Warm Sleeves and Impenetrable Hair

One of the funnest things in parenthood is the way the whole world becomes revealed to you through the eyes of your kids. You get to examine everything in new ways, think about things from different perspectives, when you really listen to what they say, to the questions they ask and the observations they make. Even to the words they use. I remember when Mackenzie was very young, he would ask me to "unpeel" a banana for him. It makes perfect sense - you get "undressed" when you take your clothes off, why then wouldn't "unpeeling" a banana mean removing the peel? He would also turn "upside-up" after being "upside-down".

Both of the kids are older now, the cute phrases of toddler hood are mostly far behind us, but they still occasionally surprise me with funny sayings that make me smile. This week I overheard one of them telling the other that it was cold outside and they needed to find a "warm-sleeved shirt". Mackenzie still says "orderwise" instead of "otherwise" some of the time. And he exclaimed in dismay that his hair was an "impenetrable fortress" when trying to shampoo it (I tend to agree - this kid has the thickest hair in existance. He can dunk himself completely underwater and it's still dry five layers down, like some kind of retriever dog bred for cold waters).

I know when the last of childhood's insightful and engaging speech patterns is gone, I'll be just a bit sad. I still can recall the day that Asa first called Mackenzie by his real name. Prior to that (and to all of our befuddlement) she had chosen to call him "Geegaw". I think a tear slipped out of my eye when her toddler voice first said the name "Mackenzie". Then again, I still call my sister by my childhood knickname for her, so maybe there's some hope for a few remnants, at least for awhile.

Burning Questions and their Interesting Answers

To pass the time on our recent "over the river and through the woods, to grandmother's house we go" car trip, I thought of a game I called "Burning Questions". Basically, we just took turns asking each other whatever questions we really wanted the answers to. This could be personal: "what kind of animal would you be if you had one day to be an animal?" or general "Is there an end to the universe, or does it just go on and on forever?". As always, it is so fun to have a window inside my children's minds, to see the different ways they think about things.

When I asked Mackenzie if he could go back in history and talk to any one person, who would he visit and what would he talk with them about, he answered that he would go back in time and visit George Washington. The reason? To convince him not to kill a hippopotamus in order to use its ivory for his false teeth. And Asa stumped me with this one: "Why are barns usually painted red?" After talking about it for awhile, we concluded that it might be so that they would stand out visually in a snow blizzard, or perhaps that red was an inexpensive or easily-accessible color of paint for early farmers to use. As it turns out, we were partially right. According to Howstuffworks.com, European barns were traditionally painted with linseed oil, an easily-accessible sealant made from flaxseed oil that was dark golden in color. To this, they might add ferrous oxide, known to inhibit growth of mold and moss.

Our game eventually spiraled off into a discussion of whether or not other alien species would be likely to follow something like Star Trek's prime directive, and leave us alone down here on earth if they discovered us, but not before we discovered a lot more about each other. So the next time you hear "I'm bored" on a car trip, here's one more idea to pass the time.

Magic of the Garden

As my interest in photography has been rekindled by Flickr (it's kind of like having a non-stop photo gallery, show, art class, and coffee shop all at the same time), I've been turning my own attention to the magic of everyday things. Often in the morning or evenings I will prowl through the garden or woods, just looking with my photographer's eye. The kids have accompanied me, sometimes just one of them and sometimes both. It's become a wonderful time to spend together looking at things.

M. and I discovered these tiny spiders hatching on a sweatshirt in our laundry hanging outside. It's amazing how fully formed they are, and that they can spin perfect tiny webs, yet they are not much bigger than the head of a pin. I took this photo with my finger in it just for the size comparison. Within a few hours, all were gone from the sweatshirt, off to make new lives for themselves. As we just watched the new version of Charlotte's Web, we were reminded of the scene where Charlotte's babies all float away. We could imagine these spider's tiny voices as they walked around on my shirt.

On another morning, after a night's rain that left the garden smelling wonderfully green, Miss A. and I walked around looking at the raindrops on spider webs on the ground. I love how just the presence of a child can make you see the magic in things you might otherwise miss or take for granted. Since the weather has been unusually hot this week, the kids discovered mirages on the road. Ever since then, they practically shriek with excitement when they see them, and then there is the running mirage commentary "it's shrinking, it's shrinking, it's gone...". Something I haven't noticed for years is suddenly fantastic and wonderful when they get so excited about it.

Once again, I find myself amazed by the journey my kids are taking me on. They turn my eyes outward in new directions, or allow me to see old things in new ways. They see the magic of everyday things, and beauty everywhere.

It's A Rhetorical Answer

Here's a couple of my favorite quotes from the kids this week:

#1: We were riding in the car when my daughter made a statement about something we saw. As I often do, I asked her why she thought that. Her reply was "Mom, that was a rhetorical statement."

"What's a rhetorical statement?" I asked

"Wellll, a rhetorical question is a question that does not require an answer, right?"

"Yes."

"Sooooooo, a rhetorical statement is a statement that you don't need to question!"

Oh. Okay.

#2: It's been a rough couple of weeks on the kids since our beloved dog died, and we had a small memorial service for him this weekend with our friends. My son was seeming quiet and contemplative this evening and I asked him what was wrong. He said he was still thinking about our dog. He put it this way: "When an asteroid hits the surface of the moon, it's not the end of the moon. But it still makes a very big dent." I thought that was a great metaphor, since I've been feeling kind of dented this week as well.