Some frightening and unforgettable moments today

I started this blog really to chronicle the early years of parenting. It seemed a good way to work out on paper the giddiness and angst of navigating someone else's education and maturation. In that vein, I plan to post interesting stories, theories and trends related to children, education and parenting. Here are a couple:

A New York City painter has movingly chronicled the early years of both his sons' lives via short films. The first was done three years ago. The second appeared in the New York Times today. These are really, really sweet.

On a frightening and what-the-heck-is-wrong-with-these-parents note, this Washington Post story of a grade schooler driving the family car to school because he was so anxious to get the free breakfast. Turns out the dad had been under a court order not to leave the kids alone with mom, but Dad had to work and Mom had to get her sleep. Again I ask, what the heck is wrong with these parents?

And we have a winner - or at least someone who knows their music

My girl Sandi Larsen informs me that the hauntingly beautiful song in the movie Revolutionary Road is "Wild is the Wind" by Nina Simone. You can listen or buy it on Itunes.

Holidays are made for heavy movies

With my holiday time dwindling to mere hours, I raced to catch up on my movie watching. Went to see The Curious Case of Benjamin Button yesterday and Revolutionary Road today. I came out of both carrying an extra 10 pounds of emotion. Benjamin Button is based on the F. Scott Fitzgerald short story which somehow escaped me in 11th grade American lit class. Good. 

It might have spoiled the movie for me, a three-hour cinematic tour de force that doesn't resemble the book at all. English actresses keep showing up actresses from this side of the pond and Cate Blanchett in the lede is a prime example. The movie centers on a really disturbing theme: how would our lives go if we lived them in reverse? If instead of aging, we were born physically old and emotionally young, then we grew physically young and emotionally old. If when we died we just grew smaller until we disappeared like blowing dust. See where the poundage came from? Film critic Roger Ebert argues that this premise is just plain wrong, read: distressing. I wondered how even when Pitt's character was old as Methuselah and in a shrunken, midget body, it was still Brad Pitt's dazzling face. The Boston Globe has the answer.

The trailer for Revolutionary Road is almost better than the movie and includes a few scenes that didn't make the final cut. If you've seen Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? or read the stories of the late John Cheever, you know this movie's angst or read here to get a sense. The movie's singular question is this all there is to our lives is as timeless a query as it is a painful one. Because of course, if this isn't all there is to life, what are our chances of being able to switch course? The movie asks this question and shows its beautiful, horrific answer. For those of us in real life, asking this question in the middle of a recession, record unemployment and two ongoing wars makes it a bittersweet experience, a challenge even to live out loud despite the things that confine us.

On an up note, the soundtrack is fabulous! There's a haunting song that opens the trailer and the sultry, smoky voice sounds like the late Nina Simone. I tried to do a quick search but came up empty. Anyone know or who can find out the name of the singer, please come back here and tell the rest of us.  As for me, its onward to dinner, a little housework and preparation for a busy work week ahead; all the things our lives are made of. Et tu?

Change for Generations X and Y

The annual release of crime statistics from the FBI always sets my teeth on edge. Crime is down but for young people it remains devastatingly high. For young black men, it unacceptable as I said in my Seattle Times column. 

A new president, an energized, united Congress and can-do has become our mantra. At least some of that ought to trickle down to the youngest generations, the ones most devastated by high murder rates, unemployment, evaporating student loans and substandard public schools. If I could request something of every American parent it would be to do something each day that smoothes the road a little for our kids. Not just feeding them and sending them off to school, but planning ahead - thinking of how expensive college will be, of how downsizing and outsourcing has  narrowed opportunities and changed the rules of the game. We're living them a mountain of debt and globe with wars flaring up in too many spots to count. In all good conscience, we have to help them navigate the minefields.

Captain Underpants versus Voices from a Medieval Village

I laughed when I first read of the  growing disenchantment surrounding The Newbery Medal, the literary award for children's books. I wasn't wholly convinced to take it seriously by The Washington Post's take.  Of 25 Newbery winners and runners-up from 2000 to 2005, most of them dealt with issues some would consider too heavy for young minds to process. Four of the books dealt with death, six with the absence of one or both parents and four with mental challenges such as autism. The rest centered on tough social issues. Okaaay. 

This piece in the online magazine, Slate, convinced me that a literary war is brewing. (That or the winter storms left some of us with a tad too much time on our hands.

I get that prizes are big business. Since Oprah doesn't read children's books, the Newbery is one of the few ways sellers of children's books have of generating buzz and boosting sales. The golden seal of the Newbery affixed to the cover of a book is enough to get me to pull it from the shelf and peruse the pages. Whether I buy the book or not depends on if I think my 7-year-old will be interested in the storyline. My son is an emerging reader whose motivation to do the heavy lifting of reading depends on the literary reward. Some of the Newbery choices are hits with him, others are, in his words, snoozers.

So many of his choices, Junie B. Jones, Henry Huggins, Encyclopedia Brown and Cam Jansen aren't award winners. But my son loves them. So I guess it says something that I have more of those books on my shelves than those bearing the golden seal.  But what it says, in the grand scheme of things, isn't much. 

Winter at its best

I haven't taken that walk yet. A spot near the fireplace and the Sunday paper caused a delay. But my son is taking in enough of the outdoors for both of us. 

Of Winter Storms and Time Well Spent

I woke up this morning to twenty-five degree temperatures, high winds and a landscape blanketed under snow. The last week has been like this meaning I can never again say I live in a region of milder climes. There is nothing mild about having to empty the outdoor water systems and drag in the grill and all of my potted plants. The bird bath froze with water in it before I could move it so I just have to pray it doesn't crack. We're use to grilling year round so storing it for even for a week or two is a bummer. My husband went out and stocked up on flashlights and candles but he also did himself one better and made reservations at the Four Seasons in the city. I knew there was a reason I married that man!

 

I'm sitting here clutching a cup of hot coffee with a winter scarf wrapped around my neck wondering how much longer the skinny, tall tree in front of my window will last before the wind muscles it down like a high-school wrestler.  One of the new Mercedes-Benz hybrids just came down the hill, rounding the bend and passing my window, rolling smoothly along the icy plane and chunks of snow and dirt as though it were July. That Benz seemed to say, "neither sleet nor snow will keep me from going about my day!"  Reality check: Just looked up the sticker price and guess I'll stick with what I have in the garage.

If the weather is too bad for mere mortals, I've got plenty to do here. One of the reasons I started this blog was to take a personal look at several areas I write about professionally. The first is education. By the time I finish sorting out the best educational options and services for my 7-year-old I'm certain I'll be either crazy or qualified to write a book. (Hmmmm. The two could work hand-in-hand.) I want to do this over the holiday break so he returns to school, and I to work, with maybe not all of the answers but at least a new direction. The old route is a dead-end and I don't want my beautiful boy stuck there. Second thing I've got to do is finish a compilation of essays on fiber art. Part of that process includes making a square that will be part of a quilt for an artist friend, a fierce sista who favors Hawaiian batiks and tranquil hues of the ocean. She is also one of the smartest public advocates for children in this part of the country. She deserves a quilt so gorgeous all she and visitors to her home can do is stare at it.

But maybe a walk first.

There is something bracing about freezing cold air. I feel like I burn more calories when I'm out in it, even if I just went to the end of the driveway for the newspaper. My plan is to slip into my ski wear and see how far outside I get. The options are that in an hour or two I could be sledding down some of the mountainous hills we have around here, or I could be as I was last night, reclining on the couch under a shawl with a book in one hand and a beverage in the other. There's no shame in my game. Either way I'll let you know.