half-dozen naps and bedtimes, with no response from Ingrid other than quiet, smiling listening. Tonight I added a little extra detail at the beginning of the story, and it took us somewhere fascinating:
Me: Once upon a time there was just Mama and Daddy and Lucy. There was no Ingrid and no Iris.
Ingrid: There was no Iris?
Me: Nope. There was no Ingrid and no Iris. And Mama and Daddy—
Ingrid: Where was Iris?
Me: Where was Iris? She wasn’t born yet. This was before you were born, and before Iris was born. And Mama and Daddy—
Ingrid: Where did she go?
Me: Well. She, um. You mean? Um, where did she...come from? She grew inside of Mama, just like you did. Remember when Iris was growing inside of Mama?
Ingrid: Mhm.
Me: So before you were born, and before Iris was born—
Ingrid: Was she at the hospital?
For three days we blew right through a story that started out “there was no you,” but the second I mentioned no baby sister, it became unfathomable. Wow. I spend my days worrying that we’ve ruined her life by bringing a little sister into it, and if left to her own devices she’d have bitten the poor baby’s ears off by now, but it turns out that she already can’t imagine a world without her.
At the end of a hard day earlier this week, Ingrid and I looked at some of her baby pictures together, and I hit on another kind of story: It starts with Mama and Daddy wanting a baby very much, goes on (skipping all mention of genitalia or pharmaceuticals) to tell how happy we were to find out a tiny baby was growing inside of me, how long we waited for the baby to be ready to be born, and how happy we were when it turned out to be a beautiful baby girl named Ingrid. We wrap up the story with any number of sweet cozy details about Ingrid’s infancy (napping and nursing curled up on the couch). She beams, listening to it, and asks me to repeat it, sometimes five times in a row.
I'd told that story for the past half-dozen naps and bedtimes, with no response from Ingrid other than quiet, smiling listening. Tonight I added a little extra detail at the beginning of the story, and it took us somewhere fascinating:
Me: Once upon a time there was just Mama and Daddy and Lucy. There was no Ingrid and no Iris.
Ingrid: There was no Iris?
Me: Nope. There was no Ingrid and no Iris. And Mama and Daddy—
Ingrid: Where was Iris?
Me: Where was Iris? She wasn’t born yet. This was before you were born, and before Iris was born. And Mama and Daddy—
Ingrid: Where did she go?
Me: Well. She, um. You mean? Um, where did she...come from? She grew inside of Mama, just like you did. Remember when Iris was growing inside of Mama?
Ingrid: Mhm.
Me: So before you were born, and before Iris was born—
Ingrid: Was she at the hospital?
For three days we blew right through a story that started out “there was no you,” but the second I mentioned no baby sister, it became unfathomable. Wow. I spend my days worrying that we’ve ruined her life by bringing a little sister into it, and if left to her own devices she’d have bitten the poor baby’s ears off by now, but it turns out that she already can’t imagine a world without her.
3.30.2008
Sweetness
Ingrid hadn't nursed since December, but this morning while I was feeding Iris she asked to, and I let her. She couldn't remember exactly how to latch on. She got a little, and laughed and said There's not enough milk in there! Iris noticed what Ingrid was doing and started to laugh, and for a full minute they both nursed and laughed, nursed and laughed. *
I'm reading about music and all the ways our brains can turn it around. One person in ten thousand can recognize and name each tone just as easily as I can call the sky blue. It's possible to hallucinate music, hear it ceaselessly, as though a radio is on and can't be turned off. It's possible to lack—or lose—the ability to "hear" music at all; it can sound like nothing but noise. And a stroke of lightning can uncoil, in a regular guy, a passion so great that he teaches himself to play the piano and stays up all night composing.
*
A's dad taps his maple trees every spring and cooks down the sap in a vat over a fire. We drove up today to help carry buckets, chop wood, and stand around in the sun breathing wood smoke and maple steam while the dog and cats squashed around in the mud.
Iris was enchanted with the dog, and I repeated several times That's the dog. The dog says woof. Woof woof. Woof. The dog did a lap around the house, and when he reappeared, Iris was right on him. 'oof, she said. And again, looking right at the dog, 'oof.
The sap runs just during the time of spring when the days are above freezing and the nights are below. The warmer days make the roots start pulling water up from the soil. The sap runs until the buds pop open, until you see a haze of green across the woods; then it's done. Forty gallons of sap boil down to a gallon of syrup.
A's brother showed up, and his grandma, and we all ate lunch outside. Iris rode in the sling for hours. Ingrid zipped around the yard, peering at the roiling liquid, tossing sticks on the fire, letting A lift her up to sip drips of sap right from the tap. She careened back to me and locked Iris and me in an almost illegally tight hug. My baby sister, she said. My baby sister. I'm going to keep her forever.
We wrestled both girls down for naps, and by the time they woke up it was late afternoon and the sap was almost syrup, murky and foamy. We took turns tasting it from a metal ladle, all four generations of us. This is the kind of sweetness I want for my girls: the kind that can sleep underground all winter. The kind that takes all day to boil from barely sweet water to thick sticky syrup. The kind that tells the leaves it's time to open up and see the sun.
2.08.2008
Span (1)
In the past several months, Ingrid has asked me a few dozen times for a name for that stretch of skin between her thumb and forefinger. I don't know one, but I don't think she believes me. Three days ago, she held hers up and said, This is the bridge of my hand.
The ear—which (Did you notice?) is shaped like Alaska—also has a bridge: that curved rim inside. And the thing under your tongue, too, the thing that holds your tongue down. That’s the bridge of your mouth.
The ear—which (Did you notice?) is shaped like Alaska—also has a bridge: that curved rim inside. And the thing under your tongue, too, the thing that holds your tongue down. That’s the bridge of your mouth.
11.14.2007
My days are numbered.
In the car yesterday, as I sneaked several bites of a Hershey bar with almonds while driving:
Ingrid: (blah blah, long story about something or other)...and someone was eating chocolate in the house ... (etc. etc., story goes on).
Me: (continue sneaking bites of chocolate)
Ingrid: What you eating, Mama?
Me: Mmm, nothing, just a grown up snack...
Isn't anyone working on developing odorless chocolate for addicts who don't want to pass bad habits on to their kids?
Ingrid: (blah blah, long story about something or other)...and someone was eating chocolate in the house ... (etc. etc., story goes on).
Me: (continue sneaking bites of chocolate)
Ingrid: What you eating, Mama?
Me: Mmm, nothing, just a grown up snack...
Isn't anyone working on developing odorless chocolate for addicts who don't want to pass bad habits on to their kids?
10.07.2007
Lexicon
Ingrid's pronunciation is usually eerily clear, but there is the occasional terrific stumble. For posterity:
cuspension cord: suspension bridge
fablious: fabulous
flift store: thrift store
sonic vinegar (also, Masonic vinegar): balsamic vinegar
She also calls her heels and ankle bones her goofballs. I have no idea why.
What've you got?
cuspension cord: suspension bridge
fablious: fabulous
flift store: thrift store
sonic vinegar (also, Masonic vinegar): balsamic vinegar
She also calls her heels and ankle bones her goofballs. I have no idea why.
What've you got?
9.15.2007
Comparative Anatomy
Last night after a visit with Ingrid's pal Amelie:
Ingrid: Amelie has hair!
Me: Yep, she's got hair just like you do.
Ingrid: Does she have teef?
Me Sure, she has teeth. Just like you.
Ingrid: Does she have a tongue?
Me: Uh huh. She has a tongue. She has pretty much all the same parts you have.
Ingrid: Does she have a piano?
Ingrid: Amelie has hair!
Me: Yep, she's got hair just like you do.
Ingrid: Does she have teef?
Me Sure, she has teeth. Just like you.
Ingrid: Does she have a tongue?
Me: Uh huh. She has a tongue. She has pretty much all the same parts you have.
Ingrid: Does she have a piano?
6.20.2007
Tuckered Out
After breakfast Ingrid and I usually have a little reading time on the couch. Last Saturday morning, we read, among other favorites, Beatrix Potter’s The Tale of Tom Kitten.
Recently Ingrid’s gotten the hang of asking about specific words she doesn’t know, often to my befuddlement. You know Mem Fox's Time for Bed? Good gracious me, says the big snake to the baby snake. You’re still awake. Ingrid plants her hand on the page to keep me from moving on. What does gracious mean?
Anyway, Beatrix Potter wrote Tom Kitten in 1907 and it’s surprisingly appealing, still. (Except when Mrs. Tabitha Twitchit smacks her naughty kittens for losing their clothes. We skip that.) But it includes a few words that aren’t exactly in daily use in our house. Ingrid asks about all of them. Burst I could handle, no sweat. Pinafore, ok, I have a rough idea. Tucker, though, when Ingrid asked about it Saturday, sent me for the dictionary.
Turns out it’s a ruffly thing that women used to wear around their necks, which is why you can’t tell from the illustration what it might be; to the untrained, twenty-first century eye it just looks like part of the pinafore.
Even cooler than finding out what a tucker is was introducing Ingrid to the dictionary. Don’t tell anyone this, but I’ve been known to read dictionaries. Especially the “regional usage notes” and such. Mmm, love that. So much that a couple of years ago for Christmas A gave me the first two volumes of the Dictionary of American Regional English. Best present ever. So it was pretty neat to sit next to Ingrid on the couch with her little feet pointing off the edge of the cushion and the big book spread across both of our laps, finishing up my cup of tea and turning those thin pages. She was impressed with the size of the thing and all the little illustrations and the big shiny letters on the finger-tabs cut into the edges of the pages to mark each section. A moment for the baby book, for sure.
But apparently not quite memorable enough for my seive of a brain: This morning after breakfast Ingrid toddled up to the couch waving our copy of Tom Kitten and saying Want to look for tucker! Thinking she meant Tucker, I heaved myself off the couch to search the shelf for the latest Leslie McGuirk book we’ve checked out from the library. When I handed it to Ingrid, a tantrum started to brew immediately. She shook her head, teared up, and whined No, no, no!
This is Tucker, I said. Didn’t you say you wanted to read Tucker? More tantrum. Several fruitless exchanges. Finally I extracted from her: Tucker in the big book. How painful is this to read? We went through at least two more rounds of non-communication before I figured out what she really wanted to do was look up tucker in the dictionary again.
And so we did.
Recently Ingrid’s gotten the hang of asking about specific words she doesn’t know, often to my befuddlement. You know Mem Fox's Time for Bed? Good gracious me, says the big snake to the baby snake. You’re still awake. Ingrid plants her hand on the page to keep me from moving on. What does gracious mean?
Anyway, Beatrix Potter wrote Tom Kitten in 1907 and it’s surprisingly appealing, still. (Except when Mrs. Tabitha Twitchit smacks her naughty kittens for losing their clothes. We skip that.) But it includes a few words that aren’t exactly in daily use in our house. Ingrid asks about all of them. Burst I could handle, no sweat. Pinafore, ok, I have a rough idea. Tucker, though, when Ingrid asked about it Saturday, sent me for the dictionary.
Turns out it’s a ruffly thing that women used to wear around their necks, which is why you can’t tell from the illustration what it might be; to the untrained, twenty-first century eye it just looks like part of the pinafore.
Even cooler than finding out what a tucker is was introducing Ingrid to the dictionary. Don’t tell anyone this, but I’ve been known to read dictionaries. Especially the “regional usage notes” and such. Mmm, love that. So much that a couple of years ago for Christmas A gave me the first two volumes of the Dictionary of American Regional English. Best present ever. So it was pretty neat to sit next to Ingrid on the couch with her little feet pointing off the edge of the cushion and the big book spread across both of our laps, finishing up my cup of tea and turning those thin pages. She was impressed with the size of the thing and all the little illustrations and the big shiny letters on the finger-tabs cut into the edges of the pages to mark each section. A moment for the baby book, for sure.
But apparently not quite memorable enough for my seive of a brain: This morning after breakfast Ingrid toddled up to the couch waving our copy of Tom Kitten and saying Want to look for tucker! Thinking she meant Tucker, I heaved myself off the couch to search the shelf for the latest Leslie McGuirk book we’ve checked out from the library. When I handed it to Ingrid, a tantrum started to brew immediately. She shook her head, teared up, and whined No, no, no!
This is Tucker, I said. Didn’t you say you wanted to read Tucker? More tantrum. Several fruitless exchanges. Finally I extracted from her: Tucker in the big book. How painful is this to read? We went through at least two more rounds of non-communication before I figured out what she really wanted to do was look up tucker in the dictionary again.
And so we did.
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