The Brown-eyed Girl asked a question the other evening after her bedtime story. Asking questions is a routine event, most being merely 'Why?' But this one got me thinking.
"How do you know the story's over?" she looked at the picture of the Little Wooden Horse in the book. "How do you know without turning the page?"
'Because it is', was the first response in my mind but I controlled myself.
'Because the baddy's been killed/eaten/banished', didn't seem a positive message.
'Because everyone's happy', only applies to some stories; even fairy tales ended badly for someone.
'Because the crisis has been resolved', seemed a little advanced for a four-year old.
'Because the loose ends are all tied up', would have led to a discussion of what a loose end was.
'Because it can't go on without introducing something else' didn't quite explain what I meant.
"Because the book is called 'Five Minute Stories' and five minutes are up" did quite nicely.
Showing posts with label Brown-eyed Girl. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Brown-eyed Girl. Show all posts
Curious Girl
The Brown-eyed Girl asked a question the other evening after her bedtime story. Asking questions is a routine event, most being merely 'Why?' But this one got me thinking.
"How do you know the story's over?" she looked at the picture of the Little Wooden Horse in the book. "How do you know without turning the page?"
'Because it is', was the first response in my mind but I controlled myself.
'Because the baddy's been killed/eaten/banished', didn't seem a positive message.
'Because everyone's happy', only applies to some stories; even fairy tales ended badly for someone.
'Because the crisis has been resolved', seemed a little advanced for a four-year old.
'Because the loose ends are all tied up', would have led to a discussion of what a loose end was.
'Because it can't go on without introducing something else' didn't quite explain what I meant.
"Because the book is called 'Five Minute Stories' and five minutes are up" did quite nicely.
"How do you know the story's over?" she looked at the picture of the Little Wooden Horse in the book. "How do you know without turning the page?"
'Because it is', was the first response in my mind but I controlled myself.
'Because the baddy's been killed/eaten/banished', didn't seem a positive message.
'Because everyone's happy', only applies to some stories; even fairy tales ended badly for someone.
'Because the crisis has been resolved', seemed a little advanced for a four-year old.
'Because the loose ends are all tied up', would have led to a discussion of what a loose end was.
'Because it can't go on without introducing something else' didn't quite explain what I meant.
"Because the book is called 'Five Minute Stories' and five minutes are up" did quite nicely.
The open road
The other weekend I did something unusual, for me anyway. It had lodged in my brain as a possibility over a month ago and refused to budge in spite of the guilt, the recriminations and the arguments. These before I even told the family. So having spent the previous week in a state of nervous indecision I finally told the children I was abandoning them, for one whole night.
There were tears, of course, from the Brown-eyed Girl. "But I want you and Baba" she pleaded. A few minutes of uncertainty ensued as she gauged how serious my threat to leave was. Then the major question arose: "Who will put me to sleep?" Baba wouldn't do. She thought a few moments "I'll put myself to sleep". I sighed with relief and got ready to go. Little Boy Blue seemed unfazed, even watching me board the bus he was fine.
On the bus I admit to suppressing the urge to soothe the crying baby before being distracted by the young woman beside me. Apart from fiddling with the air conditioning at irregular intervals, she rang at least ten people to tell them she was moving 100km south of where she had been. She ignored the signs warning passengers to turn off their mobile phones. One wasn't enough either, she had to have two phones.
I missed the children, though not as they are now; confident, articulate, ambulant. I missed my babies, their cuddly helplessness and easy smiles. They are not so big that I've forgotten everything though. Neither slept through the night until during their third year; the frustration of not knowing what was wrong as they cried; the need to keep them constantly entertaine; and the eating cold dinners after catering for everyone else first. Actually the last still applies, it's a rule to ask for something just as Mammy sits down, first one, then the next and so on. Then when they've got everything they want, they demand to be fed. Maybe one night away isn't enough.
After three hours and countless local bus stations, we arrived at our rest stop to be greeted by bare-chested beer-bellied Bulgarians drinking beer. It was a shock to my delicate sensibilities to be confronted by bare chests on the street. So I hurried downtown to make my virtual friends real.
There were tears, of course, from the Brown-eyed Girl. "But I want you and Baba" she pleaded. A few minutes of uncertainty ensued as she gauged how serious my threat to leave was. Then the major question arose: "Who will put me to sleep?" Baba wouldn't do. She thought a few moments "I'll put myself to sleep". I sighed with relief and got ready to go. Little Boy Blue seemed unfazed, even watching me board the bus he was fine.
On the bus I admit to suppressing the urge to soothe the crying baby before being distracted by the young woman beside me. Apart from fiddling with the air conditioning at irregular intervals, she rang at least ten people to tell them she was moving 100km south of where she had been. She ignored the signs warning passengers to turn off their mobile phones. One wasn't enough either, she had to have two phones.
I missed the children, though not as they are now; confident, articulate, ambulant. I missed my babies, their cuddly helplessness and easy smiles. They are not so big that I've forgotten everything though. Neither slept through the night until during their third year; the frustration of not knowing what was wrong as they cried; the need to keep them constantly entertaine; and the eating cold dinners after catering for everyone else first. Actually the last still applies, it's a rule to ask for something just as Mammy sits down, first one, then the next and so on. Then when they've got everything they want, they demand to be fed. Maybe one night away isn't enough.
After three hours and countless local bus stations, we arrived at our rest stop to be greeted by bare-chested beer-bellied Bulgarians drinking beer. It was a shock to my delicate sensibilities to be confronted by bare chests on the street. So I hurried downtown to make my virtual friends real.
The open road
The other weekend I did something unusual, for me anyway. It had lodged in my brain as a possibility over a month ago and refused to budge in spite of the guilt, the recriminations and the arguments. These before I even told the family. So having spent the previous week in a state of nervous indecision I finally told the children I was abandoning them, for one whole night.
There were tears, of course, from the Brown-eyed Girl. "But I want you and Baba" she pleaded. A few minutes of uncertainty ensued as she gauged how serious my threat to leave was. Then the major question arose: "Who will put me to sleep?" Baba wouldn't do. She thought a few moments "I'll put myself to sleep". I sighed with relief and got ready to go. Little Boy Blue seemed unfazed, even watching me board the bus he was fine.
On the bus I admit to suppressing the urge to soothe the crying baby before being distracted by the young woman beside me. Apart from fiddling with the air conditioning at irregular intervals, she rang at least ten people to tell them she was moving 100km south of where she had been. She ignored the signs warning passengers to turn off their mobile phones. One wasn't enough either, she had to have two phones.
I missed the children, though not as they are now; confident, articulate, ambulant. I missed my babies, their cuddly helplessness and easy smiles. They are not so big that I've forgotten everything though. Neither slept through the night until during their third year; the frustration of not knowing what was wrong as they cried; the need to keep them constantly entertaine; and the eating cold dinners after catering for everyone else first. Actually the last still applies, it's a rule to ask for something just as Mammy sits down, first one, then the next and so on. Then when they've got everything they want, they demand to be fed. Maybe one night away isn't enough.
After three hours and countless local bus stations, we arrived at our rest stop to be greeted by bare-chested beer-bellied Bulgarians drinking beer. It was a shock to my delicate sensibilities to be confronted by bare chests on the street. So I hurried downtown to make my virtual friends real.
There were tears, of course, from the Brown-eyed Girl. "But I want you and Baba" she pleaded. A few minutes of uncertainty ensued as she gauged how serious my threat to leave was. Then the major question arose: "Who will put me to sleep?" Baba wouldn't do. She thought a few moments "I'll put myself to sleep". I sighed with relief and got ready to go. Little Boy Blue seemed unfazed, even watching me board the bus he was fine.
On the bus I admit to suppressing the urge to soothe the crying baby before being distracted by the young woman beside me. Apart from fiddling with the air conditioning at irregular intervals, she rang at least ten people to tell them she was moving 100km south of where she had been. She ignored the signs warning passengers to turn off their mobile phones. One wasn't enough either, she had to have two phones.
I missed the children, though not as they are now; confident, articulate, ambulant. I missed my babies, their cuddly helplessness and easy smiles. They are not so big that I've forgotten everything though. Neither slept through the night until during their third year; the frustration of not knowing what was wrong as they cried; the need to keep them constantly entertaine; and the eating cold dinners after catering for everyone else first. Actually the last still applies, it's a rule to ask for something just as Mammy sits down, first one, then the next and so on. Then when they've got everything they want, they demand to be fed. Maybe one night away isn't enough.
After three hours and countless local bus stations, we arrived at our rest stop to be greeted by bare-chested beer-bellied Bulgarians drinking beer. It was a shock to my delicate sensibilities to be confronted by bare chests on the street. So I hurried downtown to make my virtual friends real.
Gender stereotyping
I witnessed a very disturbing scene last week when I spent an afternoon with the Brown-eyed Girl in her preschool. After attempting to teach twelve four year olds 'Head, shoulders, knees and toes' in English and determining that the average attention span is nine minutes, I was treated to a mini concert. The Brown-eyed Girl performed a solo of the 'Walnut Man' complete with actions, then the choir chimed in with a lovely rhyme about a dog who wanted to fly. Starting with his aeronautical ambitions and ending with splat after he launched himself from the balcony, it stirred the heart and made me glad to see my little girl in such an educationally stimulating class.
But by far the most excitement was generated when the teacher began the song 'Little soldier, little Ayse'. First the boys jumped to attention, marched about and saluted as they sang their chant about protecting their loved ones, then the girls leapt up, rocking imaginary babies and singing about staying home and making babies. It was all I could do to pick my chin up off the floor at such a blatant display of gender stereotyping being taught to impressionable four-year olds. I resisted the temptation to launch into a rant at the teacher about equality, feminism and suffrage. A disgrace in a society that can demean women and lock them into traditional roles. Surely they should be teaching that a girl can do anything she puts her mind to, and that a boy does not have to fight if he doesn't want to.
But the mothers of most of the children in the preschool work outside the home, they are teachers or university lecturers. I am the exception there: I am a stay-at-home mother, I made my babies and rocked them. I do the cooking and the cleaning and keep house. You could place me in the 1950's and I wouldn't stand out. I never had a career exactly and hope to carve one out by working from home. So my example to my children, so far, upholds the stereotypes.
And in a country with compulsory military service, all the boys do have to fight.
But by far the most excitement was generated when the teacher began the song 'Little soldier, little Ayse'. First the boys jumped to attention, marched about and saluted as they sang their chant about protecting their loved ones, then the girls leapt up, rocking imaginary babies and singing about staying home and making babies. It was all I could do to pick my chin up off the floor at such a blatant display of gender stereotyping being taught to impressionable four-year olds. I resisted the temptation to launch into a rant at the teacher about equality, feminism and suffrage. A disgrace in a society that can demean women and lock them into traditional roles. Surely they should be teaching that a girl can do anything she puts her mind to, and that a boy does not have to fight if he doesn't want to.
But the mothers of most of the children in the preschool work outside the home, they are teachers or university lecturers. I am the exception there: I am a stay-at-home mother, I made my babies and rocked them. I do the cooking and the cleaning and keep house. You could place me in the 1950's and I wouldn't stand out. I never had a career exactly and hope to carve one out by working from home. So my example to my children, so far, upholds the stereotypes.
And in a country with compulsory military service, all the boys do have to fight.
Gender stereotyping
I witnessed a very disturbing scene last week when I spent an afternoon with the Brown-eyed Girl in her preschool. After attempting to teach twelve four year olds 'Head, shoulders, knees and toes' in English and determining that the average attention span is nine minutes, I was treated to a mini concert. The Brown-eyed Girl performed a solo of the 'Walnut Man' complete with actions, then the choir chimed in with a lovely rhyme about a dog who wanted to fly. Starting with his aeronautical ambitions and ending with splat after he launched himself from the balcony, it stirred the heart and made me glad to see my little girl in such an educationally stimulating class.
But by far the most excitement was generated when the teacher began the song 'Little soldier, little Ayse'. First the boys jumped to attention, marched about and saluted as they sang their chant about protecting their loved ones, then the girls leapt up, rocking imaginary babies and singing about staying home and making babies. It was all I could do to pick my chin up off the floor at such a blatant display of gender stereotyping being taught to impressionable four-year olds. I resisted the temptation to launch into a rant at the teacher about equality, feminism and suffrage. A disgrace in a society that can demean women and lock them into traditional roles. Surely they should be teaching that a girl can do anything she puts her mind to, and that a boy does not have to fight if he doesn't want to.
But the mothers of most of the children in the preschool work outside the home, they are teachers or university lecturers. I am the exception there: I am a stay-at-home mother, I made my babies and rocked them. I do the cooking and the cleaning and keep house. You could place me in the 1950's and I wouldn't stand out. I never had a career exactly and hope to carve one out by working from home. So my example to my children, so far, upholds the stereotypes.
And in a country with compulsory military service, all the boys do have to fight.
But by far the most excitement was generated when the teacher began the song 'Little soldier, little Ayse'. First the boys jumped to attention, marched about and saluted as they sang their chant about protecting their loved ones, then the girls leapt up, rocking imaginary babies and singing about staying home and making babies. It was all I could do to pick my chin up off the floor at such a blatant display of gender stereotyping being taught to impressionable four-year olds. I resisted the temptation to launch into a rant at the teacher about equality, feminism and suffrage. A disgrace in a society that can demean women and lock them into traditional roles. Surely they should be teaching that a girl can do anything she puts her mind to, and that a boy does not have to fight if he doesn't want to.
But the mothers of most of the children in the preschool work outside the home, they are teachers or university lecturers. I am the exception there: I am a stay-at-home mother, I made my babies and rocked them. I do the cooking and the cleaning and keep house. You could place me in the 1950's and I wouldn't stand out. I never had a career exactly and hope to carve one out by working from home. So my example to my children, so far, upholds the stereotypes.
And in a country with compulsory military service, all the boys do have to fight.
Traditional Christmas
We started a tradition bound to continue yesterday; we bought a battery-operated toy that broke within five minutes!
In hindsight there were omens, the cheap yellow plastic, the suspiciously delicate appendages, and worst of all 'Quality Toy - Made in China' in font size 4 on the back of the package. It came out of the box intact, survived putting in the batteries, climbed 4x4 style over the cushions and then lost its treads. Replacing them several times in the following five minutes became tedious and we discussed how we could permanently fix the problem; put the rubber treads in the fridge to shorten them; put them in hot water; glue them to the wheels. Alas while these talks were underway Little Boy Blue tore the treads apart in his curiosity.
Not to worry there was another vehicle to play with. Attaching a trailer to it was fiddly and ultimately pointless as the attachment broke. Still the Brown-eyed Girl played with it, pausing briefly to scream at Little Boy Blue when he wandered close with a 'gimme' look in his eye. She retrieved the box and polystyrene packaging from within the piles of wrapping paper and has played happily ever since, leaving a stream of white confetti in her wake.
Terrible to be so stereotypical...
In hindsight there were omens, the cheap yellow plastic, the suspiciously delicate appendages, and worst of all 'Quality Toy - Made in China' in font size 4 on the back of the package. It came out of the box intact, survived putting in the batteries, climbed 4x4 style over the cushions and then lost its treads. Replacing them several times in the following five minutes became tedious and we discussed how we could permanently fix the problem; put the rubber treads in the fridge to shorten them; put them in hot water; glue them to the wheels. Alas while these talks were underway Little Boy Blue tore the treads apart in his curiosity.
Not to worry there was another vehicle to play with. Attaching a trailer to it was fiddly and ultimately pointless as the attachment broke. Still the Brown-eyed Girl played with it, pausing briefly to scream at Little Boy Blue when he wandered close with a 'gimme' look in his eye. She retrieved the box and polystyrene packaging from within the piles of wrapping paper and has played happily ever since, leaving a stream of white confetti in her wake.
Terrible to be so stereotypical...
Traditional Christmas
We started a tradition bound to continue yesterday; we bought a battery-operated toy that broke within five minutes!
In hindsight there were omens, the cheap yellow plastic, the suspiciously delicate appendages, and worst of all 'Quality Toy - Made in China' in font size 4 on the back of the package. It came out of the box intact, survived putting in the batteries, climbed 4x4 style over the cushions and then lost its treads. Replacing them several times in the following five minutes became tedious and we discussed how we could permanently fix the problem; put the rubber treads in the fridge to shorten them; put them in hot water; glue them to the wheels. Alas while these talks were underway Little Boy Blue tore the treads apart in his curiosity.
Not to worry there was another vehicle to play with. Attaching a trailer to it was fiddly and ultimately pointless as the attachment broke. Still the Brown-eyed Girl played with it, pausing briefly to scream at Little Boy Blue when he wandered close with a 'gimme' look in his eye. She retrieved the box and polystyrene packaging from within the piles of wrapping paper and has played happily ever since, leaving a stream of white confetti in her wake.
Terrible to be so stereotypical...
In hindsight there were omens, the cheap yellow plastic, the suspiciously delicate appendages, and worst of all 'Quality Toy - Made in China' in font size 4 on the back of the package. It came out of the box intact, survived putting in the batteries, climbed 4x4 style over the cushions and then lost its treads. Replacing them several times in the following five minutes became tedious and we discussed how we could permanently fix the problem; put the rubber treads in the fridge to shorten them; put them in hot water; glue them to the wheels. Alas while these talks were underway Little Boy Blue tore the treads apart in his curiosity.
Not to worry there was another vehicle to play with. Attaching a trailer to it was fiddly and ultimately pointless as the attachment broke. Still the Brown-eyed Girl played with it, pausing briefly to scream at Little Boy Blue when he wandered close with a 'gimme' look in his eye. She retrieved the box and polystyrene packaging from within the piles of wrapping paper and has played happily ever since, leaving a stream of white confetti in her wake.
Terrible to be so stereotypical...
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