Don't Know About St. Peter, but I Hear St. Nicholas Lives Nearby...

Stacy related a story to me last night.  At some point yesterday Stacy stumbled upon the kids with a U.S. map spread out between them.  L was busy showing N the sites; she had managed to find and point out Maine and Kansas.  (We'd just finished up reading The Wizard of Oz to the kids a couple of days ago.)

"And up here," she said, waving generally over Canada, "is where heaven is."

Boy Genius Rivals Sister for Smartest Kid Award

Surveys of parents show 95% of children are significantly above average.

OK, every parent thinks his child is brilliant and can do no wrong, I get that. I'm sure even Adolf’s Mutti probably thought he was ein kleine, schöne, Wünderkind. I admittedly succumb to that same parental fantasy. But with N my prideful befuddlement comes not from seeing example upon example of brilliant and flagrant anecdotes to confirm an already solid conviction of a future messiah in our midst, but contrarily, that he seems like a pretty ordinary kid who doesn’t do much too provocative – that is until he floors me with sudden glimpses of something unexpectedly sharp hidden from general view. L generally seems like a pretty smart kid; with N we’ve been reserving judgment, but… it’s hard to pinpoint, but there are signs that there’s something stirring in there.

N’s closet talents have been showing themselves in our story times. I’ve been reading the kids The Wizard of Oz. As we read L sits glued to my hip, interrupting me, asking questions, reacting to the story, fully engaged. N, on the other hand, is across the room playing with his toys, reading other books, singing or talking to his play things. He by all appearances, couldn’t be less interested. As per our routine, before we pick up the evening’s chapter we always recap the few chapters we’ve just read. Every night it’s generally the same. I’ll ask each kid a question. (“What was the name of the people who lived in the Wicked Witch of the East’s land? What was their favorite color? How did the tin woodman become all tin?”) L, who in my mind is clearly headed for greatness, will generally get it right (usually) though sometimes she’ll struggle and give up. N, who is as equally nonchalant about the quiz time as he is about the story itself and generally has to be asked three times because his attention was captivated by a cobweb in the corner or a particularly intriguing sock lying on the floor, will (once you’ve locked him in), quickly blurt out even the most obscure answer and then, services rendered, go back to his playing. In more honest retrospect he probably doesn’t get the right answers particularly more often than L (though Stacy will admit he gets them more often than she does), it just strikes me so much more because he, by all rights, shouldn’t.

I expect it’s a boy thing, and I, like Stacy, don’t really understand boys. Sure, I was, in theory, one at one time, but I was definitely the first-child, studious, still and quiet, very focused, wimpy type – much more likely to read Shakespeare and get beaten up than to watch cowboy movies and beat up. N is all kinetisity. Or maybe it’s a second-child thing – he’s not as worried about stoking Mommy and Daddy’s approval by appearing to hang on our every word. (L’s a first-child in spades.) Whatever it is, it gives us little bursts of excitement and makes us glad. Just like having L’s wide eyes glued to us as we read.

Rest in Peace, Mr. President - You Still Serve Us Well

With all my work travels of late methinks I'm spending more time in literary settings than in the real world.  I've been getting a lot of reading done on the road, which is nice, and about the only thing good to say about being away from home and family so much.  Even at home a good chunk of my free time has been devoted to reading to the kids - not that I'm complaining about that at all.  It is an uncontested highlight of the day.  But the bottom line, and my rambling attempt at a point is that I've been pretty immersed in books, so if my entries are tending a little toward the bibliographic, you now know why.

This afternoon I brought to a close a biographical undertaking upon which I'd first embarked probably six months ago, David McCullough's John Adams.  Ever since our adventure through Boston and Gettysburg last summer I've been on a bit of an American history kick.  On returning from our trip I knew I wanted to read something historical, but wasn't sure what.  Even though it was a "kid's book" I started up an old copy of Johnny Tremain simply because I had it around and enjoyed it so much that I felt I wanted a richer picture of the background and context featured there.  Around that time I'd begun hearing so many great things about the McCullough book that when I saw it in a used bookshop in beautiful condition, I had to abandon my self-imposed "library only" constraint and picked it up.  While it seems it took me as long to read Adams' exploits than it did for him to execute them, it was time well spent from start to finish.  What a detailed and evocative story McCullough had to tell!  Literally thousands of letters between John Adams and his wife Abigail and hundreds more exchanged with numerous family members and contemporaries gives a truly whole and satisfying portrait of the great man.  A stunning figure with accomplishments enough to leave you in awe, and yet with just enough flaws and foibles to render him utterly human and thoroughly endearing.  Good natured, honest, opinionated, vain, scholarly, over-trusting, doggedly loyal, alternately self-aggrandizing and self-effacing, bombastic, meditative, humorous, tender and brilliant -- a man of rare and sorely needed qualities.  After spending six+ months with him, following him across the world and back and sharing his triumphs and heartbreaks, my parting with the good President this afternoon was a sad and somber occasion.  I hope to meet others of his like again, but I suspect it won't be often.

Sweet Misery

Not having learned my lesson with Infinite Jest, I have undertaken another literary monstrosity.  A big fan of the music, drama and imbued theology of the stage production of Les Misérables, I've made the singularly unwise decision to tackle the novel.  About a month ago I requested it from the L.A. library and it has been weighing down my nightstand quite effectively since.  Hugo clearly felt no need to summarize briefly.  As I think I've mentioned numerous times, I'm a pretty slow reader.  Having had the book for this long, I'm only on page 111.  That's out of 1330.  This one's gonna take a while.  What I've read so far barely covers the first scene of the stage play.

But my first prognostication is that, if I can stick it out, I will be richly rewarded.  It is indeed dense; no denying it, and Monsieur Hugo does take close to a dozen chapters to paint the detailed portrait of a character who is so minor in the stage play as to be essentially nameless. (Mais oui!) But the writing is in many places stunning and evocative.  I don't know if the sheer beauty of some of the language is due to Hugo or the new translator, Julie Rose, but it is captivating.  And there are quotes liberally scattered about that I've vowed to keep always on the tip of my tongue.  (But don't ask me to recite them here right now...)

It's going to be a tough  undertaking - the book is a hardcover and weighs a ton and doesn't make for an easy read in bed.  I tried taking it with me on a recent Washington trip, but it literally wouldn't fit in my carry-on bag, so I had to lug it through the airports in hand.  Won't be doing that again.  So I'm not exactly sure how I plan to read the whole thing, given I can only renew it through the library three times, and I've renewed it twice already.  I'll have to have Stacy request it for me, so that she can then renew it three times; then I can request it again for another three rounds, etc., etc.  I expect no one is shocked at the level of inconvenience I will put myself and family through to avoid having to actually shell out the cash and just go buy the book.  There's a Scotsman in my family tree somewhere, and boy are his genes strong.

And just in case anyone gets any misplaced ideas of charity and philanthropy  -- you are absolutely forbidden to buy it for me.  I won't mention any names, because, gee willikers, that would be impolite.

Two Down, None to Go

This past week saw the summer draw to a close for both L and N.  L started her first day of kindergarten on Wednesday; N, who is kicking off a twice-a-week preschool stint, started on Thursday.  For L Wednesday was old hat.  A year of preschool and a year of developmental kindergarten had made her quite the jaded scholar.  She decked herself out in a spiffy new dress, tastefully appointed with a Little Mermaid backpack - the hautest thing this season in Paris - at least the Paris at Epcot Center.  A few turns for the adoring camera and she was good to go.  Even though he had yet one more day of summer bliss to burn, N graciously agreed to accompany L and Mommy on the ceremonial excursion.

L's kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Fadale

The next day was the boy's turn, and the excitement was palpable.  Up at the crack of dawn, a rather squirrel-like N insisted on wearing his school backpack over his pajamas at breakfast.  L, the consummate pro, had worlds of advice which she proffered unsolicited, and pretty much unattended.  I had decided to ease into the holiday weekend a little early and took Thursday and Friday off, so I got to accompany the budding collegian on his initial sally-forth.

I vividly remember L's first day last year and the quiet desperation that imbued her face; there was no parallel to be seen here.  N was all action.  Once we got to the school, he could not be contained in the family pack, but required the assistance of several border collies and a lasso to keep him from rushing headlong onto campus.  If anything, L seemed anxious on his behalf.

We were to drop L off at her class first.  L sat placidly in the courtyard while we waited for the door to the class to open, her previous confidence seemingly having crested; N, meanwhile, ran around introducing himself to all the myriad adults and students walking by, explaining to them most seriously that this was, indeed, his first day at school.  The more kinetic N became, the more withdrawn his sister.  Finally L's bell rang and it was time for her to go in.  Before she slipped in I was treated to hugs worthy of a wartime deployment.

Finally it was the moment we'd all been waiting for, some more spasticly than others - N's introduction to his classroom.  We got there before any of the other kids were there, so he could secure his territory.  Like a dog sniffing out new terrain, he was everywhere poking.  He immediately found his cubbyhole, then was off exploring all the other nooks and crannies.  (And there were plenty to explore.)

Before we left we walked him out to the playground where all the other kids were playing.  We didn't get so much as a "Bye Mommy & Daddy."  He was off like lightning and from afar we could faintly hear "Hi, my name's N; today's my first day at school..." repeated over and over.  It may have been a little hard to see at first, but we were able convince ourselves that he was, in fact, devastated to be separated from his loving parents.

We left the classroom, threaded our way back through the building, and headed back to our car.  As we walked we went along side the fence to the playground where N was socializing.  We spotted him off in a sandbox digging with a dozen newly-made bosom buddies.  "N," we cried, knowing he would be glad to see us again in his grief.  He looked over in our direction, spotted us, smiled and threw a little wave, then he was back tending to his sand toys.  Sometimes sorrow is best addressed privately.