reading – My Truant Pen

What are you reading?

One of my Facebook friends posted her Goodreads account with the lure that she actually posts updates and reads the updates of others, with the poignant comment “I’d like it if more of my social news were about reading”. In an era where all of us are thinking about how to game the algorithms to see content that makes our lives better, not worse (which is a great time to note that Facebook absolutely will do everything in its power to hide my blog posts – subscribe at http://mytruantpen.com), this plea struck me.

I’m spending a week in a cabin in the woods with my husband. We have to work during the day, but there are no chores (or even TV here), so I packed an unreasonable amount of books and art supplies in case my mental curiosity was piqued. (Last time I did this, I also brought a number of reference books for the book that I would totally write if I had the time. And by “the time” I mean “locked in solitary confinement for several months or that one time I knocked out 10k words in a weekend”. As opposed to the book I actually did write and is halfway between a novella and a novel and I can’t bring myself to edit – access to the file upon request. It involves local history and werewolves, and I really need to go about changing some of the names.)

ANYWAY, my point is that this is a stack of books I brought to a cabin in the woods without the intention to show off. So it’s very authentic. Except for the bit where it represents who I wish I was to myself, as opposed to whom I am (which is a person who reads a LOT of comic books before bed, and trashy novels in the bathtub).

My only regret, such as it is, being that I JUST finished one of those gnarly and deeply intellectual books of a level of academic interest and vocabulary that one leaves conspicuously on the coffee table for years praying someone will ask if you’ve read it so that you can affirm “Yes, it was excellent. Let me tell you about the Appalachian Orogeny.” According to the image search I just did (I found it unlikely I had not managed to SOMEHOW work it into the social media record that I was in fact reading such a weighty tome), I have been reading it since January. The fact I finished might be a miracle on the order of the weeping statue of Akita.

The book "How the Mountains of North America Grew" centrally, with a fire to the right, two people playing GO to the left, and glimpses of a leather couch — Is it even legal to read a book like this and not let people know?

But How the Mountains of North America Grew was actually a GREAT book, if only consumable one chapter a week. When backpacking last year, I had a life-changing encounter with a geologist at the Carter Hut who spent a captivating two hours regaling an enthralled hut about the history of the world leading to his truly novel proposed solution for combatting global warming. I loved his enthusiasm, and was thrown back to a teenage romanticism about the name of the proto continent from the Ordivician upon which my home is built: Avalonia. So while I was making bad decisions in a book store this winter, I came home with this tome of geography with the intent to be able to look at the rocks under my feet with greater understanding. I still can’t tell a schist from a gneiss, but I did find the books strangely reassuring. I actually also learned a bunch of stuff I didn’t know before. Like about how the planets moved in their orbits as they formed. That the earth at some point had rotated north to south (part of why there are tropical fossils in the Arctic). That there’s a single geological corollary to global warming (much slower, but we can learn). That big continents lead to iceball planets and smaller ones to more temperate, or even warm planets. How much hotter and how much colder it’s been. That our planet has had three vast universal continents and will have a fourth and final one before Earth’s heat is spent and we move no longer – and that to-be continent has already been named. That it looks like agriculture staved off an ice age in the Holocene. That the boundaries between eras are geographically specific with a golden spike – and that geologists have just selected the spot for the distinction between the Holocene and Anthropocene. I love learning new things, so it was worth having to look up some of the more confusing vocabulary multiple times, and STILL not having him talk about the gigantic 10,000 foot volcano that exploded in New Hampshire 122m years ago leaving behind its magma chambers (an element in my new book, which is why the omission is so tragic).

ANYWAY. That book isn’t in my current “to read pile” so I will not speak of it here.

What is in my pile? Let’s go bottom to top:
A Deep Presence: 13,000 Years of Native American History by Robert Goodby was just added to my collection today in another ill-advised trip to a bookstore. In my defense, it was raining. I’m also really, really interested in the history of the folks who lived in these lands before us. And it’s surprisingly hard to track down anything readable on the topic – never mind having had even the vaguest introduction in formal education. I was answering a QR code on a lamppost in Cambridge about how I learned about indigenous people in school and was contemplating just how profoundly influenced I was by Ken Thomasma visiting my elementary school in 2nd grade. I spent the next five years pretending I was Naya Nuki. But the East Coast folks had 200+ years more erasure than the Shoshone, and it’s much harder to find their stories. I’m pretty pumped about this one.

A Cabin in the Forest by Roxyanne Spanfelner. Completely and totally unrelated to my desire to be Naya Nuki, I’ve decided to feed my fantasy of a cabin in the woods with some books so I can claim to be doing research. Why, just today on a long drive I solved the problem of my husband not wanting to do hot tub maintenance by putting a hot springs on my imaginary property! This is the kind of innovative thinking you get when you read. I have not started this book. I probably should write to the author with the “hot springs instead of hot tub” tip for husbands who don’t want to use their degrees in chemistry.

A Town Like Alice by Nevil Shute. Fun fact: my parents got my name from a Nevil Shute book called “Crooked Adam”. “A Town Like Alice” is on the list of books I’ve always thought I ought to read, that everyone loves and raves about, and that I have never read. If we’re being honest, I will never read this book. Unless that whole “solitary confinement thing” happens. For the record, that did actually happen to me once and it STILL wasn’t enough to get me to crack the covers on Piers Plowman which will still be unread when the Anthropocene turns into the Cockrochocene.

Station Eleven by Emily St. John Mendel. This book looks really good. I’m sure I will enjoy it. I will definitely read it BEFORE “A Town Like Alice” and WAY before “Piers Plowman” – but I think it’s been traveling in my to-read pile for a year, and this is likely its last chance before I actually give up on it.

The Hidden Palace by Helene Wecker – I read the first book in this series and enjoyed it. I am about halfway through the second book and er… not gripped. The several years between readings have not improved my recall of secondary characters. This has a very mild chance of actually getting read so that I can stop thinking I should finish it.

The Forever War by Joe Haldeman. I’m wanting this to be a bit like Scalzi’s Old Man’s War. I mostly listen to Scalzi on audiobook (which might have something to do with Wil Wheaton as the narrator), but mostly because his plots and characters do not require full attention to consume. This is in the Station Eleven likelihood zone.

The Art of Drowning by Billy Collins. Unusually, I don’t remember why this book entered my collection. I know I put it on an Amazon wishlist, and my husband dutifully bought it for me for Christmas. But why it was on the list? I do not recall. One of my friends just started an MFA in poetry and our back yard fire conversations have been a little hot and heavy on the meaning of poetry lately, so in my packing I thought it would be salubrious if I were to read up on some poetry that had been written in the last two centuries. Salubrious is the kind of word you suddenly know when you have taken up reading poetry for fun. I promise that I’m likely to read at LEAST three poems in this book, none of which will be limericks or start with the line “Roses are Red”.

Over My Dead Body: Unearthing the Hidden History of America’s Cemeteries I’ve always liked cemeteries and living in New England we have some very high quality examples of the art. So I’m always game for another discussion of how embalming is a Civil War artifact. This one actually had a couple interesting moments for me – it’s much more social commentary than I was expecting. But somehow in all my Naya Nuki heroine worship I’d never absorbed that NINETY PERCENT of the people living in North America died when Europeans arrived. Holy cow. It’s staggering to imagine what that does to society, and when paired with an invading force with novel technology. Well. It’s amazing we have as many survivors and surviving stories as we do. Anyway, I’m about halfway through this book. I’ll finish it, but it wouldn’t be my top recommendation on the topic of dead bodies and what we do with them.

When the Light of the World Was Subdued, Our Songs Came Through. I’m not sure I would have dared buy this one today if I’d realized it was a Norton Anthology. I believe by law those can only be purchased by students taking the class and that you are actually forbidden from reading them cover to cover. But this builds on my theme of desired American understanding, and intent to read poetry that is not iambic pentameter (as much as I adore iambic pentameter). I read the introduction and first chapter on the front porch this afternoon, and really wish they had a map. My knowledge of tribal geography and the current names of tribes… well, let’s say the only reason I know that Diné = Navajo come from having free-based the complete works of Tony Hillerman in my bathtub reading time. (Which I highly recommend, btw.) Anyway, hopefully the book police don’t find out about me reading this one.

I like reading with real paper books best. But I also read on the Kindle (mostly novels that I can read in one or two sittings and by sittings I mean “in the bathtub”). I also listen to audiobooks on my drive. I prefer books I’ve already read or that aren’t too complicated, given my divided attention. I just finished “rereading” the “Rivers of London” series on audiobook (brilliantly narrated, may I add) and am looking for my next commute companion if you have any ideas.

So…. that’s what I’m reading. (Except I’m not reading, instead of reading I’m writing this post, which is deeply ironic if you think about it.) What about you? What are you reading? How much do you read? What do you make sure you always have with you but never read? What will you definitely read if you’re ever put in solitary confinement, but definitely not before? What do you wish you were reading? How do you read? Let me know!

A poem by Grey: Books

Every once in a while your kid writes something and you can see it through their eyes and it’s just awesome. This was written by Grey in English class, and yes. I got his permission to share.

Dear Books,
I vividly remember the wonders
And stories you spun and wove
Into my head as a child, even before
I could read.

I came to love
Hearing words flow
Through my ears,
And repeating them through my lips.
It seems not too long ago,
I presented a Dr. Suess book to
My parents, and read it myself.

Outloud.

The look of delight and surprise
In their eyes
Is something even now I can’t replicate.

You were always so jumpy and hasty
To give me something new,
Whether it was grim or happy.
Sure, I talk to other
Systems of entertainment
But you will be the first in my heart.

Always.

Even though we’ve drifted apart,
And I’ve become lost to the era of information
The true subconscious
And morals and imagination
Of my brain.
Stems from you, and your love for me.

Thank you for your past
Years of service. And
I hope we meet several more times
Again.

The prophet John Muir

“I must drift about these love-monument mountains, glad to be a servant of servants in so holy a wilderness.” John Muir – “My First Summer in the Sierra”

My friends, I’ve fallen head-over-heels in love. This is the literary equivalent of texting your bestie from the bathroom at a date to tell her that you have found *the one*. I can’t believe I’ve gone this long without really getting to know this man who is so very perfect for me.

In a desultory fashion, I saw his book when I was up at Mt. Rainier buying All The Mt. Rainier Things. And I now own no fewer than two t-shirts that say “The mountains are calling and I must go” citing him and Rainier in the same breath. So before I headed off backpacking with my son I downloaded his “Nature Writings” – which start with his autobiography. His life starts out both hard and common. He speaks of the beatings, the fighting, the memorization that mark his childhood. To modern ears it sounds beyond brutal and brutalizing. In his teenage years, his father abandons him down a well for the better part of a day for days on end (where he nearly dies), and his growth is stunted by the heavy constant labors of plowing and toiling in fields. But somehow he wakes up hours early every day and invents (without the internet, or even many books) devices whose purpose I can’t even understand, never mind whose workings.

Somehow, from that drudgery and brutality, is born an open-hearted poet.

This man speaks to me in a way I thought only Tolkien could. He is a co-religionist in every sense. Like me, he was a Presbyterian, although raised in a much more stern and unforgiving religious environment. But he seems to find God in the same places I do – in the mountains and streams and forests. His love of nature is a worshipful reflection of a God whom he never seems to be able to see as nearly as cold and unkind and punishing as his father apparently did. While is story of his youth makes you want to pity him, you can’t. Because through the 16 hour days, the frozen feet, the stunted growth he’s always noticing the beauty and the loveliness of the world and people around him.

Me and the mountain that most often picks up the phone to call me

I’ve just started on his “My First Summer in the Sierra” and oh! How he speaks of the mountains! It’s like hearing someone praise your own beloved, but in words better than you could find. It’s like hearing a prophet speak of your faith, or finding a poet whose words express your heart’s great secrets. I thought that in reading Muir I’d have to put on my “reading 19th century white dude” filter (well-honed to note and then pass by mysogyny, colonialism, racism, and a belief that not only were the spoils of the Americas limitless they were the rightful property of white folks). I’ve been astonished to meet among the pages of these mountain praises the thoughts of a man who generally seems to see all other humans as of equal worth – a man who also understands the gift and limitation of nature’s bounty. Even as he leads sheep to fatten on alpine meadows, he laments the impact of mankind and our beasts on the world, “Only the sky will then be safe, though hid from view by dust and smoke, incense of a bad sacrifice.” (p. 208) One begins to understand by whose hand, and why and how, these marvels were set aside for us in the first place.

My reading has just begun. I start to wish that I had a lovely copy of his works – a Riverside Muir as you would. It seems almost sacrilegious to read his works on the most quintessentially modern Kindle. I feel like I should find a grove in which to encounter his texts as sacred witness to God’s most glorious creations.

There should be some great conclusion here – some wrapped up discovery. Instead there’s just a hopefulness – that his other writings refresh and inspire my heart so. The astonishing awakening of the morality and decency of those from whom we expected a more “of their era” myopia – and perhaps a similar inspiration to be better than our own era demands. The rising heart of someone who has discovered a whole body of work that seems designed to inspire them, and of which they’ve barely sipped. I can see my future self slowly meting out writings in moments of either great reflection or great need, to feed a famished soul.

“Oh, these vast, calm, measureless mountain days, inciting at once to work and rest! Days in whose light everything seems equally divine, opening a thousand windows to show us God. Nevermore, however weary, should one faint by the way who gains the blessings of one mountain day; whatever his fate, long life, short life, stormy or calm, he is rich forever.”

Muir, John. John Muir: Nature Writings (LOA #92): The Story of My Boyhood and Youth / My First Summer in the Sierra / The Mountains of California / Stickeen / essays (Library of America) Library of America. Kindle Edition.

Sea change

“One more chapter!”

“Ok, but then it’s really time to go.”

This is an exchange that could (has) happened between almost any two people in my family (in all versions of family you’d like to consider). (When I say it what I usually actually mean is that we’re not leaving until I’ve finished my book.) Adam and I have long had vacations that consisted of beautiful locations, museums, snorkeling and bevies of books. On our honeymoon I read 11 books – and that was only because I didn’t have room to bring more. When we went to Istanbul, we saw Hagia Sofia. We walked the walls of the Fortress of Europe. We watched night fall over the Bosporous… but a favorite memory for both of us was the morning we went to a little cafe, drank them entirely out of orange juice and both of us finished entire novels. (Mine was Guy Gabriel Kay – great vacation reading!)

Ten years ago at just about this time, I was on this self same island of Cozumel for a week. All my daiquiris were virgin that trip since I was pregnant with the firstborn child who was – would become – Grey. I took refuge in the buoyancy of the water. And we read. A lot. But since then, our reading vacations have been stolen moments (pretty much all during Camp Gramp week). Sure we might sneak in a paltry four or five books on a vacation, but nothing like the epic conquests of yore. Children – especially young children – require slightly more attention it turns out.

When an unexpected opportunity arose for us to go back to Cozumel this April vacation week, I grabbed it with both hands. We returned to the same excellent resort (Presidente Intercontinental, if you’re curious) that we went to last year. A huge part of that was that the kids had loved Keri, who ran the kids club. They happily got dropped off with her after breakfast and picked up sometime in the afternoon. This left Adam and I ample time to follow our true desires: snorkeling, time together, and reading entire novels in one sitting on the beach. SIGN ME UP FOR MORE! We still had plenty of time for adventures and time together, but the surcease from bored children was delightful (and they enjoyed it!)

This time, though, they’ve only spent a few hours there. The only thing nearly as fun as snorkeling along the reefs with my beloved – pointing out the octopus and lionfish and barracuda – is snorkeling along the reefs with my beloveds. Grey has become a fine swimmer and can almost dive with the snorkel. Thane – indomitable Thane – arrived barely swimming and has improved by leaps and bounds since. He insists on swimming (even though he really can’t) and calmly keeps paddling even as the waters close in over his head. He’s unflappable. Add a life vest, and he was perfectly content to come snorkeling with us – even letting go of my hand to go investigate some interesting formation. How much more fun things are when I can do them with my children and yet find them fun for me!!

Then, yesterday, my life changed forever. I think that may not be an understatement.

Thane is in Kindergarten. He has a gift of great focus. He always has – he could do a hundred piece puzzle at three through sheer determination and patience. (Certainly not through optimal strategic choices, assuredly.) The door to reading has finally opened to him. He has many needed words by sight and strong phonetic skills. He still struggles to blow past words he doesn’t know, but he has three of us standing by to tell him that e-n-o-u-g-h is enough.

“Mom” he asked. “Did you bring me any chapter books?” I handed him “A Horse and His Boy”. He gamely worked his way through the first pages. “Mom, do you have anything easier?” Well, no I didn’t. But what I did have is the wonder of technology. I LOVE my Kindle, in part because it means I don’t have to pack an entire suitcase of books. (Yes. We did regularly bring a suitcase for the books and board games.) I just got a new Kindle (backlit, with 3G downloads so I don’t need wifi to buy the next book in the series) but I brought my old Kindle with me in case. In case of what I’m not sure, but in case.

I downloaded Books 1 – 4 of the Magic Treehouse and handed it to him, showing him how to turn the pages. We went to breakfast. And an hour later, he was begging for more time. He’s plowed his way through the first three and a half books (as well as a non-fiction book on Jupiter his dad bought him.) We all sat – at breakfast, in front of the pool, in the beach chairs, at dinner – all reading our books together. It was GLORIOUS. The world has opened up before us, of the quietest and most profound adventures.

Then, as though my heart was not already filled to brimming, my eldest. My beloved. That child I carried with me as a promise ten years ago… started reading Narnia. I read him the first few chapters of “The Horse and His Boy”. (Personally, I think “The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe” is one of the weaker Narnia books. And “The Horse and His Boy” stands alone best of the rest of them.) He finished. And asked for more. Yesterday he read “Prince Caspian”. Today “The Lion , The Witch and the Wardrobe”. At dinner he downloaded and started “The Voyage of the Dawn Treader”.

There once was a boy named Eustace Clarence Scrubb, and he almost deserved it.

Those books were my gateway to this wondrous world, my friends. They initiated me in the arts of the fantastical. I remember the realization crashing on me that ASLAN was like JESUS. (How much more precious is an allegory when discovered by a reader instead of explained!) It was a short hop for me from Lewis to his dear friend Tolkien. And that’s a world my imagination has never fully left behind.

This marks, I think, the beginning of a new phase of my life. I have long left behind parenting babies. My feet are crossing over from parenting young children (that stage where your greatest wonder is how the heck you’re going to keep them entertained so you can do things). I enter through the doors of parenting all elementary children. Already I can sleep in. Already they dress themselves. Grey puts on his own sunscreen – hallelujah. And now, my sons will begin to go on the greatest adventures between the pages of books. Some they will share with me. Others they will venture on alone. But their journeys have begun.

Four Flynns in a tent

It’s a great question why any of us choose to have children, in this age. We don’t need them for their labor. We no longer expect children to provide for parents in old age. We aren’t allowed to use them for spare organ parts. Kids are tremendously expensive, and an iffy proposition since it turns out their eventual success is much more about their efforts than ours. Having kids comes along with a burden of bearing others’ judgements, not sleeping in, cleaning up vomit, worrying and making excellent meals that no one will eat. And yet we continue to have children.

If I thought about why I wanted to have children, other than just seeming like the thing I ought to do, I think I wanted children so that someone else would get to enjoy childhood as much as I did. I thought back the the joys of my youth and wanted to offer them to someone else.

I remember in particular one car trip we took as a family. (My family practically grew up in a car.) My brother was a nascent reader – maybe four or five. My sister and I – eight and six years older – were already well versed in reading. On this particular day we drove through the rolling desert hills of Eastern Washington and told my brother about all the books we were jealous that he’d get to read for the first time: Mrs. Buncle’s Book, The Lord of the Rings, Shakespeare. My entire family breathed a deep sigh of relief when my brother finally picked up books and started reading along with the rest of us. We spent our vacations with book bags larger than our clothing bags. I married a man with the same predilections.

But the last decade or so has been somewhat lacking in the reading department. We’ve had a non-reader as part of our family for the last eight and a half years. Until now.

Last night, we sat around the fire on an incredibly buggy night on the shores of White Lake. (Ask me about how I and my phobia survived my first ever tick bite!) Adam was reading some book of Cthulu horror on his Kindle. I had managed to lure Grey into reading “My Side of the Mountain”. Ah – is there anything sweeter than watching your child devour a book you had loved as a child? He was deep into it, head dancing with dreams of living off the land, just as I did. And Thane was doggedly working his way through beginner books. He read “Are You My Mother” and “Put Me In the Zoo” and slogged his way through a Pokemon book. For an hour or so the four of us sat around the campfire swatting mosquitos and reading.

The joys of slightly older children did not stop there, though. Finally chased into the tent by the ravening hordes of starving, blood-sucking insects, we broke out a board game. On the tent of the floor, we played through an oddly cooperative round of Carcassonne – an actual game that Adam and I play for fun. Thane played a tough game, and Grey actually won. Then we read some more before bed. Thane tired before he finished his book, and I woke up to the sound of him slogging his way through it in the morning light (at a reasonable hour).

This Memorial Day camping trip was wet, but dryer than last year. It was cool, but warmer than last year. (Actually, Friday night was one of the best night’s sleep I’ve had in a long time.) It was irredeemably buggy. But it felt like the dawning of a new age, with the company of these cool kids who like to build forts, imagine themselves as outdoorsmen and sing old folk tunes in front of the fire. They can open the zipper to the tent, go to the bathroom by themselves and be safely out of my sight.

In the buggy, moist air above the loons of White Lake I had that moment of joyful realization: this is why I had children.

You can see all my pictures for May, including video of Thane reading, by clicking here!

Thane turns five

Last night I went into a darkened room, as I do pretty much every night I am home, and I kissed a pair of boys good night. I climbed under Grey’s bed to the inviting cubby where Thane has been sleeping since Tiberius took over Thane’s room as a sick-room. In that darkened corner was my four year old (for another five minutes), his hands clasped as though in prayer, lying with an already beloved birthday book next to him. I kissed his forehead. He still sounds like a baby when he sleeps.

Camera “hide and seek” with Thane during apple picking

But that’s all the baby there is left to Thane. As he comes into his fifth year, he comes into his own. Thane has a tremendous sense of purpose and drive, and a deep commitment to his beliefs and ideals. This was somewhat… trying… this year as his beliefs and ideals often included things like “Not going to school” or “Making sure you heard him about what he thinks he smelled in the middle of church” (hint: it’s never good). I have consoled myself through some of his more adamant moments by reminding myself that some traits that are very difficult to parent at four are pretty awesome in an astronaut or CEO or Nobel-winning-scientist-who-is-too-stubborn-to-give-up.

Thane’s favorite time is tickle and snuggle time.

Thane’s personality becomes increasingly clear. His greatest gift is this remarkable spatial/color reasoning. He still loves to do puzzles (he tops out around 100 pieces because he has no strategy) and create symmetrical creations with shapes on our kitchen wall. However, now that he can force his fingers to obey his will better (he’s been frustrated by their lack of obedience for years) he’s really stepped up his game with Legos. For his birthday, I got him a Lego set rated for 8 – 12. I kind of figured his brother would help him. Instead, Thane did the Entire. Thing. By. Himself. I helped him find like two pieces he lost, and put on a few of the stickers.

His smile cheers me up every time I see it.

Thane is very innovative in how he puts his Legos together. He tends to develop more three dimensional creations than his brother. He does love minifigs best, and will often assemble armies of 20 – 30. His preschooler hands undo his work nearly as often as they finish it, but he persists until he matches his mind’s creation. Just for the record, Thane’s drawings and artwork are pretty normal – he seems pretty uninterested in drawing/coloring in general.

When not engaged in feats of spacial reasoning, Thane loves rough-and tumble play. His favorite thing in the whole world is “tickle and snuggle time in Mom and Dad’s bed”. He simply cannot get enough rough-housing, which would be more fun if his head couldn’t be categorized as a deadly weapon. He loves physical play. He’s been doing soccer for the last few weeks, and has done pretty well. With the advantage of a younger brother, he’s gotten to attend a few of his brother’s practices and last week actually did the entire practice with his fellow-four-year-old-younger-brother-friend.

The future’s so bright – he’s gotta wear SHADES!

Lately, Thane has been working very hard on learning to read. He has phonics down (except for period confusion between “b” and “d” – which come on, that’s hard.) His patience and diligence when he decides he’s going to read is astonishing. Just don’t let him corner you for “Hop on Pop” because that takes nearly an hour.

Thane loves Skylanders, even though he never plays – he watches his brother. He still loves Scooby Doo. He loves Digimon. He wants to be read stories about super heroes. He sings songs and makes up new words – and they’re often pretty good ones! He is constantly frenetic, and it is hard to get him to sit still for – say – dinner. But when he gets his focus on, he can sit quietly for an hour. He leads off practically every statement with “Guess what” and is desperate to get his points across. Sometimes he will insistently ask a question three times or four times, but fail to listen to all three answers. He can go across all the rings in the playground, hand over hand. He sleeps with his Puppy, worships his brother, and is 45.5 inches tall (91st percentile). Thane bounces when he walks.

Thane still holds my hold.

Happy fifth birthday, my beloved son.

You can see an album of our family adventures in October here, including a video of Thane reading.

If you want more Thane, here’s an album I’ve put together of some of his highlights this year!

Stages of life, as marked with bookmarks

Sample bookmark: googling "Brenda Ardent One" didn't work out so well. — Sample bookmark: googling “Brenda Ardent One” didn’t work out so well. Represents the 6th grader’s bookmark

Baby: No bookmark. “The Monster at the End of This Book” does not require a bookmark
Beginning reader: Still no bookmarks. If interrupted, place picture book face down to preserve location. Use as roller skate when you re-enter the room.
Grade schooler: Dog ear the pages of “The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe”. Go to furthest page dog-eared, since every second page is so marked.
6th grader: Use pink name-derivation bookmark your grandma gave you at Christmas, since your sister has threatened to dismember you if she ever catches you dog-earing her copy of “Watership Down” ever again.
9th grader: Intricately designed bookmark made with a black BIC pen, lined paper and tape… and the extra time granted to you by your American History class.

This masterpiece now lives in my Bible, along with many of my other nice bookmarks.

College student: Erudite Shakespearean quotes on reading and philosophy that you got out of Bartlett’s Quotations, spent hours looking for the perfect celtic clip-art for, and printed on resume paper.

I thought I might find this in the Yale Shakespeare, but instead I found it in the Rodale Book of Composting. Go figure.

Young Adult: Proper bookmark with nice but inobtrusive artwork that sits right by your bed for your regular use.

I picked this one up in Venice shortly before Grey came along

Parent of an infant: No bookmark. “The Monster at the End of This Book” does not require a bookmark.
Parent of young children (son edition) Pokemon or Bakugan cards

It burns my precious! Obviously this is my current stage of life.

Parent of kids Magic the Gathering cards (common)
Parent of college student $6 bookmark with logo of child’s school that you are paying $50,000 a year for. You paid for said bookmark at college bookstore while dropping child off.
Empty-nester Limited edition signed artistic bookmarks created by the artist whose work you’ve been following lately.
Grandparent Laminated picture of your grandkids being cute. And/or cats.

Needless to say, I am at the Pokemon bookmark phase of life. I will confess to harboring the suspicion that it demeans whatever book I am reading. (Tolkien right now.)

What bookmark phases am I missing? Which phase are you in right now? What bookmark is in the book you’re reading right now? What’s your favorite ever bookmark?

Best. Night. Ever.

My husband is testing for his next kyu in aikido. This means that we pretty much won’t see each other again until Friday — at least not before 9ish.

I was thinking about the library this weekend, after my son’s foray into chapter books and avowed interest in obtaining the second in “The Magic Treehouse” series. The library is like 3 blocks from our house. It has a pretty good children’s section. I went quite a bit while I was on maternity leave. But then over the summer they stop their Saturday hours… meaning that it’s really hard for those of us to work to go. And my Saturdays are so crazy anyway that it’s been quite a while since we went. But…. Monday they’re open late.

I put together absent husband, late library night and new reader, and came up with awesome.

On the way to the library, I kept giving my son clues about where we were going. “Do the have pizza there?” “Is it really really far away?” “What about sandwiches?” He guessed it as we turned left instead of right. Then we all three tromped up the front ramp. I kept slipping up and saying he was going for Magic Schoolbus books when any idiot knows he was going for Magic Trreehouse. Duh, mom. Then as we went in, HE said “Magic Schoolbus”. I busted him on it, and he burst out laughing, “Now you have me doing it too!”

I left Grey in front of the early readers while Thane and I went to the picture book room. Thane announced his intention, shocking as it was, to get books about Dinosaurs. Aren’t you surprised? I grabbed random dinosaury books from the shelves, creating a stack of paleontological masterpieces. When I found Grey, he had the next two Magic TREEHOUSE books and the next Stinky the Shrinking Kid book. (Which really IS too advanced for him, but he likes to read the comic parts.) We checked out.

What I hope will become a familiar image

“Mom, I have a GREAT idea. Let’s order PIZZA and have chocolate milk and turn on ROCK STAR music and read our books!”

That, child is a fantastic idea.

So we did. Ok, ok…. most people don’t consider Das Rheingold Rock Star music but they are WRONG. And we ate pizza and mozzarella sticks and I read Thane every single one of his books twice and Grey flipped from one book to another, not sure which he wanted to read first! (How well I remember that conundrum of my childhood! Which library book to read first! The entire cargo space of the minivan used to be completely filled up with books…)

Awesome.

The awesome night in action

More pictures, including my mom’s visit

To be a lover of books

What gifts and passions do we hope our children have? If we were fairies at a christening, what would we bestow? I’m coming to understand that the answer isn’t the same for all parents, that the “of course” attributes that I value are not the same ones other parents do. That’s part of what makes us so wondrously different. For me, there are some key attributes. Kindness. Integrity. Courage. Joyfulness.

But then there are the other things, the ones that I secretly really hope for, but know it’s not fair to expect. Love of music. The willingness to sing in public. Caring about what’s fun more than what’s cool. A love of nature. A disdain for hurting others. Stopping to watch the ants. Memorizing poetry for fun. And, critically, a love of books.

For that last one, at least, my parenting hopes look like they’re on track.

Last night, Grey requested the opportunity to read Thane on of his bedtime books. He selected his favorite from his room: Luke Skywalker’s Amazing Story. Starting with the title page, he read through it. He read about droids, and the Force, and Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru, and Obi-Wan Kenobi and “rebel leaders”. Of course, many of the hardest words he’d remembered from other circumstances. Let’s be honest, Obi-Wan Kenobi is a bit tough to guess phonetically. But he pronounced “Aunt Beru” differently than I did. He corrected himself when he misread a word. He paused and analyzed some of the hard words. He read with inflection and meaning, and understood the words as he read them. And I sat there, hiding tears, amazed to learn (spoiler alert) that Luke Skywalker’s father was Darth Vader! You could see the effort he put in — he actually got tired towards the end and started making mistakes out of the fatigue of his effort. But that by itself points to the reality. My son is reading! He’s a reader! He loves it! He does it out of joy! I can almost see the doors of a vast new world opening to him, whether he sees it or not.

Now let us speak of my youngest. About a year ago, Thane went into a book stage. It was one of his first words. He showed unusual focus for a small child on listening to the stories. But, probably not coincidentally, around the time he started getting the ear infections, his love was transferred over to cars. Vroom! Clearly we continued reading to him at night and sometimes in between, but it was no longer “his thing”. Then, a few weeks ago, it all changed. Thane is having a passionate love affair with books. Specifically, books that you are reading to him. And woe betide all moments not happily consumed in book-ishness. Today was a tight morning, schedule-wise, so we ONLY read him about 5 books before breakfast.

This would be a happier thing if Thane wasn’t quite SO upset between readings. He regularly throws epic, grand-mal tantrums with 15 minutes of loud, disconsolate weeping, arching of back, and pounding of hands because you have cruelly and viciously REFUSED to read him a fourth book! Look! He has it right here! “Don’t Let The Pigeon Drive the Bus”! If he says “happy” enough times, surely you’ll understand and read it!?!? (NOTE: Books are identified by their loudest phrase. So “10 Minutes to Bedtime” is identified with “Bedtime”. In one of the Pigeon books, the Pigeon says he is “Happy, Happy HAAAPPPPPYYY!!!!” therefore all Pigeon books are “happy”. There’s a certain irony as he, tears streaming from his eyes, holds up the book and urgently says through his weeping “Happy! Happy!”) If you do not immediately oblige, the bitter crying starts. Last night when I was rapt listening to my eldest read a book, I was bouncing on my right leg a disconsolate Thane who kept bringing me different books in the fond hope that I’d finally read one to him, as he screamed and howled his disappointment.

This is, of course, a stage. You can’t multi-task and read “How Do Dinosaurs Eat Their Dinner”. I’m pretty sure that’s the point. Thane has figured out how to get whole and undivided attention from the people he loves: grab a book and plop your little diapered butt in their laps. Works every time. And of course, he really does love the books. Grey loved the alphabet at that age. He actually knew it all by 18 months. Thane? He loves the reading, specifically the one-on-one time with his parents. I don’t begrudge him, even as much as sometimes it would be nice to have him sated by, oh, three or four books.

One of the memorable moments of my shared childhood experience was a car trip where my parents and siblings and I talked about all the books that the younger of us had not read and the jealousy of the elders that they would be so fortunate as to experience them for the first time. My sons’ feet are on that road. Oh, what stories await!