The Diamond in the Window

So It Was Tuesday Night at Our House...

Yeah, Tuesday night is usually pretty good. Here's a fun fact: neither of these was being read by a grownup in the house.
I'm thinking of doing a Tuesday night series, but then you'll know the real truth about us.

I Defy You: The Care Bears Challenge

We have been absent, far away on a family vacation that, in a surprise turn, included an interesting four-year-old gentleman and his charming seven-year-old sister, my nephew and niece.

It's always a bit astonishing to revisit ages your own children have left behind. It's vaguely familiar, though a bit different, of course, with different people. It's far more work than you can quite imagine doing anymore, if you're me.

And then there are the books.

The young gentleman was a forceful stubborn sort of person, and sometimes it was imperative to do what one could to bring him to a more restful, congenial state of mind. How I do this—for myself, as well as everyone else—is with books.

We went through Pinocchio, The Foot Book, and a host of others, while I craftily tried to make sure one book in particular always ended up on the bottom of the pile.

It couldn't last forever.

Eventually, he spotted it. And then, with large and adorable pleading eyes, he maintained "I really, really want to read this one." I'd learned (or at least I thought I'd learned) my lesson about sneering at sweet, benign children's books. How bad could it be?

This is how I ended up reading the Care Bears book.

Which Care Bears book? I have no idea. Mercifully the title has vanished from my memory. But the experience has not. It started with the fly leaf, on which each Care Bear is...defined? Described? Their tummy pictures are decoded. Their redundancies are not addressed (aren't Tenderheart Bear and Love-a-lot Bear essentially the same? Also Funshine Bear and Cheer Bear? They're the same!).

There were many questions: What's on Birthday Bear's tummy? (For those who need to know: a cupcake.) What is Grumpy Bear doing? (Uh, thinking? Maybe?) Which one is your favorite? (No comment.)

Then we began to read. And it was SO MUCH WORSE than thought it would be. The forcefully expressed Main Point: You must FEEL YOUR FEELINGS. The cloying action: Funshine Bear slid off a cloud and said....  The creepy rules of their kingdom: The Caretaker. I mean, WHAT is the Caretaker? Am I alone in thinking that sounds like the title of a Stephen King novel? Why and how does he control the bears? Branded forever on my poor old brain is this creepy page: The Caretaker took a break from polishing a rainbow and said, "Care Bears, you're needed!"

And now we have come to my sin: I read the whole book in the Voice. You know, the ironic can-you-believe-this-saccharine-crap voice. And I could. not. stop.

I really couldn't. I tried! Really. I would look at this very nice little boy, who, you know, believed in some essential way in this message, and I tried to go back to just reading aloud. But then I would get to "Sally said, 'Kevin, you have to FEEL your FEELINGS," and I would just start snarking away again. There seemed to be no other option.

So here's the challenge. YOU try it. You read a full-length, no joking around for real Care Bears book ALL THE WAY THROUGH. And YOU see if you can do it without using the nicey-nice sarcastic voice. I don't think it is humanly possible.*

There is one nice and yet disturbing thing: he didn't seem to notice. At all. Which makes me wonder: is it possible that they are written to be read in this tone? That it's all some kind of meta-scam? Maybe the ghost of Hunter S. Thompson is in there with a bottle of tequila and a shotgun turning these out?

No. Right?

* I am aware that a gratifying number of you are librarians, and no doubt you read this sort of thing snark-free every day. Which more or less means that I'm just a bad person. Alas.

And Moving on...

Here's something that makes no sense. 

Diana and Chestnut have literary tastes that are pretty far apart. Diana goes for fantasy, and has a real distaste for realism. Chestnut, on the other hand, is fond of stories of brave girls in history. These are broad characterizations, but accurate enough, for shorthand anyway. There is sometimes overlap, but it's never in accord, exactly. It's one person loving it, and the other person thinking it's OK.

Until this:

So...yeah, I have no idea how to explain this. The stories are good, sure. They're not for kids at all. They're not exactly realistic, but neither are they fantasy. They're just...odd, modern, Israeli short stories that somehow found their way to our coffee table and then into my childrens' hearts. (Ouch, sorry for that.)

And yes, the cover is upsetting. I know the cover is upsetting! But they seem entirely fine with it. They just both really liked the title story, and that's the end of it, nothing more to see here, ma'am.

But still, it strikes me as odd.

This is happening on other people's coffee tables, right? Maybe not with this book, but with something equally odd? 

Also? You might try it, it's pretty good.

Old School

It's June, which means (as far as I can tell) that schools have pretty much thrown in the towel. (With the exception, of course, of final projects and tests that dramatically affect your child's grade). The whole month is a salad of random half-days and days off, sending us, anyway, into a mad scramble, and giving rise to unexpected trips in an attempt to give structure-less days some structure.

Which is a long-winded way of explaining how we three ended up biking to the main branch of the public library, even though it looked like it was going to rain, and getting a bunch of books.

We are, of course, still in the doghouse as far as the library goes. I'm in the best shape (shocker), Diana was severely scolded and almost fined for the whole price of a book that had been in her canvas backpack and then gotten thoroughly rained on, though they did relent eventually after I abased myself. And Mr. Diamond (for want of a better moniker; "my husband" takes me inexorably back to Calgon commercials) is in BIG TROUBLE. As in, "He has to return that book. It's no good. And he has to talk to us about the status of his card." Eep.

But! It was still the library, in all its massive, zany, unpredictable glory. Books you wanted weren't there, but other mysterious books you hadn't known you wanted were. Teen books are in the adult section, girls with amazing blue claw-like fingernails were talking loudly in the children's section, Chestnut and I spent a good long time exploring 741.5, though it turned out what she wanted was this.

(Image form Comicrelated.com)

I don't think that's actually the one she found. All I know is that we were looking through all the stuff there, spending a good, long time with The New Yorker's Book of Cat Cartoons (magnifique!), I was looking for various things, and then I heard her tiny voice asking, "Do they have any Archies? I really like Archies."

It was the voice of honesty. I had an Archies paperback book in my room growing up. How it got there is a mystery to me (all my books seemed to come from mysterious sources. I have no memory of ever buying books, but they were there). But I read it, oh, maybe 6,000 times. Just over, and over, and over. But I don't know that I ever sought out another one, and I find it obscurely reassuring that she does so: she's found something she likes, so she is looking for more. It made me think that she is in some way well-equipped for the world.

And that what she wants is Archies? Well, it's just the truth of the situation.

It's so bizarre to me, the strange enduring power of Betty and Veronica. And yet, it is undeniable. 

So if there is a small-ish person in your life, give them a try. When you encounter a power like this, you sort of have to respect it, right?

Mr. Valentine, This Is the Other Place

We've talked about the Great Ones, those authors who have the amazing and magical ability to connect to children in books that are honest and beautiful and strange. This post is about...the Other Ones. Those authors who reach out and have a profound and deep connection with kids, but are (to adults anyway) terrible and make you want to weep and hide.

I've talked about them before. You know who I'm talking about. The Berenstain Bears. Strawberry Shortcake. And today's focus, which is (I hope) written more in stunned bemusement than in bitterness. Because I'm talking about Garfield.

Shudder.

What the heck is it? WHY do they love it so? I don't know. All I do know is: it's close to universal. This past summer one kid brought The Big Book of Garfield to our house for some reason, and soon all five kids present (various friends and siblings) were gathered under a blanket reading it out loud to each other. Which is sweet, it really is. And given that I don't have to read them myself (yes, they are an amazing boon to those having trouble reading), I really have nothing to complain about. But I do have the enduring mystery of it all to trouble my mind.

Why—why? It's not that they identify with Garfield. Several years ago (yes, they're appealing across the time and space continuum, beware) a group of kids was walking down the street with me, retelling each other Garfield comics (am I hanging out with the wrong crowd?) and part of it was they were all putting Garfield down. "Garfield is so dumb!" "Garfield is the dumbest ever!" or the particularly cutting "Garfield is so dumb he thinks one plus one equals zero." Ooh, burn!

But as much as they were bagging on him (do people still say that?), two of them were clutching battered copies of collections to read aloud to each other once they got to whereever it was we were walking.

What is up with this? And: bonus points if you recognize the reference in the title (and we all know how valuable bonus points are).

We Recommend: Chapter Books for a 2 1/2-Year-Old? Sure!

It's We Recommend, in which we use our (alleged) superpowers to find readers the perfect book. Got a kid who needs a recommendation? Write us atthediamondinthewindow (at) gmail (dot) com with the age, reading tastes, favorite books, and any other relevant (or irrelevant) information, and we'll give it a shot. And really? All the good suggestions are in the comments.

 This next one might sound a little crazy, but I actually think it's not, and am interested in hearing what you guys think. Besides, it mentions The Master (Roald Dahl), about whom I have been feeling especially reverential lately. Here's the email:

So I'm looking for chapter books that I can read to my 2 1/2 year old.

What happened is rather what happens at his age: the refusal to nap, and the parental scramble to find a new means to make a toddler get very-needed sleep.  One day, I thought that reading something long and without pictures - in the most droning voice I could muster - might lull him to sleep.  On the contrary; after I'd read the first couple chapters of "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory", he was enthralled.  He was asking pertinent questions, and could tell me (fairly) accurately what had happened.  So we continued.  And now we're almost done.

The problem is that I'm not sure what to read next.  I hesitate to read "The BFG", with the child-eating giants, and Charlotte's Web ends with Charlotte's death... Maybe "The Secret Garden", since he loves flowers, but there are a lot of rather tangential paragraphs that I remember as terribly boring, even at 10 or 11.  

What would you read to a very imaginative, slightly sensitive, 2 1/2 year old?

First of all: yes to chapter books for the tiny, in this case at least. As with all things, it all depends on the kid, and he wants it, so why the heck not? Second of all: The Secret Garden, lest we forget, spends quite of bit of time early on dealing with the death of her WHOLE ENTIRE FAMILY from cholera (I think). So maybe not that.

Truly, when my two were small, we loved to read longer books. With this caveat: the more episodic type books tend to work better. Ones in which each chapter is its own story, while they fit together into a longer arcing narrative (much like Charlie and the Chocolate Factory). No cliffhangers. Just story after story after story. All in the context of a larger story.

Of course, the parent who writes in did, in fact, start with one of the best books in the world, which makes it hard as to where to go next, but never fear. Let's work with the very imaginative, slightly sensitive part. Two of my first thoughts were Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle, which is so fun and silly and wonderful. Also: there are many of them, so if he likes them it's easy to know where to go next. But I am leaning towards something a bit odder. And quieter.

One of the best ones we read was All of a Kind Family. I have no good, logical explanation for why these books are so compelling to kids. It seems to have something to do with the kid's-eye view of daily life—how much the minutiae means to them, which I think we as adults sometimes forget. But in my experience, many of them, boys and girls alike, absolutely love these books. So maybe this in time? But really, I'm just dancing around here, because I KNOW what I think this person should have read to him.

Oh how I love this book! Each strange story, each random moment. His homemade tin-foil dimes, his dandy outfits, his boat! The way he repairs his souvenir canoe, then cuts down a dandelion with an axe and has dandelion milk and deviled ham for supper. It is—magic. 

But this will only get them through a few nap times. What great read-aloud chapter books for the sensitive and interested do you guys have to recommend? Put them in the comments, please!

Like TV, but It's a Book!

I'm tired. There's too much to do, and not enough time to do it. There's groceries to shop for, and angry clients to appease, and things to write and edit. And then there are presents to buy, too, so there's that. (And thank you to all of you who suggested seafaring adventures for Chestnut—I am taking the list to the store soon. Soon, I promise! In time for the eighth night, OK?)

And so, after my happy run of library books, there I was last night, returning home from book group with nothing to read.

It's not OK to have to be stressed out all day with angst and strife and then to try to go to bed without a book. It's not, as they say, do-able. So I picked up what was on the coffee table. This is what was on the coffee table:

I'd heard about RL Stine. I thought it was mostly 15 year ago, but apparently they're big in the 7th grade here. And I'm not anti-horror. Or spookiness. Or anything. So I read it.

Well. Once I got past the "none of this makes a bit of sense," well, once I did that it was over, and I'd finished it and there I was. And I thought, It wasn't a good book. But. At the same time. It had a certain...appeal. Quick nonsensical story. Gripping nondescript action. Blood! Girls! Prettiness! Teens! And then I saw: it was like watching TV, except that it was a book. And I can see the appeal of that, I truly can. As I say, I am tired. And sometimes TV seems like just the thing when you're tired.

But really even more what it was like is a horror story, back when there used to be magazines kids would read with fiction in them. That used to happen, right? It's not just me? There was something so perfectly slight about it, it would have been much better at 20 pages. And now I know what (at least some of) the kids are reading these days. And it's not so bad, it truly isn't. But it makes me all the more tired.

Propinquity, Part Two

One of the best things about going to strange houses is coming upon their accompanying books. It's happened to us all, I am sure: you're in a house, there's a bookshelf, and there you find...The Butterfly Kid. Or Spa Sleuths. Or...anything you would never have read otherwise except you're there, and it's there, and somehow something happens between you.

We had a fairly glorious weekend with many cousins, much running around and pumpkins and cider donuts, and to top it all off, the most wonderful collection of books. There was an entire wall of mysteries in the parlor, and an amazing array of kids books in the room with the bunk beds.

Here is what I found on one bizarre evening:

Ten-year-old cousin reading The Time of Mark Twain, an ancient copy of a book I can't even seem to find anywhere. Engrossed.

Diana discovered her own true love, which we will have to talk more about later. Suffice it to say, LOVE:

And Chestnut? Lover of stories of girls in pinafores striving bravely to do the right thing? Of historical fiction, of orphans and dolls and fairies? Um, this:

This is one of the most excellent things about books: they let you become someone else entirely, even if only for an evening on your way to sleep.

She really liked it. And just like that, everyone's worlds got a little bit bigger.

Put Down That Book and Listen to Me When I Talk to You!

It's not that I'm unsympathetic to the engrossed reader. I swear I'm not. I mean, I can walk down the street while reading with the best of them, even if I'm simultaneously yelling at my children "No reading while walking, I mean it!"

And I know the days are long with schoolwork and responsibilities, and there isn't quite enough time to really get back to that story that was boiling along last time you read it. Trust me: I'm three quarters of the way through A Feast for Crows, I understand all about perilous cliffhangers.

With both kids, I struggle with trying to talk to them while they are reading. Of course, common courtesy  requires that a person put down the book and look you in the eye. But we're family, and they know as well as I do that half the time I'm talking with them it's about picking up socks or being sure everything is in the backpack. And I, it must be admitted, don't always set everything down, look them in the eye and focus when they ask for my attention.

Still, it came as someting of a blow when I was haranguing Diana about some crucial household task, and she was clearly listening with only half an ear, and I finally had to say, "Put down that book and listen to me when I talk to you!" And then I looked at the book.

It's not that it's a surprise that Grouch is more compelling than I am, it's just...I'm not sure how I feel. I can't even compete with autobiography?

But I'm probably being too fiction-biased.

Ratings, Scales and the Way the World Works

We were sitting around after eating some Rosh Hashanah roast chicken when I was waylaid by my nephew, age 5. "Read this," he said.

This is what he wanted to read:

But he didn't just want to read it, he wanted to point out the very special awesome excellent feature that was in the book: the part where they indicated the danger to humans of the reptile or amphibian by giving it a rating of anywhere from zero to five skull and crossbones.

Can I possibly convey how cool they thought this was? The whole period before I actually read the book involved his going over it with his three-year-old brother and Chestnut and pointing to each animal and saying "Dangerous. Not very dangerous. REALLY dangerous," etc etc.

It made me think. Because it's not just the skull and crossbones, though we must all admit those are pretty bad-ass. It's the whole idea of rating something. Why do people respond as they do? I guess because it makes it seem like the world is in some way comprehensible. I mean, for the small people it's also being able to read something. Even if they can't really read, this is something they can decode and that has to be pretty gratifying. And it's not just skull and crossbones. For instance, this strange and beloved book:

My kids LOVE this book. They read it over and over. Why? Well sure, strange pets are great. But the genius of this book is also that it grades the pets in a variety of areas: easy to care for etc. The weird joy they get from reading a pet's grade—is it about being graded so often themselves? I don't know. Maybe it really does go back to just wishing things could be so easily contained and comprehended. But they really dig it.

So there you go: two excellent and beloved books (first one is for littler kids, second one for more like 8 and up) that appeal to this (universal?) penchant. Or are my kids (and my nephews!) alone in this? What say you?