Lift Up Your Hearts!

Perhaps because getting along with people and functioning well in the world is not the only working definition of socialization. In consideration of the following quote from The Underground History of American Education by former New York State Teacher of the Year John Taylor Gatto, the idea that socialization is a school function not commonly duplicated by homeschoolers makes much more sense (emphasis added):

And sometimes not. Steve, our obstetrician and friend, allowed me to labor 20 hours with our firstborn, with four hours of pushing. This baby was a "left occiput posterior presentation," coming into the world head down, but facing the wrong way. The work was hard, and painful, made more so because somewhere along the line obstetricians lost the knowledge midwives had of the important role labor position plays in baby position. But his patience (and ours) paid off with the birth of a beautiful, healthy girl.

Blame it on doctors, hospitals, insurance companies, lawyers, or all of the above, that scenario would be unlikely today. Long labor and posterior presentation are each indicators for Caesarean section. I'm glad Steve had faith in the natural process.

You don't have to pay anything now, you'll get a bill later.

As if that had any effect on the cost! Have we become so inured to debt—home mortages, car financing, credit cards, college loans—that the only price tag we care about is what we must pay right now, the copay, the down payment, the minimum monthly charge?

Let the Baby Drive, by Lu Hanessian (St. Martin's Press, New York, 2004)

Recently we opened a bottle of wine of far higher class (and expense) than I could hope to appreciate. (I can occasionally enjoy half of a small glass of wine, but my discernment rarely goes beyond "I like this" or "I don't like this"; I can distinguish red from white with my eyes closed, but "redolent of old oak with faint hints of chocolate, raspberry, and mushroom" is beyond me.) After my first sip or two, I said, "This isn't my kind of wine." By the third sip I had changed my mind, and thoroughly enjoyed the rest of the bottle over the next few days.

That's how I feel about Let the Baby Drive. I saw it advertised in The Compleat Mother magazine, and borrowed it from our local library. For the first several chapters I was thinking, 'Yeah, this is mildly interesting, but I wouldn't recommend it to anyone. Why does this lady make such a big deal out of life with a newborn, something women have been handling for millennia? She is 'way too focussed on herself, her angst, the minutiae of her feelings."

By the third sip I had changed my mind. I stood in awe as her son became the focus of her detailed observations. Let the Baby Drive is a rare, almost unique, look into the first few years of life. Nicholas began talking at 10 months, providing an invaluable window on the surprisingly sophisticated thought processes of children at an age when they are too often considered mere lumps of clay. Banging his spoon on his high chair tray, as every baby does, Nicholas proclaims, "Mah-mee! I'm chopping wood!"

Hanessian's habit of carefully observing Nicholas enables her to get through the stage when he hates her, doesn't need her, wants to throw her in the garbage and never see her again. Thirteen? No, three. Three years old, and dealing with terror over the knowledge that things change, people grow, water goes down the drain and you never see it again. Had she viewed this strictly as an issue of discipline, of misbehavior, instead of respecting her son enough to unravel the puzzle, she would never have known.

When Nicholas is 18 months old, she suddenly hears,

...a rhythmic crashing sound coming from down the hallway in our house. It sounds as though somebody's trying to break in. I hurry toward the bedroom to find Nicholas standing in his crib with his baby fists wrapped tightly around the railing, hurtling himself back and forth like a baby gorilla. For a second, I think I see a glint of delinquency in his eye. I see trouble. Class clown. Street kid. Jailbird. Baby behind bars. Before I can take my thoughts any further, he yells above the noise, "Mah-mee! I make muzak!" Now, the diabolical glint in his eye is more of a twinkle. Suddenly, the baby gorilla is a brilliant child turning inanimate objects into musical instruments. The mother ready to indict her baby on one count of reckless endangerment with intent to destroy private property now sees him as a budding musician.

At three, Nicholas goes to preschool, where his enthusiasm and intelligence fit poorly with the teacher's approach. After much observation, investigation, and agonized soul-searching, his parents conclude this is the wrong school, the wrong teacher, the wrong age, the wrong fit...something is wrong and the best solution is to stop. Now.

Sometimes, you can't tell what's missing until it comes back. And so it was with Nicholas in the weeks after he waved good-bye to the stone school on the hill. We didn't realize how much of his smile had faded until it was restored, until the bounce was back in his step.

Hanessian's habits of observation, and her efforts to know and understand her child, remind me of Nancy Wallace, whose books Better than School and Child's Work have long been among my favorites. Everyone knows that a child needs love; it's a rare parent (and rarer author) who understands how much he needs respect as well.

As part of their efforts to understand Nicholas's problems in preschool, his parents visited a counsellor whose wise comment is a fitting summary of this book:

The world will try again and again to turn out your son's light.   It will be your responsibility to keep his light on, and to teach him how to do the same.

UPDATE March 18, 2012  Seven years?  It's been seven years since I wrote this?    Impossible, yet that's the date stamped on the post.  At that time, our only grandchild was barely 17 months old.  Now we have six grandchildren, from eight weeks to eight years, and upon re-reading Let the Baby Drive I find I love it all the more.  Did I really once find the first several chapters dull, and write, "[The author] is 'way too focussed on herself, her angst, the minutiae of her feelings"?  This time I hung on every word, and her inner struggles made fascinating, and important sense.  Good books, like good wines, age well.

I was curious to compare the ingredients and nutritional value of the two varieties of soy milk in my refrigerator: Organic Valley Soy Vanilla, and Silk Unsweetened Soymilk. Staring at the nutritional labelling, I couldn't get past the beginning. Two half-gallon containers. Both say "Serving size: 1 cup." The Organic Valley carton says the expected, "Servings per container: 8," whereas the Silk Unsweetened says, "Servings per container: 4."

No matter what one thinks about the relative cultural merits of art and sport, the fallacy is unmistakable.

When the top Magic basketball player earns no more than the Orlando Philharmonic's principal oboist; when the team owes its survival to dedicated volunteers, generous donors, and massive fund-raising efforts; when our basketball team becomes a bona fide non-profit organization; then and only then will I consider seriously their claim to public funding.

We enjoyed the beautiful flowers, listened to a lecture on herbs, and wished Jonathan had been with us in the butterfly garden. We almost tried out the new ride, Soaring, open only to passholders, but it broke down while we were in line and we chose not to wait. We had waited two hours in a similar situation with Test Track before it opened, and once was more than enough.

Wandering in a desultory fashion around the park, we made sure to take in a few old favorites before bidding farewell for the foreseeable future to EPCOT, our favorite Disney park. Having heard that the movie at China had been updated, we had to see it. At the risk of being an old stick in the mud, I like the old movie better. It actually seemed like China. In this one there is much more emphasis on China as a cosmopolitan country—lots of views of modern Shanghai and Hong Kong, and emphasis on European influence. Their exultation in having acquired Macao and Hong Kong was also a little unpleasant.

While we were waiting for the movie, we browsed their store. I was intrigued by the CD's they had to offer, but lost respect for the clerk when he insisted a CD that included a hymn to Chairman Mao was "traditional Chinese music."

My hands-down favorite EPCOT movie is Impressions de France, which I believe hasn't changed since we started coming 20 years ago. I have to see it every time we go to EPCOT. The music is fantastic, and I get the feeling the French are proud to show us their country; if we like it, fine, but otherwise it's our loss.

I wonder why Disney keeps exporting my least favorite park? Why is it always "Disneyland" Hong Kong, or Paris, or whatever? Not that I've ever been to any of them, but I assume they are mostly similar to the Magic Kingdom. EPCOT is Disney's best park, I think (Animal Kingdom second), although it has gone downhill markedly in the past 5 years or so. It was always the girls' favorite park, too, even when they were five and two years old.

It's a good thing our passes have expired, as we can't afford being able to go there for free. We spend to much at the restaurants. This time we ate lunch in Italy, at L'Originale Alfredo di Roma Ristorante. We weren't left with much appetite for dinner, but managed an appetizer and dessert (along with the fabulous mint tea) at Restaurant Marrakesh in Morocco. Our first choice had been Akershus in Norway, which used to have a fabulous smorgasbord. Unfortunately, it has been taken over entirely by "character dining." We were assured, "the food is still the same," but we were definitely not in the mood for "a princess experience." It didn't seem to fit with the Viking atmosphere, somehow.

It's an extra pleasant day whenever we can open the doors and windows and let some of the outside in, so today started out well. At least three times a week we take a midday exercise break at a nearby park, and today's was especially pleasant. Physical exercise is the excuse for the trip, but it is not the only benefit. I make a point of looking at the sky, watching the clouds and the birds and the airplanes overhead, changing my persepective. The jogging trail goes through the woods, and today I stopped to watch a squirrel, a cardinal, and a gopher tortoise going about their business. Because part of the trail was flooded, I was forced to bushwack a bit, and that brought its own pleasures, including the sight of some lovely wildflowers. The sunshine provided my day's quota of vitamin D in the most pleasant way possible, and no doubt conferred other benefits. (I learned from our time in Boston that sunshine really is a vital commodity; in Florida one tends to take it for granted.) Back home, we enjoyed the first swim of the season. At 68 degreees, the pool water is refreshing to say the least, but especially invigorating.

Bay Punch, a primary ingredient of which is cranberry juice, was developed at the University of Rochester Computing Center in the 1970's. It is one of the greatest drinks in the world, and absolutely the best thing to drink with pizza. The "Bay" in the name comes from Bay and Goodman Pizza, the original source for our Tuesday night feasts. I'll post a recipe if I can get permission from the only one of the Bay Punch creators with whom I've kept in touch.