North! Or Be Eaten: my review

It was with some ambivalence that I picked up Andrew Peterson’s North! Or Be Eaten book, because I wasn’t sure I’d be able to be objective. You see, I really like his music, and I really wanted to like this new book in his Wingfeather Saga series.

Happily, concerns about objectivity quickly melted away when I dove into the book, and found myself really liking it, not just because I wanted to like it, but because this is a great story. In fact, towards the end of the book, I’m afraid I was a bit rude to my family as I growled, “Do not interrupt me! I’ve got to find out what happens…”

Some things I appreciated about this book:

I liked the hero’s journey in this story. In the first book, On the Edge of the Dark Sea of Darkness, the stage was set for the Wingfeather children and the story of the Fangs’ oppressive rule of Skree. It felt a little like the same kind of adventure over and over; namely, battles with Fangs. In this book, there is movement, quest, progress. Different experiences. Some new characters, and some satisfying depth given to the ones we met in the first book. We get to see much more of Skree and Aerwiar and have a fuller sense of what is happening with its people and their tyrannical oppressors. As in all good stories, the “hero’s journey” leads us, with Janner, into exciting adventures and lessons learned along the way.

I liked the numerous chuckle-out-loud moments and crazy imaginative creatures that seem to me would be especially appealing to young male readers (although my ten-year-old daughter seems to get a kick out of them as well.) (She and I have been fighting over this book since it arrived.)

And speaking of children, North! Or Be Eaten places a high value on children. The hope of the land rests on these three children, and stories are discovered that describe the unique magical capabilities of children in Anniera before Gnag the Nameless took over. I like children, and am all about not underestimating them, so I liked this.

All in all, this book contains some intense themes of courage and loyalty while somehow staying playful and whimsical. This second installment of the Wingfeather Saga gives us more of what we liked in the first book, but with improved storytelling and a much more “epic” feel. A satisfying fantasy tale!

Underestimating Children

I am working my way through a book called Free Range Kids by Lenore Skenazy.  I will do a more thorough review of it when I actually finish, but this idea keeps bumping around in my brain and I wanted to blog about it to help process my thinking.

Basically the author challenges the widespread notion that “nowadays” are a lot more dangerous for children.  She goes through statistics and examines the origins of our worried, “helicopter parenting” generation.  And she does it with a ton of spunk and humor.

The idea I’m thinking of as I read it is the concept of “underestimating children.”

Skenazy writes, “…If we try to prevent every possible danger or difficulty in our child’s everyday life, that child never gets a chance to grow up.”

“Our kids are more competent than we believe, and they are whole lot safer, too.  We are extremely worried today about exceedingly unlikely disasters.”

“We want our children to become fine, upstanding adults, but in some ways we treat them as long as possible as sweet, silly babies.”

This is a small sampling of the ideas in Free Range Kids and many of Skenazy’s points are encased in laugh-out-loud stories and antecdotes.  But this concept of underestimating children is one that has particularly grabbed my attention.

I can’t help but think (obsessive fan that I am!) of Harry Potter, and how JK Rowling showed exasperation at parents’ concerns that reading her fictional series would cause children to want to become witches.  In The Tales of Beedle The Bard she also pokes fun at such sentiment with a character who re-wrote all the fairy tales to protect the poor children’s imaginations from any fear or gruesome detail.  As if literature isn’t one of THE safest places for children to experience fear and loss and reality!

(I am feeling too lazy to get up and find my copy of Beedle and give an exact quote.  But I remember it being there.)

And I’m reminded of some parenting books I have (especially my favorite, Raising Great Kids) that talks about envisioning your children’s habits and tendencies 30 years into the future and grasping the fact that the job of parent is supposed to be a temporary one where you work yourself out of a job.  The goal is independent children.

Okay, so now that I have all that typed out, the Harry Potter bit seems a bit out of place, but it’s been part of my jumbled brain waves recently and fits in the category of underestimating children.  So I’m leaving it in.

(I’m also wishing that Dave and I were going to the Harry Potter conference in San Fransisco this weekend, so I’ve got HP on the brain.  But that’s another story.)

More to come about the “Free Range Kids” philosphy once I’ve finished the book…

A Night at the Zoo

Our family took a spontaneous trip to the San Diego Zoo the other night.

It was super-fun!  We haven’t been in ages; we usually frequent the Wild Animal Park, which is closer to our home.

Here are a couple of photos taken in the new Elephant Odyssey.

Extra Children

I have had some grieving to do.  I realized (anew) last week that I am not the kind of mother who can have five extra children in my house for the day and be okay with it.  I want to be the kind of person that can take things in stride and be laid back and embrace the chaos with a calm smile.

But I’m not.

Last week I was watching two of my nieces every day.  They are wonderful children, and the confusion and noise level was manageable.  I mostly had to deal with the drama of Bridget feeling left out since she’s three years younger than the youngest and just can’t quite keep up.

But one day last week, I also volunteered to watch three of a friends’ kids for the afternoon (who are all very nice children too),  and eight children in the house was hard for me.

All the children were at swimming lessons at the same time, and the plan was for me to take them all home with me for a few hours until their mothers could pick them up.

One of the kids had brought chocolate chip cookies to share with everyone.  So, we kicked off the chaos with the eight of them arguing and scrabbling for chocolate chip cookies.  I was trying to dry off the two youngest ones and get them into clothes while listening to the cookie arguments.  Then the kids all started bickering about who was going to sit next to whom in the car.  There were tears shed.

This all happened in the first five minutes that they were all under my jurisdiction.

I was feeling beleagured already, and trying to direct the older kids to gather up their towels, put on their flip flops, pack up their cookie bags and throw away their trash.  No one seemed to be listening to me.  And over my attempts to get order in this group so we could get on our way, Bridget was repeating in a loud determined voice, “I want more cookies!  I want more cookies!”

I snapped a little.

I didn’t scream, but I cupped my hand under my precious Bridget’s chin and said quietly, “You need to be quiet,” and I squeezed her little chin and had a fierce look in my eye.

She burst into tears.

I could tell it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad playdate.

Actually it wasn’t.  I got all the kids home, and lunch and playing and squabbling and fun ensued.  But I was a little rattled the whole time.  On the edge.  Worried that something beyond my control was about to break out.

I’ve been realizing lately that for the past ten years, since Lucy was born, I’ve spent most of my weekdays in a state of mild panic.  I didn’t realize it, of course.  But just as Lucy moved into the slightly more predictable and settled stage of preschooler, Phoebe was born.  And then four years later, Bridget.  And in retrospect, having a small child in the home makes me a little panic-y.  You just never know what will happen, and YOU are responsible for it.  These little human beings are entirely dependent on you.

Just writing those words sends a shiver down my spine.

So I’m starting to move out of the “mild panic” stage of parenting, and it’s been so nice to breathe deeply and enjoy being with my children on a different, more settled level.

But adding five more to the mix definitely moved me back into “panic” mode.  Not severe, but not mild either.

When Dave got home from work and saw the slightly deranged look in my eye, he suggested I get out of the house alone for a bit.  I gratefully accepted this offer and spent a couple of hours browsing Barnes and Noble, getting back my peace.

I would watch all those kids again, but with the knowledge and awareness that it will be a bit frazzling for me.  Sigh.  I will not shrink back from self-knowledge, by the grace of God.

Discipline

Last week Dave and I scheduled an official meeting after the children were tucked in to discuss: discipline.

We’ve had the sense (me more than Dave since I’m here with the kids most of the time) that we needed to put in place some consequences for the increasing bouts of attitude, sassiness, and unwillingness to do what they are told. I realized that I’ve been tip-toeing around, trying not to upset the children by telling them what they don’t want to hear. Examples: “Wake up! It’s time to get ready for school.” “Okay, time to put your clothes away.” “Clear the table please!” Simple requests like this have been met recently with resentment and bad attitudes. What is wrong with these children?!

I know it sounds like normal mothering woes, but I think discipling children is one of those insidious things that creeps up when you’re not looking and you let the children get away with way too much, because really, they are good, thoughtful kids for the most part. But things were getting out of control. As I was re-skimming a book by some of my favorite gurus of parenting and emotional development, Henry Cloud and John Townsend, I found this idea:

Your child has to give up an entire way of looking at life. His philosophy of “Don’t worry, let them do it” is being replaced by “Worry, it’s going to cost you!” This is distressing for him. (from Raising Great Kids).

I’ve been realizing: I cannot control my children. At least, once they pass about the first 18 months of life. After that, I can only make their existence pleasant and comfortable when they do what’s right, or I can make it uncomfortable and miserable when they don’t. And I’ve been shirking on the latter.

During our meeting, I jotted down our ideas for things to take away from the children when they are acting entitled and spoiled, or when they blatantly disrespect us. After our talk, I left the index card I’d been writing on sitting on top of the piano. I felt armed and dangerous, and was determined to make their transgressions the problem and the consequences the enemy, not myself. I didn’t really think much of the card there, I just am not a neat and tidy person who puts things away.

My first real follow-through moment came with Phoebe the next day. I asked her to clean up a craft mess she’d made in her room before starting on the new craft idea that she’d thought of (a mobile!). She protested and whined. I said, “Okay, you can also empty all the trashcans upstairs for showing me disrespect. And…I can think of some other chores if that isn’t enough for you to get the point.” She glared at me, and, I am not kidding, sobbed and screamed throughout the whole cleanup – of the original mess, and the trashcans. Honestly, the thought that came to mind was “Howler monkey.” But she was doing it, so I figured, fine, let her protest.

This is the strange part: as soon as she finished I said, “Thanks, Phoebes, good job! Can I help you find the supplies you need for that next project?” she hit the “off” button of the tears and screams, and began eagerly chatting with me about her idea for the mobile.  This is the truth.  The rest of the afternoon passed in peace and harmony.

It’s been a few days.  Things are going well.  Phoebe has even been picking up her clothes from the bathroom floor and putting them in the hamper without being reminded to do so.  When I commended her on that last night, she replied, “Well, I’ve just been remembering because I don’t want you yelling at me.”  (I really am not a yeller, but okay.) “And,” she continued, “I saw that card on the piano and read it.”

Lucy overheard this conversation and chimed in, “Ooohh!  I saw that thing too.  Scary!”

I love it.

Memorial Day Camping Trip

We took the girls up to William Heise campgrounds for a quick one-night camping adventure.  It was fun, except for our dog, Piper, who was very nervous about the whole ordeal.  (He’s only camped in a campground once before.)  The night was the worst.  We took him into our tent where he nervously paced and licked himself, startling at every noise outside.  Dave and I took turns taking him out to try to calm him down, let him pee, etc.  Nothing helped.  Finally, at around 1am, I fed him a children’s Benadryl and stroked him until he got so drowsy that he finally conked out, stretched out next to my sleeping bag. Ridiculous.

Otherwise, we had some fun hiking, exploring, s’more toasting, reading and talking around the fire, and above all (at least for our younger two children) – getting as dirty as possible.

Dave and I celebrate our 13th anniversary today.  Yay!  I love that I still like hanging out with that guy.

Silly Story

Remember in Pride and Prejudice, when Elizabeth Bennett is described as having “a lively, playful disposition, which delighted in any thing ridiculous”?   Well, this story fits in with that description.

Yesterday I had to take Phoebe to the Urgent Care Center.  (She’s fine, by the way.)  As we drove away, we had to take the little two-lane access road which runs from the doctors office to the main street.  It was pretty deserted, being Sunday afternoon,  so I was surprised to notice a little dog, some kind of Chiguagua mix just wandering next to the road.  A quick scan around assured me that no owner stood nearby.  I stopped the car and got out.  The dog came near and sniffed my hand, and I scooped her up and into the car, where I read on her tag that her name was “Zoe” and quickly dialed the phone number on the tag.

Meanwhile, Zoe was hooting and sniffing around our van, much to Phoebe’s delight.  She was a very sweet dog.

When a man answered, I explained I had found his dog.  He asked where I was and I told him, and he said, “Oh, we live nearby.  Just let her go and she’ll come home. She always does.”    Okay, I thought.

I got out of the van, holding the dog, and crossed over the other side of the street to set her down.  Just then a man pulled up behind me in his car, trying to drive out to the street.  He eyed me with confusion as I let this dog down and the dog proceeded to meander across the road in front of this man’s car.  He looked at me like, “What the heck are you doing, setting your dog free right here?”

I smiled and shrugged, wanting him to roll down his window so I could explain the circumstance.  He didn’t, and I felt rather foolish.  Finally Zoe moved out of the way and I got back into my van.

That was a ridiculous experience, just imagining how this looked from the man in the car’s perspective.   I just had to chuckle at it, and myself.  Just call me Elizabeth.

How Cool is This

A quick fun post to follow up after that last serious one.

I was making Bridget lunch today after preschool and cut a strawberry horizontally.  Inside: a fun reminder of the joy in creation!

An Incredible Experience

Today I had an incredible experience. Truly, I kept wondering throughout the experience if this was truly happening.

I took our guinea pigs to an exotic pets veterinarian. (Our regular vet doesn’t treat guinea pigs.)

Marshmallow has had some skin problems which we noticed about a week ago. Some sores and hair loss on her back and side. Ick. I dutifully clipped her nails, gave her a bath in the sink, made sure everything was fresh and clean in the cage. But my children were worried about her. So I took her to the vet, along with Ebony, her faithful sidekick, and Bridget. (My faithful sidekick.)

The moment I walked in, I was astonished at this place. Cool, fresh, air-conditioning. Soothing colors on the walls. Relaxing music piped in. Decorative fountains tinkling in the lobby. Very friendly receptionist, who handed me paperwork to fill out and then came over to admire our guinea pigs. Suddenly, the orange bucket I’d brought them in for the visit didn’t seem quite posh enough. As we waited, I looked around. One door led to “Rehabilitation and Weight Loss Clinic.” Another door was the entrance to the “Five Paw Resort.” Fliers on the table announced their newest staff member – a man who specialized in animal acupuncture and integrative medicine for pets.

Soon we were greeted by a friendly and attractive nurse who shook my hand and introduced me to someone she was training that day. We followed them into a well-appointed exam room where I was questions about the minutiae of our guinea pigs lives – their diets, their personalities, their waste, their living arrangements. I stammered some responses. They were each carefully weighed, then the nurse told me that the doctor would be in shortly – he was just finishing a surgery on a rat.

A rat? Who operates on a rat?

While we waited, I saw a flier detailing their “Rodent Screening” program, complete with body scans, blood work, fecal testing, x-rays to examine the joints, and who knows what else. All for a little less than $500. Huh? I thought.

I love animals. Our home is like a zoo, with a dog, two cats, two guinea pigs and a beta fish. But come on. I started to feel truly nervous about what this vet visit was going to cost, and how I would maintain my sense of responsible pet ownership in the face of what surely was an excessive expectation of animal care and well-being.

The vet entered and was very nice. He examined both pigs, praised them (or me, I’m not sure which) for their teeth, which looked great. He commented on the large amount of gas that seemed to be in Marshmallow’s intestines. (I shrugged my uncertainty as to the cause.) He explained the skin-scraping test he would perform on Marshmallow to determine if mites were the cause of her ailment. He examined Ebony as well, and found that she was crawling with lice. “What!?” I exclaimed in horror. He reassured me that these are not the kind that people can get, and likely Marshmallow had them as well, they were just undetectable on her because of her white fur.  Another nurse – the lab nurse – came in to inform me that she’d be taking over from there and she whisked the pigs off to the lab.

Bridget and I went into the waiting room again, where I felt itchy thinking about guinea pig lice.  I watched a woman playing with her pet parrot and its’ stuffed animal chicken toy.  A man came in to pick up his dog’s thyroid medication.

I am not joking.

Finally, the lab nurse came out and informed me that Marshmallow did not have mites, she handed me the antibiotic I was to give her twice a day until her ouchies healed, and explained the method for ridding them of lice.  I resisted her offers of further tests and screenings and said we’d see how it went from here.

I paid the receptionist $150 and felt relieved that that was the extent of it.  She assured me I could have the rest of the testing performed on the follow up visit, which I scheduled for two weeks from now and plan to cancel.

I don’t even have a lot of commentary about this experience.  To me, it was incredible.  These are animals, beloved pets, but animals nonetheless.  That’s about all I have to say. 

Our Dog

My husband took this video of Piper, our mutt, as he raced back and forth across our house. He is such a good boy, and he longs for land to roam and smells to sniff, but he contents himself with living with us in our suburban house and exerting energy in, uh, unique ways when we don’t have time to walk him. Check him out.