Rambler #4: Poop Finally

You didn’t listen to my advice did you and now you’re in the heart of it. If you’ve only just started, you can still turn back. If you’ve purchased real underwear adorned with Lightning McQueen or My Little Pony and there’s no going back.

I’ll try to help you salvage what you can.

First, modern-day diapers can absorb a child’s full body weight in pee and poop. That’s right, their full body weight. You can note this when you buy diapers. In the bottom left corner of the packaging is a weight range, say 24-36 pounds. That’s 24-36 pounds of pee and poop that can be absorbed by one single diaper. And you just removed this space-age protection from the loins of your child. You will be appalled by the amount of what exits from your child.

Second, if you have a son, he will soon realize that he can, in fact, control the stream of urine. With reckless abandon, he will fire upon any object within range, be it furniture or sisters. He will not pee in the potty if at all possible.

Worse still results from the ill-advised notion that bathing two kids in the tub at once is a great idea — think of all the water you save. Remember the sleepover where the poor kid who first fell asleep got his fingers stuck in warm water and peed his pants? As soon as your son’s feet hit the warm bath water, his Gatling gun will release a withering assault on his sister’s head.

One small solace is that you will save water in flushing the toilet since no pee ever actually goes in. I haven’t done the research, but these cost savings may, actually, be offset by bulk-order purchases of disinfectant.

Finally, you will likely see progress early on, but you’ll pay a steep price. A real life experience of my own…. My son (age 3) jumps up and hollers, “I have to go peepee!” He disappears into the bathroom. He returns a minute later having completed a magic trick — all his clothes are gone. Handing his underwear over to my wife he directs, “Touch them, mommy.” My wife ignores the directive; instead, she provides the appropriate affirmation, praising his sphincter control. My son (still naked) gets more specific. “Touch them mommy,” he says. “Touch them right on the bottom. They’re a little bit wet.”

Yes, that’s what he said. “Touch them right on the bottom.” And yes, my wife touched them. This will be your penalty for disregarding my advice; you too will touch peed-on underwear and pretend to be excited by the fact that your kid started to pee his pants, stopped and made it to the bathroom.

Hopefully, this phenomenon will stop before high school.

Rambler #3: Arthur P. Rohr

My wife's grandfather is named Arthur P. Rohr. He is part of the Greatest Generation. I had another post scheduled for today (round 2 of poop), but scrapped it Saturday after doing some reading on D-Day. I felt since that I couldn't storm a beach surrounded by high cliffs infested with hundreds of machine gun nests, my life most likely snuffed out before I hit the water with 65 pounds of gear strapped on my back (or I'd quite possibly drown before getting to the beach), that reading a bit about the Great War was the least I could do. I'm quite the patriot.

Arthur was a tail gunner on a B-25 bomber during WWII. He flew missions over Italy and was shot down over Sicily during a bombing run. The last thing he remembers as the plane is going down is jumping up and down on the hatch; it was jammed and wouldn't open. So there he was, the plane going down in flames and he's jumping — up down up down. What could possibly be running through your mind in a situation like that? UPDOWNUPDOWN — that's all I'd be thinking.

The next thing Arthur remembers, he's on the ground.

He got the hatch open, somehow...

pulled his chute, somehow...

and landed, somehow....

He doesn't remember any of it.

Two of his crew died in the crash, two got captured by enemy soldiers. He shed his uniform and spent the next three weeks evading capture by hiding with sympathetic Sicileans (sorry, bad movie flashback here) in barns and houses before getting back to Allied-controlled territory.

Can you even imagine?

So on today, the day after the day after we remember D-Day, I remember Arthur P. Rohr. He's 87 and still going strong.

John Newbery Medal Winner Reviews

Next week, I'm starting a series of reviews on the winners of the John Newbery Medal [cue teacher mode]. Since 1922, the Newbery Medal has been awarded to an author whose book is considered to be the most distinguished contribution to American literature for children in that year [exit teacher mode]. 

A holistic review of the Newbery winners, I think, will offer much insight to the current state of children's literature as well as reveal publishing trends over the past near-century. Whether this project will reveal more about the publishing industry, the reader, the author or [yikes] myself, I don't know.

Naturally, I'll start these reviews with my favorite titles, the ones I own and whose pages are well-worn from dozens of readings. From there, I'll work my way to the titles yet unfamiliar. I'm rather excited about this adventure.

With 87 Newbery medals awarded to date, I'm in this for the long haul. I'll post one review a week and would be thrilled with suggestions for my next review once I work through the familiar ground.

Oh, and these posts will contain spoilers; so I'll preview the next week's review to give you time to either read it or skip the post until you have.

Next week: Winner of 1994 — The Giver, by Lois Lowry

Rambler #2: Poop

You know how they say, “write what you know.” Two quick thoughts. First, and un-original I confess, is who is they? Whoever they is (or are), they has quite the racket going. In any conversation, cite they and you gain the upper hand instantly.

Second, the topic of the day….poop. Write what you know. I have two kids under four. I know poop.

Malcolm Gladwell’s latest New York Times Bestseller is titled Outliers. According to Wikipedia, an “outlier is an observation that is numerically distant from the rest of the data,” like Mr. Gladwell’s hair.

In his book, Mr. Gladwell describes various sensations like the Beatles and Bill Gates — experts in their respective fields — as having spent at least 10,000 hours practicing whatever it is they are awesome at. This is the “10,000 Hour Rule.”

That's it, I thought, That's all it takes to become an expert? I pulled out a calculator and calendar and soon realized that I was, indeed, an expert parent! In fact, I was an expert parent nearly three times over with 30,000+ hours of parenting practice. 

According to Mr. Gladwell, it typically takes 10 years to achieve the label of “expert”. But I’m a parent 24 hours a day, so I achieved expert status in a little more than a year.

Remember, Mr. Gladwell’s book is on the New York Times Bestseller list. Anything in it can and should be accepted with full impunity. What solace; what comfort; what power I now have.

Back to poop. Well, potty training really, but having Poop in the title helps the seo. My eldest, my son, is potty training, nearly trained. They say this is a very important developmental phase in your child. As an expert, I have much to say; today will be a short intro.

Lesson #1 — Potty training (before you begin)

As your child approaches potty-training age, you will feel nervous excitement. By this time, you’ve changed upwards of 10,000 diapers, consequently making you a diaper-changing expert. You are tired. You are elated at the idea not having to extract your child from a mound of poop every morning.

Instead, you'd sit on the couch sipping your coffee and reading this blog while your child plays calmly on the floor. Suddenly, he stops his play, arises from the floor, walks into the bathroom and takes care of business. All the pee and poop goes in the toilet. He washes his hands and goes back to playing. You continue to sip your coffee and shower soft accolades on your child for being so mature.

This is a lie. It never happens. Let me be very clear, it never happens. Listen to the expert... it's a lie. 

I recommend a simpler (and sanity-saving course of action) — simply continue to change diapers… forever. Don't potty train... ever. Don’t do it. Listen to the expert....

Next — Lesson #2: Potty-training (what to do after you ignore my advice)

Quotation: Anne Lamott

"Seeing yourself in print is such an amazing concept: you can get so much attention without having to actually show up somewhere.... You don't have to dress up, for instance, and you can't hear them boo you right away."

Tuesday Tantrum: movie adaptations

Call me old fashioned; I hate movie adaptations of children’s books. I also hate universal statements.

I'm a big fan of telling a story with the best possible vehicle for that story; period. Some stories should be movies; some should be stage plays, some should be poetry, picture books or chapter books. But rarely, rarely, have I seen a story that works in multiple vehicles. The required metamorphoses is grossly magnified with children’s books because they are simple, linear and generally lacking the multi-layered complexity required for a feature film.

The movie adaptations of How the Grinch Stole Christmas and The Cat in the Hat are perfect examples of botched lobotomies intended to wring more dollars out of an already successful franchise. Shame on Dr. Seuss' widow, Audrey Geisel, for giving life to these atrocities, but good for her on closing the door to another Frankenstein. Following the premier of The Cat in the Hat, I believe she was overheard saying, “I hate Mike Meyers” along with some other very nasty things that will not be quoted here.

But why are they so bad? 

In addition to Dr. Seuss, take Jumanji, Zathura, Polar Express among others. The original printed book is not robust enough to support a feature-length movie. So the writers introduce sub-plots, extra characters and whatever else is needed. The result is a cobbled-together monstrosity that has become something other than what it was intended to be in the first place. 

And now, in holding with my anti-universal statement statement: I may, just maybe rescind my policy temporarily for Sendak’s live-action Where the Wild Things Are. 

The trailer looks phenomenal, but clearly includes numerous extra-curricular activities. The “extras” when Max is with the Wild Things don’t seem to bother me as much because of the fantastic world Max enters in to. My psyche seems to accept those elements more easily; what I see from the trailer doesn’t change my own imaginations of that world. However, I am terrified by what appears to be a concocted sub-plot of Max’s life in the real world, his mom, school and friends. I’m terrified because that sub-plot seems to hold a great deal of power and ability to totally transform the story into something that it shouldn’t be.

So maybe I’ll see it; maybe I won’t. Regardless, you should check out Terrible, Yellow Eyes, a wonderful tribute blog by Cory Godbey to celebrate Sendak's genius.

Rambler #1: The s.f.d.

“I hate writing, but I love having written.” This quotation is traditionally attributed to writer Dorothy Parker. Regardless the source, it’s true for me. I really, really hate writing. When I say writing, I don’t mean this post. This is like eating cotton candy — it takes little effort, leaves a cloying taste in your mouth and probably does nothing for you other than increase your blood sugar count.

By writing, I’m talking about communicating an honest observation of the world to your audience through a character in space and time. I’ve finished two picture book manuscripts recently and the finish, the having written, is euphoric.

Getting there is brutal.

I have no deadlines, no boss and for some reason the weather report for the next five minutes has become irresistibly important. My bladder is suddenly overactive and my desktop icons constantly need rearranging.

In the midst of these struggles, I’ve found a drinking buddy in writer Ann Lamott. Of all the writing books I’ve read (let’s pretend that number is in the dozens), Lamott’s Bird by Bird is perhaps the most honest acknowledgement of the doubts, weaknesses, and triumphs a writer faces.

Lamott acknowledges that the first draft will be utterly terrible, horrid to the point that no human being outside of oneself should ever read it. Lamott calls it the [expletive warning] shitty first draft and that's exactly what mine are. But that’s the point; no one reads them. The [censorship warning] s.f.d. is vitally important to step 2: revising. Eventually, the s.f.d. stops looking like the awkward kid whose birthday invite you avoid and more like the flaxen-haired, doe-eyed girl you chase around the playground.

Hopefully, my future editor was neither the awkward kid or the girl as that would be potentially embarrassing.