sunday tunes: songs for hugh

Three songs my almost-three-year-old likes (so, so grateful he's finally willing to listen to something besides "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star").

two years a reader

Before Hugh was born, I had visions of spending hours curled up under quilts, reading with a small being nestled at my side. I saw me and this small person making frequent trips to the library, hauling book-filled tote bags and reciting poems at every opportunity — swinging at the playground, scuffling our feet through crisped fall leaves, gazing up at the sky, engaging in bouts of emphatic puddle stomping. I saw my imagined small person sitting in a sunbeam shaft, lost in a book.

All of these visions have come to pass, and I feel very lucky, because right from the moment they blink open their eyes, little people have thier own interests and preogatives and there is no guarantee they will be anything like you hope or wish (though when it comes to parenthood, I've found that my hopes and wishes are often at best a sort of dinky cardboard model of the actual experience).

Five weeks old (so tiny).

When Hugh was very new to the world, we mainly read him chapter books and things we liked aloud, because we egotistically assumed that hearing our voices mattered most and baby books can get old fast. The Winnie the Pooh books, E.B. White's Stuart Little, Robert Mccloskey's Homer Price stories, Ruth Krauss's A Hole is to Dig and Randall Jarrell's The Bat Poet were favorites. I also read him poems from The Rattle Bag and the occasional New Yorker article. Ounce, Dice, Trice by Alistair Reid was the first book that made him laugh. Tiny babies are the best, because you can read them whatever you like.

Now that we are firmly in the world of picture books, Hugh has more opinions about what gets read. A selection of some of his favorites from the past year would include:

Best Friends for Frances and Bread and Jam for Frances by Russell Hoban.
Best Storybook Ever, by Richard Scarrey (we skip the problematic bits).
A Child's Garden of Verses by Robert Louis Stevenson.
Du Iz Tak? by Carson Ellis.
The Elephant Who Liked to Smash Small Cars by Jean Merrill.
The Fuzzy Duckling, Shaker Lane, and A Shaker Abcedarium by Martin and Alice Provensen.
Katy and the Big Snow, by Virginia Lee Burton (an underrated genius).
Last Stop on Market Street by Matt de la Pena.
The Real Mother Goose.
Sam and Dave Dig a Hole and The Wolf, the Duck and the Mouse by Mac Barnett.
The Snowy Day and Over in the Meadow by Ezra Jack Keats.
Poems to Read to the Very Young, selected by Josette Frank.
Professional Crocodile by Giovanna Zoboli.
Pete's a Pizza, by William Steig.
Umbrella by Taro Yashima.
We Found a Hat by John Klassen.
and
an astonishing number of books by the incomparable Margaret Wise Brown, but most especially: The Little Island, The Important Book, The Quiet Noisy Book, The Friendly Book, Scuppers the Sailor Dog, The Growing Story, Mister Dog (The Dog Who Belonged to Himself) [ed. note: my personal favorite], The Runaway Bunny, The Little Fireman and Goodnight Moon. [edited to add: somehow this list missed two of Hugh's most-requested titles: The Little Fur Family and Wait Till The Moon is Full.]

We're never far from something to read. There are dedicated shelves for picture books in Hugh's room and in our kitchen, plus book caddies that hold his favorite reads of the moment strategically plopped by comfortable spots (re: book caddies — I like this portable one by Umbra and this stationary one by Ikea). A separate basket by the front door holds library books and seasonal reads. On my bookshelves, the lowest shelves hold children's chapter books and poetry collections, so almost all of the books in our house at Hugh height are of Hugh interest, and he can go and get any of them whenever he likes. To make it easier for Hugh to sort and shelve at the end of the day, each of his bookshelves are organized by color (this also makes it easier for him to find specific books).

In practice, having toddler-height books everywhere sometimes looks like this:

You have to pick your parental hassles, though, and this is one I don't mind. Spending an hour or two with Hugh and a topply pile of picture books he's picked himself is a pure joy, even when it involves reading Make Way for Duckings for the umpteenth time, and who knows how long it will last. Children change like clouds in the sky. I'm grateful to have these days and plenty of books.

imaginary outfit: two

Today, Hugh is two. Or, as he would put it, TWO.

This collection is mostly fictional.  The last time I tried to put Saltwater sandals on Hugh's feet, he launched a nuclear fit, and a white jumpsuit and needlepoint mules at a toddler birthday party are PURE fantasy (for me, at least). But we will have shiny balloons and ice cream cake.

'a ship across time'

Years ago, long before I had children or was even married, a friend with children said, “The thing about having kids is that after a while you forget what it was like before you had them.” The idea was shocking. Busy enough with my own life, I couldn’t envisage a future self whose comings and goings were circumscribed, apparently happily, by the wants and needs of people half my size. But that’s what happened. As I grew into the role of parent, I sometimes felt as if I were taking apart a ship and using the planks to build a ship for someone else. I was building a ship across time, out of my time.

Alan Burdick, 'The Secret Life of Time.' The New Yorker, December 19 & 26, 2017.

marching on

Saturday Women's March was exhilarating. I marched in Washington, DC with my husband and son, my sister and her husband, a dear friend from high school and two friends of hers, and I had many friends in the crowd that I never managed to see or connect with — there were simply too many people. Our phones lost service, so we marveled at the mass of people around us, unaware of what exactly was happening — that women were marching everywhere, filling the streets of LA and Boston and Chicago, walking through snow and rain, marching all over the world. We heard rumors in the crowd that other cities were turning out, but had no idea until we got back to my sister's apartment and turned on the TV just how massive the day was. 

And then came Sunday, and alternative facts, and a week of appalling executive orders.

I am sitting down tonight, with Hugh asleep, and Sean on the couch beside me, to write this — mostly for myself, but maybe for you, too, if you need it: chin up.

Aboard his flagship, the Bonhomme Richard, Jones led his small squadron in the capture of seven merchantmen off of the Scottish coast. On September 23, 1779, Jones fought one of the bloodiest engagements in naval history. Jones struggled with the 44-gun Royal Navy frigate Serapis, and although his own vessel was burning and sinking, Jones would not accept the British demand for surrender, replying, “I have not yet begun to fight.” More than three hours later, Serapis surrendered and Jones took command.

This week, I have felt like Jo March, wishing I could run away and somehow join the fight (or at least the Twitter fight). But much of the real work to be done is at home — in neighborhoods, like mine, where people see the world in wildly different ways. So this weekend, we are working on building our community by inviting people over for waffles and a political postcard-writing session (if you are in NE Ohio and enjoy waffles and/or civic action, email me: evencleveland (at) gmail dot com).

I'm also thinking about forming a group that would meet once a month to learn about an issue in depth at the state and local level (again, email me if you are interested). I'd like to try and bring in an expert or a speaker for each meeting, or maybe each person could take a turn doing research into a particular theme and come back to report to the group.

They may be burning the ship, but we can still fight (even — or especially — with cardboard signs and waffles and postcards and phone calls and wonky civic groups).

Some other things:
A march for science: 'Who can participate: Anyone who values empirical science. That's it. That's the only requirement.'
Leading, following and habits.
A comment thread full of resources - 'Mike Pence means it ... Call like you would floss.'
This poster, and this Twitter account.
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little skiers, mushroom cake, baby bears and stone houses

A post of personal odds and ends to wrap up the year:

Simple Christmas crafts are one of my favorite things (see: macaroni snowflakes, salt dough ornaments stamped and drawn, elf villages). Unfortunately for me, the will to craft doesn't generally hit until about December 20th, which means that I am either frantically trying to finish projects in the midst of epic cookie baking and assorted festivities, or have a bunch of half-finished Christmas projects hanging around after the 25th.

These little skiers were a two-season projects. They got half done last year, and the finishing touches were added this year. They are very easy to make — all you need is wooden peg people, popsicle sticks, hot glue and acrylic paint. The scarves are scraps of rick-rack, ribbon and twine, and the hats are the tips of lost gloves. Tiny pompoms, jingle bells and buttons add the finishing touches.

Another holiday project: mushroom cake. Inspired by Hither and Thither, using Sprinklebakes' (very delicious) recipe. 

Hugh has been busy wearing his bear hat.

And in other news, we bought a house: our very first. It was built in 1929 and has a secret bookcase door. We'll move in January.

Happy holidays!

lullabies

When even relatively happy, well-supported people become the primary caretaker of a very small person, they tend to find themselves eddied out from the world of adults. They are never alone — there is always that tiny person — and yet they are often lonely. Old songs let us feel the fellowship of these other people, across space and time, also holding babies in dark rooms. In 1928, when Lorca gave a lecture in Madrid about the Spanish lullabies he had for years been collecting, he spoke of a woman he had heard singing a sad lullaby, saying that ‘‘a living tradition worked in her, and she faithfully executed its commands, as though listening to the ancient, imperious voices echoing in her blood.’’ After hearing her sing, he said, he ‘‘tried to collect lullabies from every corner of Spain; wishing to know how my countrywomen lull their children to sleep, and after a while I gained the impression that Spain utilizes its saddest melodies and most melancholy texts to tinge her children’s first slumber.’’ He also noted that the woman he heard singing the sad song, upon approach, looked happy.

Rivka Galchen, "The Melancholy Mystery of Lullabies." NYT October 14, 2015. It's a great read: Hitchcock, 5,000 year-old Babylonian songs, and the Lullaby Project.

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I have been surprised by what songs come to mind when I sing to Hugh — for example, the surest way I have to make him smile is to sing "Freight Train"; my dad had him riveted by Jimmy Martin's "Drink Up and Go Home." The Smiths and Chopin made him cry, but he loves Buddy Holly and the Beatles.

imaginary outfit: newborn daze

Easy does it is the motto around here. As someone who has always had trouble not worrying about what's next or what's past, I've found having a newborn surprisingly relaxing. They are the definition of immediate: everything is in the moment.

All this moment-to-moment living makes even the most mundane things wonderful: an extra ten minutes to linger in the shower; the feel of crisp, clean sheets at the end of the day; the warmth of a sun-warmed porch floor or the cool of an air-conditioned room; someone bringing you a glass of lemonade. And of course, the baby is a daily marvel. I'm happy just to watch him be.

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One of the downsides of life are for-your-own-good truth/doom-sayers: the people who tell you cheerful things like 'Once you have a baby, you'll never see a movie/read a book/shower/travel/wear your old jeans again...' etc. etc. etc.

For the record (in case you, too, are expecting or even thinking about a baby and have encountered people determined to take the shine off your life): I've read several books and a number of magazine articles since Hugh arrived on the scene, watched a few movies, made numerous meals, taken a few walks by myself, showered daily, and had lovely conversations with my husband. Old jeans and traveling may take a bit more time, but I'm hopeful. In the meantime, there are always televised travel specials and jumpsuits.

around here

Dahlias are blooming, blueberries are ripe and we are getting to know a new little person: Hugh Clarence Madewell-O'Hagan, born (after a few inducements) on the thirteenth of July.

We're singing songs, taking naps, washing bottles and learning something new every day. He is the dearest thing, and Sean and I can't stop marveling at him.