Adventures in Parenting

Recently we picked up a book of poetry by Shel Silverstein at our local library. We devoured most of the book in the first day. I read Elisabeth Smart:

My dad gave me one dollar bill
'Cause I'm his smartest son,
And I swapped it for two shiny quarters
'Cause two is more than one!

Then I took the quarters
And traded them to Lou
For three dimes - I guess he don't know
That three is more than two!

Just then, along came old blind Bates
And just 'cause he can't see
He gave me four nickels for my three dimes,
And four is more than three!

And I took the nickels to Hiram Coombs
Down at the seed-feed store,
And the fool gave me five pennies for them,
And five is more than four!

And then I went and showed my dad,
And he got red in the cheeks
And closed his eyes and shook his head -
Too proud of me to speak!

The humor of the poem was entirely lost on Elisabeth. She told me that she didn't want her dollar bill. "It takes up too much space. I like the coins better." So we've been playing coin games during our math sessions this week. Elisabeth still thinks that paper money isn't as good as coins - but at least now she's beginning to understand that 1 can be more than 5, when the 1 is a dollar and the 5 are pennies.

Two days ago, we read one of my favorite passages from The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe.

Mr. and Mrs. Beaver are telling the Pevensie children about Aslan:

    'Is - is he a man?' asked Lucy.
    'Aslan a man!' said Mr Beaver sternly. 'Certainly not. I tell you he is the King of the wood and the son of the great Emperor-beyond-the-sea. Don't you know who is the King of Beasts? Aslan is a lion - the Lion, the great Lion.'
    'Ooh!' said Susan, 'I'd thought he was a man. Is he - quite safe? I shall feel rather nervous about meeting a lion.'
    'That you will, dearie, and no mistake,' said Mrs Beaver; 'if there's anyone who can appear before Aslan without their knees knocking, they're either braver than most or else just silly.'
    'Then he isn't safe?' said Lucy.
    'Safe?' said Mr. Beaver; 'don't you hear what Mrs Beaver tells you? Who said anything about safe? 'Course he isn't safe. But he's good. He's the King, I tell you.'

[Apparently Lewis didn't use periods after Mr and Mrs . . .]

We have the privilege of being in a church with many families, some of whose children are in public schools, others in private schools, and still others who are homeschooled. For a relatively "small" church of about 300, the mix is exciting to me. There are families with 1, 2, 3, 4 and even 5 children who homeschool, which wins my admiration.

The family with four children is most remarkable to me in the quality of their education and the richness of their family life. This year the 10-year-old, Sarah Grace, began learning about child development. So as part of her course of study, she teaches a class on Tuesday mornings (with her mother's oversight) for 3-5 year-olds, including Elisabeth. It is remarkable to me what Sarah Grace already knows about child development, and how to structure a class for kids (albeit only 4 of them).

So this week when I picked Elisabeth up after her class, she showed me a coat that she had drawn after reading A New Coat for Anna. Sarah Grace was stunned that I wasn't familiar with the book, as if I had missed out on childhood itself. (I'm going to pick it up at the library today so I don't miss out too much.)

It struck me just how wonderful it is that Sarah Grace is learning while teaching Elisabeth - and indirectly me. A ten-year-old is enriching our learning experience on a weekly basis.

Today Elisabeth and I began reading The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe (from the same copy my parents read to me as a child). As Lucy pushed through the wardrobe into Narnia, I paused to ask Elisabeth, "What do you think the cold, soft stuff is that she felt under her feet?" She replied, "Maybe snow or rain . . . but she's in a closet!"

We continued reading the account of Lucy wandering out to the lamp post and meeting Tumnus, the faun. Elisabeth listened with great interest to the description of Tumnus. She asked me repeatedly of this selection, "Is this real? Is Lucy pretending?" I said, "She's not pretending, she has really stepped into another world," at which Elisabeth's face lit up with excitement. However, she found a way to reframe her question about Tumnus. After asking, "Is he real?" and receiving the answer that he is, and is not just Lucy's imagination, she asked, "Is he real in our neighborhood?"

What a brilliant way for a child to embrace and understand fantasy - while distinguishing it from "our neighborhood."

Tonight I picked up the Complete Tales of Winnie the Pooh to read to Elisabeth, and found myself repeatedly laughing out loud at A. A. Milne's brilliant use of the unexpected, like this:

The first person Pooh met was Rabbit.
"Hallo, Rabbit," he said, "is that you?"
"Let's pretend it isn't," said Rabbit, "and see what happens."

It is no wonder that Pooh has become a classic. I'll most certainly be reading it again tomorrow night.

This morning I was talking with a friend about the vision of tumblon, and the role of literature. Then I happened upon this passage from Honey for a Child's Heart:

"Good literature teaches more than we know. Example always speaks louder than precept, and books can do more to inspire honor and tenacity of purpose than all the chiding and exhortations in the world." (p53)

It is no wonder that I return to Honey again and again.

I just stumbled across this quote from C.S. Lewis on The Children's Hour:

"I often wonder what the present generation of children will grow up like. . . . They have been treated with so much indulgence yet so little affection, with so much science and so little mother-wit. Not a fairy tale nor a nursery rhyme.”

- Quoted in Alan Jacobs, The Narnian: The Life and Imagination of C. S. Lewis, 217). (New York: HaperCollins, 2005), 234-35.

There is much to be said for the lavish use of great literature with children.

Reading can appear to be a very solitary action. I sit in a chair with a good book, not interacting with anyone - not even aware of anyone else around me. Yet I am convinced that reading is one of the most loving things that I can do.

How can reading, which appears so solitary, be loving? It can be loving when what I read makes me more human. When I read a book like When Invisible Children Sing, I am rebuked for my selfishness, and inspired to have compassion. When I read a children's book like The Story of Ruby Bridges, I am captivated by the courage of a little girl, and inspired to child-like simplicity in trusting Jesus. As usual, Gladys Hunt says it better than I can:

"That which is excellent has a certain spirit of literature present. The sensitivity of the reader says, 'This is true.' 'This is real.' And it sets in action something in the reader that has profound effects. It has been an experience - spiritual, imaginative, intellectual or social. A sense of permanent worthwhileness surrounds really great literature." (Honey for a Child's Heart p50)

When I have those sorts of experiences in literature, I am more able to love others. I have a greater depth of experience and wider sight of view. I see the subtle deceitfulness of my own heart more readily, and the tenderness of another's more perceptively. My heart is enlarged to love others in more authentic ways.

When I am in the habit of reading in the evenings, I notice the effect that it has on me. Perhaps I notice it yet more when I don't create time to read, and my world is diminished, and my vision blurry. My heart doesn't ring with those words, "This is true. This is real." Those are times, like now, when I see how important reading is to loving.

Reading good books has a wonderful way of putting me in my place and giving me perspective. Right now I'm in the midst of When Invisible Children Sing, the stories of Dr. Chi Huang of his time serving street children in Bolivia during his fourth year of medical school. He has opened my eyes, and my heart, to the plight of these children on the street.

In one chapter he recounts the story of Daniela, a young teen-ager and already a mother of two. Daniela's younger daughter, Maria, dies as a result of Daniela's neglect. When the author realizes that this he comes to a crossroads:

"What will I say to her? She helped kill Maria. Do I confront her with her failure as a mother? She already knows. The street children know the difference between wrong and right. They love their children and their street families.  .  . . There are times to be strong, and there are times to be gentle. This is a time to be caring. Daniela knows more than anyone else her wrongdoing; she has lost her daughter as a result. What she needs, like other street children, is the social tools to prevent tragedy from recurring. Hopefully, I can help her find a new way of living." (pp176-7)

What this passage exposed to me is a new way of living. The point is not whether people are guilty or not. Of course they are. But if there is going to be any change in those caught in the grip of poverty, we must help them find a new way of living by modeling that new way - a way of mercy and hope.

I am deeply thankful for literature - good literature - that challenges my paradigms, and pushes me toward mercy and love. I can't help but think that literature may play that same role in changing the paradigms of those stuck in poverty.