Today’s recommendation for MKB’s Read Around the World Series is an illustrated excerpt from one of Brazil’s most famous children’s author, Monteiro Lobato.
Tag: kids
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MKB Read Around the World Series: Menina Bonita do Laço de Fita
I’m proud to be a part of the Multicultural Kid Blogs community! It’s an amazing resource for parents and educators with multicultural kids or wanting to raise globally minded citizens. Every (northern hemisphere) summer, MKB hosts the Read Around the World Series to promote diverse books for kids. Bloggers around the world recommend books for all age ranges, picture book to young adult, and all regions of the world.
Today I’m up, and I’m excited to recommend a modern classic of Brazilian children’s literature!
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NYC in a Preschooler’s Posse
We just got home after a week-long family vacation in New York City! I’ve been to New York City three times before, but this was my first visit as part of a preschooler’s posse. Our little Diva, with all of her four and a half years, was the central figure around which all activities were planned. If she wouldn’t like it or eat it or wait for it, then we didn’t do it. By we I mean, Mommy, Daddy, Gramma, and Grandpa aka The Posse.My husband and I have declared New York our most successful vacation since Diva came home from the hospital.
I understand there are some people who might balk at spending a week in New York in the service of an illiterate, cookie-craving overload, but the fact we were willing to put the Diva’s needs first and foremost is why our trip was a resounding success for everyone involved.
You have to understand I’m not calling my child Diva for lack of a more creative nickname. If we define diva behavior as being irrationally demanding and prone to outbursts over minor inconveniences while assuming she is the center of everyone’s universe, then most preschoolers are divas. In addition, my daughter has some residual effects from an extended stay in the NICU which has left her “fight or flight response” on a very light trigger. Not her fault but still, her easy trigger leaves everyone in her posse scrambling to avoid both the fit and blunt objects likely to be thrown when an unexpected change in plans occurs. So the title Diva fits. And nobody wants a diva to start throwing or smearing snot on things in an art museum.
Our first consideration for the Diva was housing. To accommodate our Diva’s need for a quiet, calm retreat after a super stimulating day, we got out of Manhattan and rented a house in Queens. Corona is a delightful neighborhood bustling with families and charming restaurants filled with locals who seem to burst into song on a fairly regular basis. Between the Italian serenade we got over breakfast one morning and the Latin dance music pouring out from the restaurant across the street, Corona felt like living in a musical.
The hour subway ride into Manhattan or the car service were a small price to pay for the luxury of having a house with a den and backyard patio. The Diva is highly prone to outbursts when tired, so we wrapped up our sightseeing around 5pm everyday and spent the nights hanging out at the house. It was a stress-free way to end each day and allowed us to assume the role of local New Yorker for the week.What did my Diva want out of a week in the Greatest City in the World? Playgrounds.
Our week in New York was a tour of playgrounds and any museums that happened to be close by, starting with the Science Playground at the New York Hall of Science. This hands-on museum geared toward young kids was just down the street from our house in Queens. Even many of the indoor exhibits were basically highly educational playgrounds, particularly the exhibit on physics in sports. My daughter particularly loved the rope jungle gym and giant see-saw bridge.Our second day was all about the dinosaurs at the Museum of Natural History but before we got into the museum, a detour through Central Park led the Diva to Diana Ross Playground. I swear she has sonar for playgrounds. We did manage to get inside the museum with the promise of dinosaurs and the special exhibit “Dinosaurs Among Us” was a highlight of the trip. The exhibit wants people to understand that dinosaurs are actually still around. We just call them birds today.
Turns out dinosaurs were basically demon chickens. The Diva enjoyed literally yanking her posse from one amazing feather-covered dinosaur recreation to the next. It wasn’t until we hit the gift shop that the first meltdown occurred. There was no stuffed velociraptor.
The near hour of tears shed over the unattainable stuffed velociraptor is a good example of how I know without doubt the Diva’s meltdown’s are not an attempt at manipulation or the result of being overindulged. Because she could have gotten any toy in shop. After thirty minutes of sobbing in the most profound disappointment, the Diva had four posse members ready to drop all their disposable income. But she didn’t want anything the store had to offer. She was fixated on a stuffed velociraptor and couldn’t let it go. The best her posse could do was offer a relatively quiet spot near the triceratops skeleton and some chocolate chip cookies. Eventually, she accepted some small dinosaur figurines and a blue whale viewing.
Day three’s plan to see the knights’ armor at the Metropolitan Museum of Art was immediately abandoned upon sight of the Ancient Playground next door to the museum. The playground’s stonework gave it a castle feel and the Diva unsurprisingly played for over two hours. What did surprise everyone was her question while heading back to the subway late afternoon “When are we going to see the knights in their armor?” When a four-year old expresses interest in an art exhibit, you go before she can change her mind or fall asleep in someone’s lap. The coolest part was the horses’ armor.
We took one day off from playgrounds to see Aladdin at the New Amsterdam Theater which is right at the Times Square metro station. While Aladdin was beautiful and fun and the Diva is still talking about the flying carpet, the chaos of Times Square was not fun or beautiful. A prematurely pitched lollipop, which she hadn’t liked in the first place, caused the second major meltdown of the trip.The sidewalks of Times Square are really not conducive to calming and soothing, so phones were whipped out and frantic searches for nearby cafes, preferably with chocolate-chip cookies, were conducted. An early retreat back to Queens resulted in take out of some of the most amazing Mexican I’ve had in my life from the local joint across the street. (Seriously, I’m on the Queens’ bandwagon primarily for the food.)
After Times Square the posse had learned our lesson. Playgrounds and parks are enjoyable. Crowds and a sea of fifty foot iPads are not. This lesson led us to Brooklyn Bridge Park and the Main Street Playground near Manhattan Bridge. The Diva loved the nautical themed playground, and the posse loved the views. We rode Jane’s Carousel and had lunch at a little bistro just off the park. The breathtaking views are a great antidote to the effects of paying $4 for a single glass of coke that’s fifty percent ice.
To complete our admittedly small sampling of New York City playgrounds, we went to Billy Johnson Playground in Central Park just north of the zoo. This comparatively humble playground features a 45 foot granite slide that the Diva went down at least twenty times. It was a gorgeous day and Central Park was lush and green. When we stumbled upon the Central Park Zoo after leaving the playground, there was no debate. The Diva bonded with a spirited puffin and enjoyed a hyper-active sea lion.We ended our week in a New York with a trip to the Rose Center for Earth and Space and a show in the Hayden Planetarium. While the Diva was awed by the concept of a movie on the ceiling, the New York Hall of Science is infinitely more accessible to the preschool aged public. Although, her posse thought the planetarium was awesome.
I hope I haven’t given the impression that being in the posse of a small diva is only stressful. It does require planning and a willingness to abandon those plans, but the plus side of a diva is that they are energetic, passionate, and expressive people who draw you into their world. My Diva manifested such joy after seeing her first dog walker, I thought we’d have to follow him around the city.It’s also because of my Diva, that my husband and I have completely reimagined what living in NYC must be like. We spent a week in the “concrete jungle” running and climbing around parks. The local government has done an amazing job of providing outdoor resources for children and family throughout the city. I’ve spent my entire adult life living in apartments in cities, Washington D.C., Rio, and now Vitoria, and none of those cities have provided the public playgrounds and green spaces like New York. (Rio and Vitoria’s governments do not get credit for simply building their cities on beaches. In fact, negative points to you Rio and Vitoria for letting your outdoor spaces get septic.)
Now if only it didn’t cost a fortune to buy a home in New York. And the winter. If the government could do something about winter, then I could definitely see the Diva and her posse living there.
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The Consequences of Going Gray
It’s been more than difficult finding time to write this post. My husband is away on a networking trip while Kiddo’s in the middle of summer vacation. That puts me on twenty-four hours a day parent duty. I’d probably be a little more frustrated if I didn’t know these networking trips of his were going to start tapering off.You see my husband’s getting older, and in the spirit of honesty, it’s obvious. He’s getting more wrinkles and creases, but it’s the gray hair that’s really noticeable. My husband has black hair which has gone from lightly dusted to preserved cod salty in the last few years. Of course getting older isn’t a problem per se. He just could look a lot younger if he wanted to.
With all that gray hair, he’s not going to be tapped for any promotion. The quality of his work is going to become less obvious as people start focusing on his whiter hair. I’m sure the university he teaches for is going to want someone a little…fresher to represent them at conferences. I’m afraid it’s going to affect his student evaluations. Those undergrads are going to look at him and think his complete apathy about his appearance clearly indicates a certain indifference toward everything including class planning.
I’m also worried it’s going to affect his social life. He hasn’t said anything, but I think some of his friends have stopped calling. I feel terrible for him, but I can’t blame them. By not coloring his hair, he’s basically throwing his mortality in the face of everyone around him. Who wants to sit next to Mr. Death-is-Inevitable at the dinner party? That’s kind of a bummer.
Of course, it’s going to be harder to make new friends. Everyone says they don’t judge people by appearances, but let’s be honest. We all check a person’s roots before striking up a conversation.
I’ve made subtle comments about the gray hoping he’ll take some interest in his appearance and stop letting himself go. I realize I’m never going to talk him into botox or skin peels, but if he would just invest a little in himself, I think he’d really perk up and be more confident in all areas of his life. It feels like he doesn’t love himself anymore. When he looks in the mirror, he doesn’t see the incredibly handsome man I see. That’s why I want him to dye his hair. I think he would feel more handsome if he would just get rid of the gray.
Watching my husband deal with getting older has made me glad I’m a woman. I’ve been going gray since my early twenties. If had to hide my white hair, at the rate my hair grows…ugh, I’d have spent a small fortune on salon appointments. Fortunately, I’m not a man, and I don’t have to work at making everyone think I’m at least a decade younger than my actual age to be happy with my appearance.
Actually, women don’t really talk about our age that much. Now that I think about it, I’m not even sure I know exactly how old my best buddies are. We’re usually too busy talking about politics, whether or not to refinance our houses, the cost of health care. And sports. I swear my friends and I still don’t get through one round of drinks before someone references Lloyd’s hat trick in the World Cup final. Why would age even come up?
I hope my husband knows that I’ll love him no matter how old he gets and what he looks like. I hope he knows how handsome he is. Gray hair and all.
This of course is a piece of comedy. Although I have, in fact, been going gray since my early twenties. Unfortunately, I have spent a small fortune on trips to the salon. I had coloring my hair in the same category as bathing, an essential and basic part of my self-care routine. But in the last year, afternoons to myself for writing were in short supply. I didn’t want to give up a whole afternoon to painting my hair, so I let my hair grow and grow and eventually ended up with a couple inches of gray hair at my temples.
No, that’s not a lighting effect. That’s four months of hair growth highlighting my temple. And life’s pretty much the same. It turns out coloring hair is a choice. One my salt-and-pepper headed husband chooses not to pursue without comment or consequence. I’m going to opt out too from now on. I’m not promising to never color my hair again. But for now, there are other things I’d rather do with my time and money. Will you still invite me over for dinner?
This post is part of Happy Mama Happy Baby‘s Body Positive January. Check out her site for more awesome posts from great writers, book reviews, and giveaways! -
Visiting the Martin Luther King Jr. Historic Site: The Power of Young People
The wind gusted by, and my nose was numb by the time we crossed from the parking lot and entered the Visitor’s Center at the Martin Luther King Jr. Historic Site. It was a little unfortunate my step-mom and I had picked the coldest day in weeks to visit because the MLK Historic Site is a collection of buildings up and down the block where Dr. King’s childhood home and church are located. The facilities required walking. The weather required a hat.
While peeling my gloves off in the Visitor’s Center, a helpful ranger told us that guided tours of Dr. King’s birth home are available for free but they’re first come first serve and you have to reserve tickets. Unfortunately for us, the next tour wasn’t until noon, and we had to move on before then. There was still the Visitor Center, the Tombs, exhibits from the life of Dr. and Mrs. King at Freedom Hall, as well as Historic Ebeneezer Baptist Church where Dr. King served as co-pastor with his father. More than enough to fill a Sunday morning.Passing through twelve years of metro-Atlanta public schools, I’d learned about Dr. King and the Civil Rights movement extensively. To be perfectly honest, I wasn’t expecting to learn anything new during my visit. It would be interesting to see the buildings where Dr. King actually lived but the information would be a refresher course.
I stepped into the first stage of the Visitor Center’s overview of King’s life: Segregation. Photos, panels, and video explained the explicitly and brutally divided world Martin grew up in. On the video screen I watched footage of a young girl, book bag in hand, enter her school escorted by Federal marshals. The girl is Ruby Bridges, the first African-American student to attend an integrated elementary school in Louisiana. Well, integrated isn’t quite accurate. Bridges was the only African-American student in an all-white school.
I’d watched the footage before, but never as a mother.
This time I saw a little girl with a bow in her hair, not much taller than my own daughter, walk alone into her school. No friends, no teachers. Only four armed Federal Marshals protecting her. She barely cleared the waist of the men around her. Ruby was six years old that day. My eyes filled with tears, and I ducked my head to keep anyone from noticing.I left the images of children berated and under armed escort and moved on to the section on Dr. King’s early activism. His first role of national significance came when he helped organize the Montgomery Bus Boycott in the wake of Rosa Park’s arrest. It was 1955. Dr. King was twenty-six.
I’d moved on from Ruby in hopes of being on more palatable ground of grown-ups being horrendous to other grown-ups, but I was staring at the face of a person whom, if I met over coffee, I would tease and welcome into adulthood. How’s that whole responsibility thing going? When I looked at the photo of Dr. King handcuffed and bent over a police desk, I didn’t see a great man. I saw a very young man.I scanned the other photos. A group of non-violent protesters at a sit-in. Freedom riders. Marchers with their arms linked. Dr. King attending a leadership meeting of the Student Non-violent Coordinating Committee. There it was in the name: Student Non-violent Coordinating Committee. The walls were covered with pictures of kids and young people. Eighteen, nineteen, twenty year-olds. College kids were the driving force of the Civil Rights movement. Seeing the Civil Rights Movement from the perspective of an adult older than most of its leaders were at the time shocked me.
I’d learned about Dr. King and other leaders, John Lewis, Julian Bond, Andrew Young through the eyes of a child. I’d been told they were great men, and to a ten-year old, the footage and photos showed established adults. One grown-up is equal to any other grown-up. Anyone who has reached adulthood knows this couldn’t be farther from the truth.
As I wandered through the Visitor Center, King’s church, and the other buildings, the entire site became a testament to the power of young people. Kids, teens, college students and freshly minted men and women in their twenties acted on their beliefs that the world could change and could be made better. They refused to accept the world they were about to inherit.
It seems to be a favorite past time of adults to complain about the youth. There is certainly no shortage of criticism being hurled currently at young people with their selfie taking smart phones. But I did learn something during my visit to King Center. Never underestimate youth. Young people have the power of infinite possibility. Their vision hasn’t been narrowed by time. Martin Luther King Jr. did not imagine himself on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial when he called on his congregation to boycott the buses. With his twenty-six years, he imagined a more just world and acted to make it so.
The quote on Dr. King’s tomb is “Free at last. Free at last. Thank God Almighty I’m Free at last.” The dates are 1929-1968. He was thirty-nine when assassinated, a young & great man.
This post is part of an amazing series on Martin Luther King Jr. being hosted by Multicultural Kids Blog. Check out the link for fabulous educational activities and international perspectives on the legacy of Dr. King. -
My Bilingual Kid Doesn’t Want Your Attention
Having spent the majority of my adult life outside of the United States (mostly in small, homogeneous cities), I’ve gotten used to being the subject of conversation at the next table over. It happens pretty frequently in Vitoria. My husband and I speak in English so people assume I don’t understand their Portuguese freeing them to openly discuss me from two feet away. It happens most frequently with kids and teens, but a surprising number of adults don’t seem to realize that a person could understand both English and Portuguese. In Vitoria, we expats are like endangered wildlife. People know we’re around, but when actually spotted, locals take note.I don’t mind. Until visitors arrive from another planet, one from another continent is about as alien as it gets for most people in Vitoria. I signed up for the attention when I decided to become an expat.
But my daughter didn’t.
A series of encounters at the park Sunday has, for the first time, made me consider my daughter’s multiculturalism a challenge, a thing she’ll have to learn to deal with.
It also has me weighing the importance of three influences on my daughter’s behavior: my parenting instincts v. my daughter’s personality v. the culture she is growing up in. I’m now asking which of these should win out in the event they’re incompatible.
Here’s what happened.
We arrived at the park just as a craft was beginning and hurried to the classroom. As materials were being handed out, one of the helpers overheard me speaking English and asked where we’re from. I answered, heard about how he’s going to Disney World soon, and then got the VIP crafting upgrade, as he hovered over my shoulder for the duration of the activity asking repeatedly (in English) if my daughter needed help. He was pleasant and wanted to practice his English. No problem.
Then we moved to the playground and while my daughter, the baby dragon, sought refuge in a playhouse from me, the evil sorceress, a girl and boy asked what language we were speaking. I answered, their eyes widened, and they ran off. A few minutes later they were back with more friends who all crowded into the playhouse to stare at my four-year-old, English speaker. My daughter tried to play with them in Portuguese, but the older girl turned to her friends and asked, “Who wants to learn English?” My daughter was not interested in playing teacher when there was sorceress to escape from, so she turned her back on them. They were kids and curious. Ok.
The most bizarre exchange happened as my daughter and I were waiting for my husband to bring the car. We were sword fighting with sticks, so I have no idea what these people heard exactly. “Argh!” “Ah, my leg! I’m bleeding!” But whatever they heard prompted the man to turn to his friend and say “Uma italiana!” I know I opened the door to this exchange by correcting him, but I can’t live in a world where people hear an English speaking American and think Italian.
I smiled and told him “Sou americana.” Their minds were blown. The woman nearly doubled-over laughing and the man’s eyes bugged out as if this was the first time either of them had considered the possibility of a person speaking more than one language. If I had turned invisible, I think they would have been less surprised. The woman sat down on the bench next to my daughter, and the two of them began peppering us with questions, the most notable one being “So you speak Portuguese & French?” They quickly zeroed in on my daughter and began directing their questions to her, clearly not believing she speaks Portuguese and is, in fact, Brazilian. When they asked her for her name, I stiffened. When they asked her for her daddy’s name, I cut them off, said “ciao” and in their wake, made it explicitly clear she was never to give her name or mommy’s or daddy’s name to anyone other than a police officer. The couple hadn’t meant but did cross a line when they asked for personal information from my kid.
My daughter’s final audience of the day came at the end of lunch. She and I were walking back to our table with a much-anticipated chocolate popsicle, and the table next to us began exclaiming to my husband. “Nossa que olhos lindas! Uma loirinha linda!” My daughter has blond hair and blue eyes, the genetic jackpot in Brazil. The entire family at the next table gushed compliments, while my husband played along and joked it was a good thing she took after her mom.
This all happened within two hours. Nothing was said or done out of malice. The people’s motivation ranged from innocent curiosity to sincere appreciation with a heavy dash of racism. Everything interaction was typical. Brazilian culture is open and friendly and community oriented. Strangers talk to each other here. It’s like being in South Georgia without the gnats and shotguns.
But my daughter doesn’t want an audience. My husband and have noticed it. Her teachers noted it in her school report. When the group of kids crowded around my daughter asking her to speak in English, she went silent. When the geographically challenged couple asked for her name, she clutched my arm and hid her face. My daughter doesn’t like being put on the spot. And that is exactly what every stranger who asks her to demonstrate her Portuguese or English is doing. When strangers stare at my daughter, they turn her into a spectacle no matter their intentions.
So what to do about it?
My husband immediately suggested we stop speaking English outside of the apartment. This would eliminate having to always explain that my kid is Brazilian and hearing about people’s Disney vacations, but I’m against it. My daughter is immersed in Portuguese Monday through Friday all day long at school. She needs as much English as possible on the weekend. We’d also limit her English vocabulary to the world of our apartment.
My gut reaction is to tell the spectators, politely but firmly, to go away. I’ll explain that my daughter is shy and since she is Brazilian, we don’t want her to feel singled out in her home. Please, save your questions for another bilingual who’s more comfortable in the spotlight.
The problem with this solution is that it’s extremely American. Like off the charts individualistic. Walls up. Family in. Strangers out. It’s honest. It’s blunt. It’s clear. It’s rude as hell. It’s all of those things. Just depends on your cultural reference. I recently saw an article titled “I Don’t Make My Kid Share” and thought that would never fly in Brazil. Valuing individual property rights over communal harmony would brand you and your kid the biggest jerks on the playground. Not all parenting strategies work equally well in all cultures.
She is Brazilian, living in Brazil, dealing with Brazilians. Shouldn’t I do my best to teach her to understand and navigate her own culture? Is it right to protect her feelings by shutting down people in a culture where small talk is viewed as courteous? Doesn’t she need to be able to cope with the extra attention if it’s going to be part of her reality?
I want to help my daughter balance culture and her personality, and I’m not sure what to say to prepare her for the inevitable questions that come when you are the only one. I grew up a solid member of the majority in everyway possible, but she is often usually the only bilingual, the only American. A little, blue-eyed, Brazilian girl speaking English here in Vitoria is going to make people stop in their tracks and comment.
My plan so far is to tell her she should never talk to strangers without mommy and daddy around. (Safety first.) When we are around, she has an absolute right to remain silent. She doesn’t have to play with or talk to anyone she doesn’t want to. However, I’ll explain people aren’t trying to be mean. They want to learn, and she has the power to teach them. People are curious about her languages and cultures, so when she’s ready, people will be very interested in what she has to say.
And that’s the best idea I’ve got for now.
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5 Things That Can Ruin a Kid’s Day (& the Parent’s as Well)
Saturday morning my kid woke up asking for sausage. She’s Brazilian, so it’s a pretty common request. She’s a very picky eater, so if she demonstrates enthusiasm for any food that isn’t made by Hershey, we try to accommodate her request. That’s how we ended up at a packed churrasco (a restaurant serving heart-stopping quantities of grilled meat) swarming with sweaty, screaming families and their kids. In other words, hell. The kids all seemed to love it.Why wouldn’t they? This place was family-friendly in a very Brazilian way with a multi-level playground, 2 trampolines, five TVs with Playstations, and a small amusement park ride. Any American actuary would stroke out upon entering this restaurant.
The kids were dying of happiness.
All except my kid.
We got there early enough to grab a coveted table in front of the entrance to the play area. It was the most chaotic spot in the place, but we’d be able to see my daughter from our table. We ordered her sausage and beef and french fries. My husband the vegetarian contented himself with rice and beans. She thanked us by whining, complaining, and pouting the entire time.
There was a Claw-crane arcade game right in front of our table, and up against the glass was a stuffed cheetah. Game over. My daughter was obsessed. Nothing we said could convince her to let it go. The playground, the video games, the carousel of airplanes, the sausage, they were insignificant next to this stuffed cheetah. She left the restaurant crying. I left with a burning desire for a sledge hammer. We were all pissed off for the rest of the afternoon.
My daughter’s day was ruined by a cruelly placed Claw-game. And so was mine. If you don’t have kids, you might not realize how heavily a parent’s mood at the end of the day relies on their child’s emotions. And a kid can be plunged into emotional turmoil over a sock. Yes, I’ve had mornings or entire days that were corrupted by a sock.
The Claw is just another in a long stream of innocuous things which have completely ruined my day. Here are five more items and tasks I now face with trepidation.
- Basic Personal Hygiene Specifically, the maintenance of it. Five years ago, brushing teeth or hair didn’t consume a lot of mental energy. A bath was welcome especially in the scorching summers of Rio. Now, I mentally steel myself using techniques I learned from Navy Seals before approaching my child with either soap or a toothbrush. Many a morning or evening has been ruined by screaming refusals to use either.
- A Pair of Wonder Woman Undies A very special pair that is never, never clean when requested.
- Chocolate Ice-cream Normally a curative for emotional collapse. Unless it doesn’t have the option of M&M toppings. We don’t go to that ice-cream store anymore.
- An Inflatable Pterodactyl One that was made so cheaply and with such indifference nobody noticed one of the wings was glued on backwards. It came in a package of six and was never played with after being opened. The toy had no impact on our lives whatsoever, until it was given away then demanded inexplicably a few months later. Now, it will never be forgotten.
- A Slice of Carrot Vegetables in general, but carrots have the greatest potential for being nibbled so this is the one that usually brings everyone to arms. There was a memorable night out when my daughter sat on the floor under the table screaming with snot running down her face because I demanded she have one bite of carrot. Wait…no. It wasn’t carrot. It was a bite of macaroni and cheese. Which I’m now willing to consider a vegetable. One that she won’t eat. That’s where we are on the vegetable front.
It will be a very long time before my husband and I are willing to go back to that restaurant. Which is unfortunate because the number of places we now feel that way about includes pretty much everywhere with the exception of the ice cream store with M&Ms for toppings. I’m actually fine with that.
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Throwing a Brazilian Halloween Party: An Odyssey of Prep
I threw a Halloween party for fifteen preschoolers last Saturday. It was a huge success, but I feel I owe my guests an apology.Multiple parents came up to me and said I was “muito animada”, a very fun-loving, party-throwing person. I realized that by throwing a fun children’s party, I had completely misrepresented myself to them. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to lie. The fact is I’m not a creative, crafty mom who saves egg cartons to make earthworm condos for the compost pile. My perfect Sunday afternoon is sitting quietly with a good a book and cup of coffee. Ideally on the beach and without people unable to wipe their own bottoms.
So why did I throw a class Halloween party?
Because they don’t traditionally celebrate Halloween in Brazil. I loved Halloween as a kid, and if I don’t throw the party, my Brazilian daughter won’t know one of my favorite childhood traditions.
Why did I make such an effort on the crafts and decorations?
Because the day after I announced my intention to have a party, one of the moms came up to me at school and told me she’d always dreamed of going to a real Halloween party. To which I thought “Oh crap! I’m fulfilling someone’s dream of Halloween? I don’t want that kind of responsibility!” But I accepted it. And that brings us to the last and really most revealing question.
How was I able to come up with such creative and age-appropriate themed snacks and crafts if I’m not a creative crafty mommy?
I’m an intelligent and highly-organized, type-A personality with access to the Internet and a working knowledge of Pinterest. That’s it. That’s the real me. If I take on the responsibility of a project, it will be done well. Even if it’s something I usually avoid.
Like baking.
Let me tell you about the cookie baking.
While in Atlanta in August, I found Halloween themed cookie cutters and decorating supplies. Bat, ghost, and pumpkin cutters. Black, orange, and green slime icing. The kids could decorate cookies! It would be awesome.I knew I was going to have to make the dough from scratch. Shortly after arriving in Brazil, I tried to bake a pecan pie for reasons again related to culture sharing. I asked my husband where I could buy the crust. He stared at me brow furrowed. “Buy the crust? You mean the ingredients?” I laughed. Ha. Ha. Good joke. I’m not making my crust from scratch. Not even my South-Georgia raised, preserve-making grandmother makes her own crust anymore. Nobody does. “Uh, they do in Brazil.” Oh.
So I knew I was going to have to make sugar cookie dough from scratch and having baked maybe four times in my life, I knew I’d need a practice run. I planned out every day of the week leading up to the party. Saturday I went online and found a simple and well-rated sugar cookie recipe. Sunday I bought the ingredients. Tuesday was the baking run-through.
After my experience with the pie crust, I brought measuring cups back from the US because I’d learned I’m a victim of the US education system and can’t think in metric. Also, the Brazilian versions of recipes often call for “tea cups” which is not a standardized form of measurement! I find baking stressful enough without vague instructions, so American measurements and tools it is.
Recipe. Ingredients. Measuring cups and spoons. I thought I was prepared.
Preheat the oven to 350 F. My oven only has a line decreasing in thickness and the numbers 1 through 5, but my plan was to pick a number and once the first batch was in check them every minute and figure out the right amount of time at that setting. First problem solved.
Mix dry ingredients. Easy.
Cream butter and sugar. That’s when I realized I had a handheld beater with no beaters. They had been lost somewhere between a school project and kitchen renovation. Ok. People were obviously baking before electricity, so I decided to mix by hand. If I had known I would be creaming butter three times in a week, I would have gone out and bought a damn beater right then. But I didn’t.Fifteen minutes and two sore arms later…mix in dry ingredients.
Two quivering arms and one sore back later…put dough on cookie sheet. Looking at the dough, I could tell using the cutters was out the question. The dough stuck to everything. I could have wallpapered with it. I went ahead and baked globs of it to test the flavor but knew I was going to have to address the stickiness.
One minute of internet research later, I’d learned the dough must be refrigerated for at least an hour before attempting to cut out cookies. Great! I had learned a valuable lesson. This is why test runs are important.
Friday morning I made the dough for a second time, breaking a sweat mixing by hand. I left it in the fridge all afternoon. I was going to bake the cookies after my daughter was asleep, but on a whim I decided to do one batch before I picked her up from school.
Within minutes I learned that firm dough doesn’t stay that way for long in an 85 degree kitchen. Central air conditioning in the kitchen would have been a big help, but I shrugged it off. People baked without air conditioning for most of human history. No big deal. I simply raced, hunched over my kitchen table, to roll out, cut, and dump cookies onto to the baking tray before the dough softened into a gooey mess.
I put cats, bats, and witches’ hats into oven and pulled out 8 amoebas. Son of a bitch.
I collapsed in a chair. Beads of sweat dripped down my back and forehead. My shoulders ached. And the prospect of mixing another batch of dough by hand loomed before me and crushed my soul.
I hate cooking. No matter how much I research and prepare, I feel I always, always, end up facing a dozen unexpected challenges that keep the results from being perfect. And perfect is the end goal, people. And it should be achievable with good planning and organization. That doesn’t seems to be the case with cooking, which is why I hate it.
The silver lining is that by making that test batch before I picked up my daughter, I was able to swing by the store and get more flour and butter for a third batch. Because I was making the cookies. My daughter had already found the cookie cutters and asked for a cat to decorate. I had brought the icing and spider sprinkles from the United States. I was making those damn cookies.
And by 1:12 a.m I had forty cookies in recognizable shapes.At the party the next afternoon, a mom asked my husband where I bought the cookies. He told her I had baked them. She exclaimed “Really? Oh, those creative moms.”
That’s why I want to apologize to her and the other moms because I’m not the person the cookies make me out to be. I don’t get a thrill from making my daughter’s birthday cupcakes. I get stress knots above my shoulder blades. I don’t jump at every chance to throw a party. I cringe remembering the mess after the last one. I wish my Portuguese was better, then maybe I could translate my sarcasm when I talk about the joys of crafting.
I may have given my daughter wonderful Halloween memories and successfully represented a piece of my culture abroad, but I misrepresented myself in the process.
Which could be true for a lot party hosts. Maybe behind every Pinterest image, there’s a sweaty person popping painkillers and muttering obscenities at a tray of cookies.
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A Parent’s Weekly Writing Routine
MONDAY
Morning:
School Holiday so entertain and feed kid
Afternoon:
Entertain and feed kid
Evening:
Entertain, feed kid, and persuade her to take a bath
Night:
Fight with kid over everything because you’re both exhausted, Fight about getting out of the bath, brushing teeth, number of bedtime stories, going to sleep
9:30pm Open computer and stare listlessly at manuscript, pour wine, search new releases on Netflix
TUESDAY
Morning:
8 am Wake up & work on social media – Wake up late because child had a nightmare about Mommy getting her head bitten off by a monster and we were up for an hour in the middle of the night, race to get to swim class on time
9:59am Arrive at school on time
10:00am Watch kid’s swim class
10:40am Gym – Because yesterday was a school holiday – Think about dialogue for a tricky scene while on treadmill – Stand in front of gym for five minutes trying to remember what it was I needed to get at the drugstore…Bug Repellant!! I noticed my daughter’s almost out when packing her backpack.
Afternoon:
12:30pm Lunch w/ husband
1:30pm Write – Computer reminds me of family member’s birthday, quickly search internet for present
3pm Get back to Writing – Make mistake of checking phone and finding 41 messages from parents in kid’s class on the firing of a favorite teaching assistant in addition to a few suggestions for weekend playdates
4:15pm Get back to Writing – Suddenly remember a package for my daughter waiting to be picked up, race to post office, Dammit! race back home to get wallet, race to post office, realize there’s not enough time to get back home before school pick-up, go to bakery and get dinner
5:45om Pick up child
Evening:
6-6:30pm Dinner – eaten while child is having her snack
6:30-7:30pm Family Playtime
7:30 Begin persuading child to take a bath
7:50 Get child in bath
8:15 Finally persuade child to leave bath
Night:
8:30 Argue about teeth brushing
9pm Read bedtime stories
9:30 Write for two hours
WEDNESDAY
Morning:
8am Wake up & work on social media – Wake up to wet sheets and crying child because she peed in her bed. My fault. I gave her the whole bottle of coconut water after dinner. Can’t give her coconut water after dinner. Gotta remember that.
9:30am Take child to school
10:15am Gym, Revise previous night’s writing while on treadmill
11:30am Stop by toy store to pick up birthday present for kid’s classmate
11:50am Make appointment for kid’s haircut on way home
Afternoon:
12:30pm Lunch with Husband
1:15pm Write – Get call from school saying child is fine but has fallen and hit her head on the corner of a concrete pillar and now has a giant knot on her forehead, decide to pick her up from school early because I can watch her more closely than the school and it’s better to be safe than sorry
Evening:
6pm Dinner
6:30-7:30pm Family Playtime
7:30 Begin persuading child to take a bath
7:50 Get child in bath
8:15 Finally persuade child to leave bath
Night:
8:30 Argue about teeth brushing
9pm Read bedtime stories
9:30 Write for two hours
THURSDAY
Morning:
8am Yes. Finally. I am waking up to work… –Another school holiday?! Are you kidding me? Schools are closed and teachers don’t work on Teacher Appreciation Day?! What sort of socialist hellscape am I living in?
Afternoon:
Entertain and feed kid
Evening:
Entertain, feed kid, and persuade her to take a bath
Night:
Fight with kid over everything because you’re both exhausted, Fight about getting out of the bath, brushing teeth, number of bedtime stories, going to sleep
9:30pm Open computer and stare listlessly at manuscript, pour wine, search new releases on Netflix
FRIDAY
Morning:
8am Wake up & work on social media
9:30am Take kid to school
10am Gym, Tweak scene that has been complete in my head for a week while on the treadmill
11:30am Write – in total amazement that I’m looking at manuscript before lunch
Afternoon:
12:30pm Lunch with Husband
1:15pm Write – get call from school that daughter is complaining of a headache, she doesn’t have a fever, tell school she’s just trying to come home early and that I’ll pick up right after dinner
2:30pm Get back to Writing – get call from school saying that child has just thrown-up, race to pick her up driven by crushing guilt because she was not in fact lying about feeling bad
Evening:
Hover over sick child with bucket
Night:
Hover over sick child, Give her a bath, Get her to sleep in my bed, Read in bed to keep an eye on her
SATURDAY
No working. Family day.
SUNDAY
No working. Family day.
I imagine books entitled Write a Novel in 30 have a special chapter for parents that starts “First, find a place to send your children for the month.” If I get 2,000 words down, it was an awesome writing day and I don’t even have to do the daily household chores. We have a housekeeper! It’s one of the perks of living in a country that values human labor less than tomatoes. Imagine throwing in cooking, cleaning, ironing, grocery shopping, and basic home maintenance to that schedule. Imagine more than one kid! That’s the life of a parent trying to write.
A writer and mom I follow on Twitter recently wrote about finishing the 6th draft of a manuscript she’s been working on for 3 years. Honestly, I’m surprised she’s been able to get through so many drafts in that amount of time.
I raise a fist in salute to my fellow writers and parents. I bow in deep admiration to those…oh crap, I forgot to get the cotton balls for the ghost craft happening at the Halloween party I’m throwing on Saturday. Better go now. Gotta pick up the kid in an hour.
