This is one of my daughter’s (and my) favorite books! The stories in told in a gorgeous panel (comic book) format, and the author/illustrator has given the animals hilarious asides. It’s delightful!
Tag: parenting
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MKB Read Around the World Series: O Noivado de Emilia
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.
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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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Bible Belt Road Trip
Growing up in Atlanta, road trips were a big part of my childhood. In the summer we’d drive five hours to St. Simons Island on the Atlantic or maybe eight hours to Orlando. I’ve sat through the twelve hour drive to Washington D.C. many times. I’ve got family in Panama City, Florida so I’ve made that six hour trip at least a dozen times in my life.But until this year every trip was made from the passenger seat.
January 2016 is now etched in my memory as the month I piloted my first road trip. For years, my husband and I have been content to get chauffered around or borrow cars during our holiday trip to Atlanta, but this year we rented a car. And I was the only licensed driver for it.
We rented a…honestly, I don’t remember the name. It was a Kia. It had a hatchback, four doors, and operated on gasoline. I’m not a car person.
The most impressive detail about the car was it’s near pocket-size. I’ve traveled enough to know that in many countries our Kia would have been considered normal-sized. Not so on an American interstate. Imagine your dining room table covered with water melons and one matchbox sitting in the middle of them. My family and I were inside the matchbox.
That’s what it felt like as I merged onto Interstate-285 around Atlanta, aka the scariest place in the United States. The road circles the city for 64 death-defying miles and is a training center for domestic terrorists.
My time skirting between 18 wheelers on I-285 in a freshman engineering class’s final exam with a screaming preschooler and frantic husband in the back seat was spent mostly in a semi-conscious state operating on pure adrenaline. It’s apparently standard operating procedure on 285 for freight truck drivers to allow about five feet of space between the truck and car in front, demonstrating complete indifference to the laws of Georgia, physics, and common sense.
My fellow Americans, you’re all worried about the wrong things. You’re not going to be blown up. You’re going to be flattened by an 18 wheel truck filled with hamburger buns.
My family and I survived that first hour and a half in the car and made it out of metro Atlanta. We left the traffic and everything else behind. Welcome to rural Georgia. We hope you enjoy our pine trees.
There is farm land in Georgia. Lots of it. But much further south. We were driving South-west toward the Florida panhandle, cutting across southern Alabama. It’s a route that doesn’t provide much in terms of scenery save for the occasional buildboard advertising Jesus or a strip club.
Even the exits disappear and fifteen minutes can pass before it’s even possible to get off the highway. A fact critically important when traveling with a four-year old who does NOT like to take bathroom breaks before her bladder is on the verge of exploding.
“There’s an exit with a McDonald’s ahead. Little Bit, do you need to go potty?”
“No.”
“Are you sure you don’t need to go potty?”
“No.”
“Does that mean you do need to go?”
“No.”
“So you don’t need to go pee pee?”
“No.”
“Why don’t we stop and you just try?”
“I said no, Mommy.”
Do I even need to write the conversation that happens two minutes past the exit?Like most Americans, our bathrooms of choice are McDonald’s. Clean and available when literally no other restaurant is in a ten mile radius. Whatever else is true about the chain, their bathrooms are a service to humanity because the alternative to McDonald’s is a gas station.
Gas stations in South Georgia and Alabama. They’re actually quite fascinating as long as you’re traveling with your traditional nuclear family and don’t have an Obama sticker on your car. In addition to a fabulous array of retro snack food like Yoohoo and Hostess SnoBalls, there’s no end to the items decorated in camouflage: hats, shirts, tabbaco, koozees, lighters, and bibles. You can also pick up the monthly publication of mugshots of people arrested by the city police. It’s the society pages of Pittsview, Alabama. (That’s a real town, btw.)
My husband doesn’t find these places quite as charming as I do. In fact, his Brazilian instincts tell him to avoid at all costs isolated buildings in the middle of nowhere that would attract location scouts for a zombie apocalypse movie. He’s waiting for somebody to walk in with a gun. I told him to relax and just assume everyone walking in has a gun.
The upside to driving in this part of the state is the road itself. There’s no traffic. It’s flat, paved, and has clearly visible lines painted on it. I could drive on those roads endlessly. After so much time spent on Brazilian roads, I forget that “bumpy” is not a given description of car rides everywhere.
The US highway system is one of my husband’s favorite things about the country. He longs to take a cross country trip in the US. By comparison, my husband avoids extended road trips in Brazil as if his life depended on it. (Statistically speaking it kind of does. Roads in Brazil are more dangerous than gangs.)
Kendall Manor Eufaula, Alabama By the time we were in southern Alabama our road was a smooth, two lane stretch running straight through Eufala, the undisputed scenic highlight. Eufaula, Alabama is home to 13,000 people and the most breathtaking collection of homes. They sit right off the main (possibly only) street through town.
Shorter Mansion Mansions with wrap around porches, a turret or two, carriage houses. They line both sides of the street beckoning to tourists with their corinthian columns, tempting them to abandon reason and move to Alabama.
After Eufaula there’s not much else until Florida and the Gulf of Mexico. If you’re desperate to make those last two hours of driving pass by you can play road kill bingo. Prep your cards in advance with local species but you can only put oppossum on the card twice. They line the road like mile markers. On this trip, I spotted a raccoon, fox, armadillo, and coyote.
I drove the last hour in the pouring rain, at night, listening to the dialogue of Cinderella II for the
The Gulf of Mexico! Totally worth the drive. third time in a row. When we reached my grandparents’ house, dinner was waiting for us on the table. I considered my first road trip a resounding success.
So much so, we did it all again three days later.
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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.
