Am I the only person who thinks the Giving Tree should be banned?

Why J had to pick that bag at the book swap (see previous post), I'm not sure. But he did. He picked the bag with another copy of the Giving Tree in it.
My first thought was: we'll just give that away. Right away. We already have a copy of the damn book anyway.
But no. Jonas wanted to read it that night.
"Why don't we read Batman again?" I suggested.
But he pushed.
"Mommy cries when she reads this book," I warned him.
"Read mama," he said.
So I began reading.
And there was the little boy who loved his tree. He would swing on the tree's branches, eat her apples, and sleep in her shade.
(so far so good).
But then the little boy grows up and he needs money and he comes back to the tree who says takes my apples (the little boy is about 30 years old now) and the little boy takes his apples. And the tree's happy.
Then the boy comes back and he's middle aged.
"That's not a little boy," J points out.
"You're right," I say.
And the little boy who's a full grown man with a beer belly and less hair needs a house and so he takes up the tree's offer to take all her branches as wood for his house. And after the little-boy-turned-pearshaped-and-balding takes the branches the tree, again, is happy.
(still, no tears...I'm gonna make it!)
Then the little boy who is very old now comes back and wants a boat and the tree offers his trunk, which the elderly little boy takes and the tree (to this reader's horror) is left nothing more than a stump but still happy (although not really.)
Then the little-boy-near-death-old returns again and the tree apologizes saying, "I have nothing left to give you, My apples are gone..."
"Where'd his apples go mommy?" J asks, and the next thing you know I'm bawling like a baby, snot running out my nose and J says, "Can I go see daddy?"
"Of course," I say, half crying, half laughing.
I can't help but wonder: Is it just me? Does anyone else cry when reading this book to their children? Does anyone else wonder why Shel Silverstein had to go and write such a damn depressing children's book?? I know it's supposed to be a lovely tale for the ages but I would much prefer a revised version where the tree says to the boy-man, "Stop being such a selfish brat and go out and make some money to build your house and your friggin boat!"
That would make me very happy.
Now does anyone want a copy (or two) of The Giving Tree?

Book Swappers BEWARE!

It seemed like a good idea at the time. A book swap instead of presents for J's third birthday party. Although I had never attended a party with a book swap, I knew they were pretty popular around here. In case you are not familiar with book swaps, here's how it works. Each child who attends the party brings a wrapped book, At some point, all the kids sit in a circle and each kid gets to pick a book to take home.
A nice concept, right? One that screams: "We are not a shallow family! We are deep! We value literature, not meaningless toys!
OK.
Here's where this line of thinking backfired. WE equals parents. As far the kid whose birthday it is well, that's a different story.
Perhaps if E had a book swap first, things would have been different. But at E's birthday in January, it was all about the presents. It was all about transformers, Spiderman, hotwheels, you name it. I remember J watching in awe and envy as his older brother opened all those presesnts.
I suppose as his birthday approached he thought in what is now becoming the usual, ongoing sibling rivalry (are children just born knowing how to say "Na na na na na"?), now it's my turn.
Then came the party. As the guests arrived and the wrapped books piled up, Jonas got excited. "Look at all these presents for me mama!" He said.
"Well no, sweetie," I explained. "These are for all the kids."
He stared at me blankly.
"Where are my presents?" he asked.
"Well you already got lots of presents, you know, from me and daddy. And Nana."
Again, the blank stare.
Later, after the party, J was still searching for his missing gifts. He'd see an empty bag. "Is that my present in there, mommy?" Even a simple scrap piece of gift wrap induced longing. "Is this mine mommy?"
"Well no honey, but look at the great new books you got from the book swap!"
"Yes, mommy - a batman book!"
"Yes!" I said relieved, thinking his sadness, his feeling of being ripped off had passed.
Then, the next morning on our way to school, he asked what his friend Kyle gave him.
"He brought a book," I said.
Then E had to chime in and say, "Justin got me a spiderman for my birthday" and I snapped in typical mommy dearest fashion: "No more talking about birthdays! What does it matter what Justin got you anyway?" In the rear view mirror Ethan looked stunned.
But the worst was yesterday...now four days post-party. We're driving in the car when out of nowhere J says, "I didn't want all my friends to take my books at my party."
I wanted to cry. I'm still not sure which one of us is more scarred from this whole swapping experience: him or me.

Holy Testosterone Batman!

The boys latest game is called "Fight."
No more playing with trucks. Or fixing things with tools.
Now it's all about the fight.
There are variations of the game. First you can do it with Lego men. You line them all up on the TV stand and count to twenty.
If you are two-year old J, whenever you get past ten, you just repeat what your older brother is saying or make something up like 'six, ten, five...twenty!' Then you shout "Kapow! Chow! Frow!" as your lego people beat the crap out of each other.
The second variation is to actually fight with each other.
Again, if you're J, you put on your best Superwhy cape and mask, announce that you are Batman (or Robin, depending on your mood), and yell "FIGHT!" If your brother does not respond because he's too tired, you ask more politely:
"Hey, E, wanna fight?'
If he says no, sulk.
If he says yes, pounce.

At first I worried I created this problem by letting the boys watch old Batman episodes on YouTube.
"If it wasn't Batman, it would have been some other fighting game," my mother-in-law, an early childhood specialist assured me. To be sure, I bought the book The Way of Boys, because honestly, I was clueless about the way of boys. I had sisters. We played Barbies, not bad guys, and rarely did Barbie and Ken beat each other up. As a kid, and even into adulthood, boys always seemed a strange and scary species. When I first found out I was having a boy,in fact, I dreamed his was born smoking a cigar and speaking in tongues. No joke. I was terrified.

Sure enough, in the book, there was a whole chapter on how boys need to be bad guys, the author's words again assuring me this was normal.
So, when it comes to the fighting, I try to take the stay out of it approach, telling myself I'm letting nature take its course. The only time I interfere is if the fighting breaks out in public, or when I hear something bang hard against a wall (almost always J's head), followed by crying.
The last time this happened, I went in to the boy's room to console J who was crying and saying "E hit me! E hit me."
Moments later, E started crying too.
"Why are you crying?" I asked him.
"He wanted to fight mommmy," E said.
Was he crying because he was scared of getting in trouble? Or because he felt badly?
I wasn't sure.
Later that evening, J fell off his chair while eating dinner. No one was fighting then. It was just one of those awkward toddler moments when you miscalculate your distance from the table and the next thing you know you're hanging upside down from your chair, your head bonking the floor.
My husband picked up J and took him to the couch where he proceeded to cry and scream for several minutes.
E left the room and to our suprise, returned moments later with J's batman toy. He handed it to his brother, who stopped crying. "Here you go, J," he said.
My husband and I looked at each other.
There is hope for the male species after all.

Of Squirrels and Squash
Part II
Squirrels

Saturday, February 20

Two days after the squash incident, a squirrel decided to make an appearance in our attic.
I had already forgotten the certainty with which my mother-in-law said we had squirrels in the attic when she slept over two weeks ago.
“Yep, I heard them all night…scurrying around,” she said.
For the next couple of nights, I listened, but heard nothing.
“She was probably confusing the sounds of the heater with squirrels,” I said to Ben, who agreed.
And that was that. At least until something crashed to the ground Saturday morning and Ben opened the attic door to see a squirrel standing at the top of the stairs.
“Was it big?” I asked, as though a slight difference in size mattered when there were wild animals in the house.
“Yep,” he said. “Looked big to me.”
The boys were excited.
Jonas grabbed his Red Sox baseball bat and kept calling “Where are you squirrel?” Then he practiced how he’d “bonk” the critter, using his stuffed penguin as a stand-in.
All day, philosophical discussions ensued, such as the following:

Ethan: Um, the squirrel jumped up to the window then he chewed up the squares and the glass and found a hiding spot in the attic.

Jonas: We can build a house for him.

Ethan: But the squirrel likes hiding places in the forest. Only in the forest, not here where there are houses. They like bears. If a bear comes and tries to get him he finds a really good hiding spot.

Jonas: No, he gets in his car and drives away.

Ethan: But squirrels can’t drive – but they have legs on their bottom and they run like babies (Ethan demonstrates by crawling on the floor)

Jonas: And, um, we can build a cage for him.

Ethan: but he likes it in the forest only

Ben: So, Jonas, are you still going to bonk the squirrel?

Jonas: Yep.

Ben: So you’re going to build a house for the squirrel and then bonk it?

Jonas: Yep.

Ethan: But his house has to be in the forest.

Ben: Where’s the forest? We don’t really have forest in Arlington.

Ethan: It’s in Chicago.

Ben: So how does the squirrel get to Chicago?

Ethan: On an airplane. Um, Squirrel Air.

Ben: But who drives the squirrel airplane?

Ethan: Um, Captain Squirrel.

Jonas: Can I watch Spiderman?

I am happy to report that no squirrels were bonked that day. A nice man from BayState Wildlife (doesn’t really sound like a pest removal company does it? More like an animal sanctuary) came and installed little one way doors over the areas where the squirrels were coming in. We haven’t seen a squirrel in our house since.
Then again, they probably took a plane to Chicago where they’re living in a nice house in harmony with the bears.

Of Squirrels and Squash

Part I
Squash

Thursday, February 18

Hell morning.
The boys are at each other, fighting and whining over everything.
I take them out in the backyard, in the snow, to try and relieve some tension.
It works. For a few minutes at least. Then:
“Jonas you’re standing on my snow!” It’s Ethan. He’s hysterical.
“Nobody owns the snow, Ethan,” I try to explain.
“But that’s MINE…my snow. I want it!” He pushes his younger brother, who tries to bite him.
“There’s enough snow to go around for everyone,” I say, while wondering how on earth I got here...to be the mother of these two insane beings.
Every now and then the irrational behavior of my children gets to me. Every now and then, my nerves feel dangerously raw. And this is definitely one of those days.
The boys continue to fight like the Arabs and the Palestinians over whose snowy territory is whose. Finally, it’s 12pm. Time for lunch.
“Time to go in!” I say, trying to sound chipper.
They both cry. They want to stay outside. I end up carrying them both upstairs, one in each arm, the two of them slipping so low their boots hit the stairs with each step. Breathless and irritable, I plop them in front of the TV to watch Calliou while I put water on the stove for Mac and Cheese.
Then I grab the squash out of the freezer.
I read the directions:
Remove from package and place in microwaveable dish.
Cook for five minutes.
Stir.
Cook for 1 minute.
This sounds easy enough, right? I mean, what could possibly go wrong?
As I begin to peel the paper off the squash, however, I notice some pieces are being difficult. They cling to the icy squash as though their worthless little paper lives depend upon it.
“Shit,” I mumble as I pick at the squash and little chunks get stuck beneath my fingernails.
I try to run the block of squash under hot water to see if that helps. Nope. The paper still clings and taunts me. For a moment I consider just throwing it, paper and all, into the microwave, but I am afraid of poisoning my children.
Instead, I grab a steak knife from the drawer. I begin by artfully trying to extract each piece of paper from the squash’s icy grip, but each time a piece comes out, there is more. I’m digging deeper and deeper, and there’s no end in sight.
“Mother f’ing squash!” I say, now manically stabbing it with the knife (BTW, did I mention that I was also hungry?). “I hate you!”
I’m lunging the knife now, barely missing the tips of the finger of my other hand. I am Tony Bates in psycho, only instead of stabbing a woman in the shower, I’m stabbing a frozen vegetable.
Then, finally, it’s out: The last piece of paper. I am elated. Game over m’fucker. I’m thinking.
“F’ you squash!” I say out loud now as I throw it in the microwave to beam it to death.
“Mom?” Ethan says from the other room. “Who are you talking to?”
“Oh, nobody, just myself,” I say, wondering who the crazy one is now.
I mean, who am I to call my children irrational when I’m stabbing and talking to a squash? This last thought makes me chuckle.
Still, it’s not over.
I pick up the remaining packaging and look for the 1-800 number to call Birdseye’s customer complaint department. A sweet woman on the other end tells me how this happens to her all the time. “What I do is run it, packaging and all, under hot water.”
I don’t want your stupid advice, lady, I’m thinking. But all I say is “Oh.”
After a pause she says, “How about I mail you some coupons?”
“That would be wonderful,” I say. “Thank you.
I hang up the phone and it's like I’m like a new person now, my nerves calmed, all thanks to some therapeutic squash mutilation, and a few coupons to look forward to in the mail.

Shout out to my sister...

Some storytelling tips for all you mommies out there!
(I'd like to add one: Don't fall asleep while reading the stories, like my husband often does...)

The Grinch Who Stole Santa

Why is it that Santa always seems so much better from afar?
Seriously.
In talking about going to see Santa, the child jumps up and down and chatters on with delight. “Let’s go! Let’s go! See Santa!”
And then the reality sets in. Slowly.
Even standing in line, the child still seems excited and restless. “When will it be my turn?!”
When Santa gets up from his throne to take a water break, the child worries. “Where is he going?! Is he coming back?”
And Santa does come back. (The parent wonders: why not keep a bottle of water by your throne? But perhaps water is just a buzz word for potty).
Finally, after a nearly 45 minute wait, it is the child’s turn.
By that time, close up, Santa isn’t looking so hot.
“Go sweetie,” we tell the child. We even push a bit.
“Go tell Santa what you want.”
The child walks up to Santa stunned.
And why shouldn’t he be stunned?!
Santa is a stranger.
Santa is old.

I remember my mother trying to get me to visit Santa in his house at the local shopping center. I was young; maybe three or four, and I remember crying in terror. Yes, terror. I did not want to go in his house. "But he'll give you a candy cane," she'd say. I'd cry some more.
Looking back, I always thought it was because I was Jewish. Maybe Jews are inherently scared of Santa or something.
Then, however, I had children of my own. Children who are only half-Jewish. And they too, seem to be frightened of Santa.

“Now get on Santa’s lap, honey, and smile,” we tell the child.
He approaches cautiously. Skeptically.
He refuses to get on Santa’s lap.
“What do you want for Christmas?” Santa bends down and asks him.
“A computer,” he whispers.
“Now turn around and look at the camera!” we yell at the child.
He turns. He stares at the camera with a blank look on his face. “Smile!” we yell. But he won’t. At least he’s not screaming and crying this year, we think. Progress.

So, I wonder, are these visits to Santa really worth it? Do we risk scarring our children by forcing them to come face to face with an overweight, elderly stranger? Look at me, for instance. I’m over 40 and I still can’t eat a candy cane.
Isn’t it better to just put the cookies out and imagine Santa coming from afar in the dark of night when we won’t have to talk to him or sit on his lap? Sure, I sound like a Grinch, but what do you think??