Yo, what's up, bloggees?

Yo, what's up, bloggees?

It takes some courage (or maybe just foolhardiness) to broach what I am about to ask. Certain questions probably shouldn’t be asked unless the inquirer is prepared for an unpleasant answer. But I am really curious. Can anyone tell me why my blogs don’t elicit ANY comments? Scholastic parenting blogs are not inundated with replies, but most do elicit a few favorable comments, and occasional critical ones too. Mine evoke only stony silence. Have you ever tried to argue with someone who doesn’t answer back? These silent treatments are sometimes more distressing than even unreasonable criticism. You know, the old show biz motto: "Call me anything, but call me."

If I think back to unpleasant memories of adolescence, high on the list was waiting for a phone call for a second date from a guy who was fun on the first. It seemed as if those I hoped would never waste another evening of mine, did call, and too soon. Anyone of interest took forever, or so it seemed. I have to say I think that compared to then, I am pretty patient now. I have been writing these blogs for a few years and the only response ever elicited by any of them was a critique of my grammar. (Incidentally, that was pretty embarrassing for a grammar nut; but it was something. It told me there is somebody out there willing to go beyond the opening phrase. She hung in for the whole thing, as a matter of fact, a not insignificant achievement on her part and I guess mine.)

So what’s up? It can’t be the Grandmom thing (you know, “oh bad enough I have to listen to my mother and mother-in-law, I need another grandma with unsolicited advice?”) because even before this new handle, silence reigned in response to my blogs. Off the record, my daughter-in-law told me that a friend of hers finds them amusing; or maybe she actually used the word "witty." I’m still not sure if my daughter-in-law was just trying to cheer me up after seeing all those zeros after the word "responses." She would do that; she’s that thoughtful. But I am "from Missouri" -- metaphorically. I need to be shown that these one-way chats about some things I really care about are not just the old proverbial "noise in the forest." If there is no one there to hear it, did it happen, remember?

So arise, my audience, and give it to me straight! Are there issues you would rather be reading about? Am I missing out on what really matters in your family’s life? Let me have it -- the unexpurgated truth. I am steeled to take it — for the sake of being helpful, reassuring, or at least relevant to you.

November 27, 2007

Seven: The Age of (Not) Supposed To

Seven: The Age of (Not) Supposed To

Many years ago, I coveted my school psychology professor’s commercially available diagnostic play kit; but it was far too expensive for me, then a poor graduate student, to afford. Solution: I assigned my woodworking hobbyist husband to build a simple box. For a few dollars, I bought plastic dollhouse furniture and little figures of family members, remembering to include both genders of children and adults and at least one baby. The furniture would have to include a bedroom set, living room, kitchen table, appliances, and bathroom items, notably a bathtub and toilet. Voila: the cross-section of a doll house, modest version.

It was reassuring to see that the kids I worked with didn’t care about its lack of polish. Most of them young children who are naturals at play and pretend, they went right to it, like the proverbial ducks to water. Without any coaxing, they dramatized the issues that had brought them to our university clinic. No big deal. They were “just playing.” Conflicts, joys, jealousies, even abuse were innocently enacted. It was flimsy evidence, no DNA, but in many cases the ersatz diagnostic tool opened the door for further inquiry and eventual help for troubled kids and families.

The “doll-house box” is still in my home playroom today. (Doesn’t every Grandma have a room full of toys and games that make for interesting visits?) Our 7 year old granddaughter recently discovered the box while sampling the room’s offerings. In a flash, it was a dollhouse, everything in its place; the older brother sitting at the kitchen table — and the following dialogue with his mother loud and clear. “Write your essay. It’s due Monday.” “No, it’s not due till Friday.” “Start it now so you can polish it before handing it in.” “No, it’s not due till Friday.” Despite the old-fashioned figures and furnishings, a very 21st century American family drama was being enacted.

But my focus this time is not on the current “do your homework and do it well” theme lived out in homes throughout the country. Instead, listen to what came next, over a lunch of grilled cheese sandwiches and sliced apples, in my real and today kitchen. “I’m not s’pposed to play with dolls like that, Grandma.” “Why not?” “ Because I am seven. Girls my age don’t play with dolls any more.” “Really, I thought most of them do.” “No, the girls in my class say they never play with dolls anymore.” “Yeah, that’s what they tell YOU. I guess they want to feel big and grown-up. I’m glad that playing and pretending never gets old and you and I never get too old to have fun doing it!”

November 19, 2007

Crispy Encounters Toddlers

Crispy Encounters Toddlers

Since we are going to be getting together here fairly often, I think I ought to tell you about a very central character in my life. He is a 2 year old Norwich Terrier named Crispy. “That’s such a cute name,” people say, apparently reminded of tasty snacks. But the name “Crispy” has nothing to do with food. I crowned him “Crispy” after the lead character in one of Margaret Wise Brown’s (author of Goodnight Moon) little known picture books, Mr. Dog. Her fictional dog’s formal name is “Crispian,” inspired by Brown's own badly behaved pet. As most of Brown’s stories do, this book has a universal theme — it’s all about autonomy, the desire of every young child who feels constrained by adults’ “no-no’s.”

The author describes her fictional character as “his own dog”. He and he alone decides what he does and when he does it and he does just fine, thank you very much. I didn’t know what my puppy would turn out to be like, so I took a chance in naming him after such an independent character. But it was prophetic.

Crispy is the most individualistic dog I’ve ever known. Training rules don’t apply to him. He is clearly convinced that what happens next in our family is in his paws alone. He barks indignantly when he senses that I am going somewhere without him, yet barely lifts his head when I call him to come. There is an expression of “what’s in it for me?” Yet, at the same time, Crispy is the most emotionally attached dog I’ve ever known. He follows wherever I go, unless I ask him to, of course. And speaking of barking, he doesn’t let up when he hears a doorbell ring, even if it’s on TV. You can imagine the noise in our house during the “Trick or Treat” hours of Halloween.

Coincidentally, it was that night that I had the epiphany — a wave of sudden insight — that Crispy is not only two in years; he is a caricature of “the human toddler”: a naysayer who clings. Whatever you ask him to do, he says “No,” in his own language. But if you walk away from him, he comes running to reunite and is like glue until you ask him to do something totally reasonable, like “SIT.”

Crispy is behaviorally identical to a human toddler. He wants to be free, but won’t extend the same privilege to me. Interestingly too, this dog is remarkably simpatico with human toddlers, including those whose parents insist they are “afraid of dogs.” As I said, it all became clear to me on Halloween. A first time visiting 2 year old tried to break free from her mother’s arms as the mother insisted, “She’s afraid of dogs.” So afraid, I silently observed, that the toddler was taunting Crispy by doing a perfect imitation of his bark, almost nose to snout. There was not even a suggestion of fear on the child’s face as the two did a barking duet.

Just a week before, we had been visited by a 2 year old relative and his family. That toddler’s mission was the same — "Get Crispy.” The child kept saying, “Mommy, doggie go woof!” He reported the dog’s bad behavior, then imitated it, down on all fours to challenge the 12-pound beast. It was a stand-off, as it always is with Terriers and Toddlers, partly because neither can decide the first priority — to be free or indivisibly attached.

November 8, 2007