stinky tuscadero

Warts and all

Room on the Broom (2003), by Julia Donaldson. Illustrated by Axel Scheffler.

Managed to get through this one last night with relatively little fidgeting. Persisted more for the benefit of mum and da-da, who got the giggles imagining a dragon salivating at the thought of eating "witch 'n' chips" (guffaw).

Libby allowed us our fun mostly out of fascination with the witch's magic wand, which -- amazingly -- looks a whole lot like the one (straw, construction paper and glitter) that she made at daycare a few weeks ago. 

Oh it's a nice story about sharing and friendship, and the witch may have a big ol' wart on her nose, but she's actually very sweet.  And there's rhyming.  And of course the "witch 'n' chips" reference (guffaw). 

Oh, and Donaldson and Scheffler are also responsible for The Snail and the Whale, another favourite in this house. 

Through the Bathroom Window

Ah ... and good ol' Robert Munsch draws her in with his classic tale of toddler communication gone wrong:  I Have To Go!

No nap? Tired and cranky? No worries.

We have snowsuits.  We have a car. We have grandparents.

And we have pee. 

Da-da said "she's such a boy" because she loves Everyone Poops by Taro Gomi too.  Really? Is that a boy thing?  Aren't we being a little ... erm ... gender-specific, or whatever?  She may have a pair of pink, flowery pyjamas but she also plays with a Tonka (TM) truck. 

Can't a Tender Sweet Young Thing partake in a little enjoyable bathroom humour once in a while?

One gorilla, two gorilla, three gorilla, four

One Gorilla, by Atsuko Morozumi (1990)

I love One Gorilla by Atsuko Morozumi.  Love it.  Do you hear me? Love. It.

We bought it pre-Libby, at our local independent bookstore.  (Aside:  I do prefer to buy books at the independent bookstore, except when it's the guy with the weird bowl cut and the attitude problem -- in which case, I'd really rather just order online from Amazon, which generally charges less and doesn't make me pay for shipping if I spend over $30.  I'm torn.)  We were looking for a book for a friend's kid, stumbled across One Gorilla and had to own it. 

So as you can imagine, I was tickled when Libby pulled it off the (real, paper-not-board-book) shelf this evening.  My girl has taste!  I thought.  Da-da pointed out that she was continuing to pull books off the shelf, and that in fact she was probably more interested in making a mess than listening to a story, especially considering she didn't nap at daycare this afternoon. I ignored him.

Okay, so the reason I love this book is that it's absurd and sweet at the same time.  Take page one:

Here is a list of things I love.
One gorilla.

Sweet!  Things I love!

And then it's your basic counting book: one gorilla, two butterflies ... ten cats: you get the picture.  Except the gorilla?  Is on every page.  Like this:

Eight fish in the sea
and one gorilla.

The illustrations are beautiful, but on top of that you get to count the cats or whatever -- and they're not necessarily easy to find:  they're off in the garden doing cat-ish things, like hanging out with the garden gnome.  And the gorilla is always there, but doing his (or her) own thing too, like climbing a tree or walking around in the snow, totally ignoring all the counting.

Yeah, so Libby -- as it turned out -- had a hard time focusing on a new story. And I had to keep pulling the book away from her because I didn't want her to wreck it.  And I'm going to have to make a decision about the budgerigar situation on page five.  I usually try to change the words in stories to words I know she'll understand and/or learn for future use.  Under normal circumstances I would replace "budgerigar" with ... oh, say "bird",  But I'm drawn to this strange and wonderful word that rolls off my tongue, and ... and ... this will take some thinking.

Aside from the budgerigar (say it outloud!) situation, Libby recognizes all the animals in the book.  Or ... I have to assume she will, because we didn't make it past the butterflies.  And the gorilla, once I explained that it was like a monkey.

That was when she threw up her hands and slid off my lap to go get a board book for Da-da to read.  So ... let's just pretend that didn't happen.

Oh, and there's a banana peel on the title page.  See?

Hear ye, hear ye

This is it.  We're making the move.  I've had enough of the board books.  We're diving into the good stuff as of ... now.

I mean, she's clearly ready.

Aside from the interest in books for grown-ups (When she brings them to me, I totally read them to her from page one.  Just to see how long she'll listen. Not very long, apparently.), she's got the ... the ... fine motor skills, I suppose ... that allow her to be gentle with pages made from paper (much more difficult than being gentle with The Cat, I understand).

She's definitely got the comprehension skills.  Last night, Da-da told her that they could put money in her piggy bank today.  First thing she remembered when she woke up this morning.  I've written about her pre-potty trained comprehension of toilet skillz elsewhere.  She recognizes her grandparents' neighbourhood from blocks away.  And she likes hearing stories about herself.  I'd say that'll do it, though of course I'm definitely no expert.

I'm a leeeeetle bit concerned that she may not have the attention span for certain stories, but I'm willing to give it a shot.

In fact, I'm SO game to try this.  You have no idea.  Love Boynton and the rest, but I figure you know you're in trouble if you don't need to read the words anymore because they seem to have been written on the backs of your eyelids with a red-hot poker.

Anyway, did board books even exist in 1972?  I'm pretty sure I was reading the real deal back then.  Or having them read to me, I suppose.  And the world didn't come to an end.

Next stop:  um ... wait and see.  I have a whole new bookshelf of options in my future.

Status report

Books being read in the Stinky Tuscadero household: the same books we were reading before

Number of actual storybooks (with pages made of paper, not cardboard) being read: zero

Number of board books on the shelf: 33

Number of books in reading circulation: 3-5

<sigh ... >

In other news, we seem to have hit a milestone. 

I think ... I think Libby reads her books along with us now.  Okay, so she doesn't read them; she's not reading the words.  But she's experiencing them from a different perspective:  as the read-er, you could say -- rather than the read-ee. Or maybe the story-teller rather than the ... the ... you get the picture, right?

The evidence:

• When David has a stinky diaper, she pats her own bum.
• When we lift the baby's shirt, she lifts her own shirt to show us her bellybutton.  When we lift the flap on the baby's shoes, she touches her own feet.  And my feet.  And will walk across the room to touch Da-da's feet, if he's around.
• She stomps her feet and claps her hands before we've even started reading Barnyard Dance.
• She waves bye-bye and pantomimes a big sneeze (Ah-choo!) before the fairies do the same.

She's doing the same thing when it comes to telling stories rather than reading them. Like the time we went to the shoe store and Libby was--

-- Wait, let me show you:

Libby: (pats head with hand)

Mum: Yeah! You hit your head when we went to the shoe store!

Libby: (nods and grins)

Mum: You were pulling the shelf! And the boot! The shoe! Fell on top of your head!

Libby: (cackles)

Or last week, when Da-da was away for work and Libby would -- multiple times per day, I tell you -- ask about him.  Here, like this:

Libby: Da-da?

Mum: Da-da's not here! He went away! And he'll come home soon!

Libby: (waves bye-bye)

Mum: Yeah! Da-da went bye-bye! And we waved bye-bye to him!

Libby: (blows kiss)

Mum: Yes! We kissed Da-da goodbye!

Libby: Da-da!

Mum: Da-da's not here! He went away! 

And so on.  And so on.  And so on. (And yes, I do use multiple exclamation marks when I talk to her about stuff like this. Why do you ask?)

My kid: the next Robert Munsch. But cuter.

Genius, I tell you.  (Ahem.)

End report.  As you were.

Funny bunny

Bing: Go Picnic (2005) By Ted Dewan. 

Dear Mortimer's Mom,

Holy crap. You were so right! 

I have no explanation for it, but Libby LOVES the Bing book. I hadn't really tried reading it to her until this week because it seemed like it might be too advanced. 

And weird. Yes, weird. This book is weird!

And also ... kinda' rockin'.

Okay, so Bing and Flop are friends? And Flop is definitely a stuffed rabbit. But Bing is ... what? Looks like a stuffed rabbit to me! It's like ... it's like Goofy's hanging out with Pluto, or something. 

It's not a rhyming book. Except ... except the part where it rhymes in a really cool way -- like when they're finally ready to go picnic! but it's raining, and Flop says:

Never mind, Bing. It's no big thing. 

Or the very last line:

Go picnic.  It's a Bing Thing.

(I'll be saying that for the rest of my life, by the way. I want to stage a picnic with Libby so that I can say it all day.)

And of course Libby shakes her head appropriately when they're discussing where they should have the picnic: 

In the square?  No ... too much dog poo!

Heh.  (The subject of poo is very timely right now. Stay tuned.)

I do find myself, er, "translating" some of the UK-isms so that she doesn't get confused.  ("Biscuits"?  Cookies.  "Pants"?  Those are undies, dude!)  That's cool, though.  I don't mind.

Seriously, MM.  Inside the front cover Dumpling wrote: "Dear Libby, If you are anything like me, you will pester your parents to read you this book 1000 times before you are three". Mission accomplished. 

I don't know whether to thank you or just throw dog poo at you.

*                    *                *

To read more about Bing, check out http://www.bingbunny.com.  He was apparently the 2004 winner of the Publisher's Choice Award.  Bunny's got style!

Details. Do tell!

The other day, as I watched Libby stuff her face with an almond butter and honey sandwich, I tried to identify the colour of her t-shirt. 

(You do that too, right?  Make up activities for yourself when there's nothing to do but watch your kid eat, because the dishes are all clean and the counters are all wiped and yet you can't leave because they might fall out of the highchair and bash their head open?)

It was a purple t-shirt.  No --  mauve.  Maybe lavender.  That was my train of thought.

And then I was hit with a full-on body memory from a book I once read. 

It was ... there was something lavender.  It was a ... a ... dress.  No ... it was ... possibly a piece of cloth that was going to be a dress.  But maybe not the main character's dress, though she coveted the fabric.  Maybe she had to save money to buy the lavender dress. 

Anyway, when I read the book I'd never heard of 'lavender' before.  There was a description that left me with the sense of a magical colour that could turn from purple to blue and then back to purple again. I was intrigued. 

I have no idea which book it was. 

(This is where modern technology fails to meet my needs.  Or possibly where modern technology has messed with my head.  I can't help but feel like I should be able to scan all my childhood books -- while they're on the shelf, I mean, click "search" and find what I'm looking for.  Instantly. 

Or -- alternatively -- type "lavender fabric book" into Google. 

Doesn't work that way, though, does it?)

And that's not the only one rattling around my brain. 

How 'bout that book where the main character invites her friend over for a sleepover and makes plans to run out to the supermarket and buy -- ooooooh -- an avocado?  An avocado!  (You may be wondering if it's Jean and Johnny (1959), by Beverly Cleary.  Nope. Already checked.  Three times.)

How 'bout that book where the main character's mother insists that she wear a skirt -- not "slacks" -- out to some fancy shindig, and then the main character storms off to her bedroom saying, "I'll show her.  I'll wear a dress!"  Hee!  I don't get it.  (Don't go digging out your old Donna Parker books (1957-1964).  That's not it.  Again, I looked:  Donna Parker at Camp Cherrydale, Donna Parker On Her Own, Donna Parker Goes To Hollywood ... nada.)

And was it Little Women's (Louisa May Alcott) Amy who got into trouble for eating pickled lemons at school?  It was, wasn't it?  I can't find my copy.  Go check for me.  (And what exactly are pickled lemons, anyway? I'm intrigued.  And salivating.)

I'm serious.  I'll be pondering these details long after the rest of the world has dismissed me as an obsessive freak.  It took me months, pre-Internet, to remember the name of Mork's weird sidekick in the monk's robes -- you know, the guy who was always talking to invisible people?  And oh, was it ever satisfying when I figured it out.  (Exidor.  Oh you know you wanted to know!)

Makes you wonder what kind of bizarre, bookish behaviour I'll be passing on to Libby, doesn't it? 

Oh you can't tell me you don't know what I'm talking about.  Go on, tell me about the bookish details that haunt you from your tween years or earlier.  Spill.

Bothered and somewhat bewildered

We've been really busy 'round here, ever since Libby returned from her Toddler Seminar.  (I assume that's where she learned to grab me by the hand and yank me away from the computer every single time I sit down to check email. I can't get mad at her, because it's also where she learned to hug my knees while I do the dishes.)

In the meantime, check out The Harry Potter Post at Seen Reading.  It's brilliant.

Oh yeah, that's the other thing I'm busy doing.
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<Looks up from book>  You still here?  I've got nothin'!  I'm busy!  Didn't you catch the hint?  I'm also totally anxious because (i) my book just arrived from Amazon today, which means I'm way behind the rest of the world and I'm afraid of spoilers, (ii) I have no idea who Mundungus Fletcher is because I never got around to re-reading Book Six, and (iii) I have three other people breathing down my neck because they want to read my copy of the book.  Now go!  <pulls legs up onto the couch and under blanket and resumes reading>

Look! Shiny things!

Fairy Numbers (2006).  By Caroline Repchuck.  Illustrated by Rachael O'Neill.

This one gets my vote for the prettiest book on our 'board book' shelf.

Not the most exciting way to learn numbers, but check out the fairies' sparkles!  Ooooooh.  I like to touch them.  No, I'm serious.

For some reason, I imagine these fairies have great personalities.  There's the bitchy one and the ditsy one ... and I'll bet they totally have wicked fights behind the scenes.  I mean, look: 

"Four fairies race.  Three set the pace. (p. 7-8)"   

Why are three fairies zipping ahead of the fourth?  Why don't they wait for the fourth?  They're obviously walking too quickly.  She looks exhausted!  The sparkles of sweat are flying off her brow!

I keep forgetting what a pleasure it is to pull this one off the shelf.

I mean that with the utmost sincerity.

No, seriously.

Prairie, Little House on the

If You're Not from the Prairie (1993) by David Bouchard.  Illustrations by Henry Ripplinger.

On our visit to Winnipeg last week, O.'s mother reminded me -- over a plate of french toast -- that I begged them to drive me to see The Prairie on my last visit, in about 1992. She chuckled.  I guess it was kind of funny.  Funny-weird (to them).  A little bit funny-ha-ha too.

But come on!  There we were, on the actual prairie!  By 1992 I had seen forests and mountains and beaches and cities.  When do non-prairie folk ever get to see the prairie?  People don't go to the prairie for vacations unless they're visiting family.  Am I right? 

Show of hands, please: have you seen The Prairie?  Up close and personal?

I mean, even visiting Winnipeg -- last week or 15 years ago -- isn't the same as being 'out on the prairie'.  Winnipeg is a city.  Okay, a fairly flat city.  But a city. On the prairie, but different from the prairie.

The prairie has a huge spot in my imagination, and this book feeds into that.  Read this excerpt and tell me you're not intrigued:

If you're not from the prairie,

You don't know what's flat,

You've never seen flat (p.12).

I KNOW!  I've totally never seen 'flat'!   I've seen 'hilly' and 'mountainous' and 'beach', but not 'flat'.   

That's why I like this book so much.  It tries to explain 'flat' to me.  And 'cold'.  And 'snow'.  And 'wind'.  All of those things that - yeah, I'd say I know already.  But I'm willing to read about how it's different  -- and more extreme -- on the prairie.

I read this book to Da-da (and Libby, but it was too much for her and she wandered away to play with her dinosaur) and he said, "It sounds exciting!"  Yeah, it does.  Growing up on the prairie sounds exciting.  In a bone-chilling, staring at the sun through tree branches, getting caught in blizzards kind of way.

I know this book is too advanced for Libby.  And I know it's kind of a dumb souvenir of our trip to Winnipeg (during which we drank mango margaritas, ate falafel and walked around downtown).  But I bought it anyway.  Because I liked it, when I came across it at McNally Robinson on a search for Manitoba kid lit. And because it seems there's no market for kids' books about the Winnipeg Folk Festival or The Forks or ... I dunno, The Watchmen.  Pity.