There are moments as a mom when I watch my children and am moved to tears by their spontaneous acts of mercy, sympathy, and love. (There are others when I am moved to tears for much different reasons, but this post is not about those!) Today I experienced such a moment with my son.
The kids and I are fortunate enough to have a couple of Sunday School school teachers who help me out with childcare pretty frequently. My kids love them. As the husband said today, they have 40 years of kids toys in their house. It is toy heaven!
More frequently than I care to admit, one or more of the toys leave their sanctuary and take up residence in my home. It always makes me uncomfortable when my kids get "treats" just for showing up somewhere. My family of origin did gifts on Christmas and birthdays. Weddings. Baby showers. Period. Seeing my kids lavished with stuff stirs up visions of spoiled, ungrateful brats, something I am determined not to have living under my roof!
So today, when Ranita asked if we could "buy" a handmade, wooden triplane from his sitter, I cringed. The cringe turned into a wince when the sitter informed me they were "getting rid of it," and Ranita was welcome to it.
I was trying to be a gracious recipient while also trying to gauge where my son was falling on the Spoil-O-Meter when his little voice penetrated my thoughts.
"Mommy, I want to give this to J for his birthday. He loves planes a lot more than I do. We can play with it when I go to his house." J is his cousin. J's birthday is a month away, the fact of which my son was completely unaware and about which he honestly couldn't have cared less.
What he did care about was giving his cousin a present, a present that reflected an awareness of and concern for the interests of someone else.
Spoil-O-Meter vanished with a poof!
I would be less than honest if I did not admit that my son is currently playing with that triplane as if his life depended on it. It has flown over the backyard and the front yard, carried a Little Person and an array of cargo, and I suspect is hiding under his covers in his bed at this moment.
But I know my son. When the time comes, it will again be his idea to give the plane away, and he will do so with great joy and satisfaction. Chances are, he won't be able to wait for J's birthday, either!
Monday, October 31, 2016
Sunday, October 30, 2016
Lego Lessons
We were about to leave for church this morning, and for the first time in forever we were on time. I was smiling. My son was not. In fact, he was running around the house simultaneously screaming and crying, waving his most recent Lego creation in the air.
"Honey, what is wrong?" I asked.
Through hysterical sobs I deciphered, "It broke, and I can't put it back together! It's supposed to have two holes here, and it was smaller on the bottom, but I can't put it back! It'll never be the way it was before!"
At those words, a bombshell went off in my ears. "It'll never be the way it was before." Those were the same words he had uttered over six months ago when I explained to him what it meant that Mommy and Daddy were getting divorced.
This was not about Legos.
I sat on the floor and held him as he cried and yelled and kicked his feet, but not at me or his sister or the dogs. Just at the floor in anguish. I praised him for not hurting others while he was hurting. I crooned the meaningless things mothers do when their little ones are in pain and there is no way to take it away, when the only thing to do is to participate in it.
As he flailed, I said, "Sweetie, I know how hard it is to want something to be a certain way and not to have it that way. But you can come back and work at it later. It might not look like it did, but I'll bet you can make something even better."
Deaf ears.
After a while he calmed down, we left the Legos on the dresser, and we went to Sunday School, albeit ten minutes late. (Some things are more important than the clock.) By the time we got home, I had put the morning's events out of my mind. There was, after all, lunch to get on the table.
I was suddenly reminded when my son came running into the kitchen wearing an ear-to-ear grin and waving a totally different Lego creation.
"Look, Mom!" he cried. "It's even better than before! And I made it with all the same pieces!"
I almost wept, at his exuberance, his resilience, his wisdom. My words had not fallen on deaf ears; they had fallen on fertile ground that needed the rain of grief to allow them to take root. And in the process he had gleaned a little nugget of his own: with all the same pieces.
Our family is different now. It will never be what it was before. But I honestly believe it will be better than it was before, because God is in the business of transforming rubble into masterpieces . . . using all the same pieces.
"Honey, what is wrong?" I asked.
Through hysterical sobs I deciphered, "It broke, and I can't put it back together! It's supposed to have two holes here, and it was smaller on the bottom, but I can't put it back! It'll never be the way it was before!"
At those words, a bombshell went off in my ears. "It'll never be the way it was before." Those were the same words he had uttered over six months ago when I explained to him what it meant that Mommy and Daddy were getting divorced.
This was not about Legos.
I sat on the floor and held him as he cried and yelled and kicked his feet, but not at me or his sister or the dogs. Just at the floor in anguish. I praised him for not hurting others while he was hurting. I crooned the meaningless things mothers do when their little ones are in pain and there is no way to take it away, when the only thing to do is to participate in it.
As he flailed, I said, "Sweetie, I know how hard it is to want something to be a certain way and not to have it that way. But you can come back and work at it later. It might not look like it did, but I'll bet you can make something even better."
Deaf ears.
After a while he calmed down, we left the Legos on the dresser, and we went to Sunday School, albeit ten minutes late. (Some things are more important than the clock.) By the time we got home, I had put the morning's events out of my mind. There was, after all, lunch to get on the table.
I was suddenly reminded when my son came running into the kitchen wearing an ear-to-ear grin and waving a totally different Lego creation.
"Look, Mom!" he cried. "It's even better than before! And I made it with all the same pieces!"
I almost wept, at his exuberance, his resilience, his wisdom. My words had not fallen on deaf ears; they had fallen on fertile ground that needed the rain of grief to allow them to take root. And in the process he had gleaned a little nugget of his own: with all the same pieces.
Our family is different now. It will never be what it was before. But I honestly believe it will be better than it was before, because God is in the business of transforming rubble into masterpieces . . . using all the same pieces.
Saturday, October 29, 2016
Bring on the Barbies
Do you remember what it was like to play like a preschooler? Unless you have a couple (or more!) living in your house, chances are you have forgotten. In fact, I fear one can forget even with little ones in the house.
How is that possible?
Parents have lots of "important" things to occupy their attention: bills, emails, jobs, legal gobbledy-gook, self-improvement, service in the church . . . name your poison. Because of that, when those little voices switch into "pretend" gear, it's easy to tune them out and divert your energy to other things. An experienced mom can subconsciously distinguish between play fighting and real wars, ignoring the former and interrupting the latter. "Happy" requires no intervention.
How is that possible?
Parents have lots of "important" things to occupy their attention: bills, emails, jobs, legal gobbledy-gook, self-improvement, service in the church . . . name your poison. Because of that, when those little voices switch into "pretend" gear, it's easy to tune them out and divert your energy to other things. An experienced mom can subconsciously distinguish between play fighting and real wars, ignoring the former and interrupting the latter. "Happy" requires no intervention.
Another reason we can miss the actual play even when it swirls around us is that we perceive it as an interruption rather than the raison d'être. Take this very moment, for instance.
It is nap time in the Castrataro residence. We have had a delightfully laid-back day with a minimum of squabbling and an overwhelming sense of peace and tranquility. Truly a golden day. After reading two Curious George stories to the little ones, I tuck them in for the obligatory rest. I have a plan to toss a load of laundry in the washer and write an article.
Enter the voices.
Through my monitor, I hear a narrator and about six characters enacting some kind of drama. The yammering is such that an article will not be easy to write. Task-oriented Mom would put the kibosh to the folderol in the interest of generating an income. Today's Mom sits and listens (and exchanges an article for a blog . . . plenty of time to work tonight!).
I hear them discussing various characters and their backstories. I am transported. I see my sister and my brother and me sitting on a floor with two Ken dolls, eight Barbies (one of whom had a chewed foot and another with an after-factory crew cut), ten plastic horses, and a village built out of Lincoln Logs. We staged Westerns with kidnappings and daring rescues. We enacted romances that would put Harlequin to shame. We created domestic dramas modeled after our daily lives.
I can't begin to fathom how many hours we spent like that, creating our own worlds and loving every minute of it.
I do remember that I played with my Barbies and horses long after most of my peers had abandoned them. Was it because I had a younger sister? Was it because we moved my freshman year of high school and somehow the role playing brought me comfort? Was it my indefatigable love of "story"? I can't say.
I can say that I take great joy in the role playing of my little ones. I love hearing them create new stories from the ones they've read in books, seen in movies, or lived themselves. The latter can be a little hard when I hear things like "Mommy and Daddy," but there is also a sense of gratitude that they are able to process their joys and disappointments in their own way and in their own time.
In their play they are growing. They are learning. They are healing.
Perhaps we could all use a few hours with Barbie and her friends.
Friday, October 28, 2016
Ordinary People, Extraordinary God
I'm not much as far as impressive people go. I write, but I'm no Faulkner. I sing, but I'm no Sarah Brightman. I play trumpet, but I'm no Louis Armstrong. I love Jesus, but I'm no Mother Theresa.
So there are times, like tonight, when I look back at how God has moved in my life, and I stand amazed. I see a farm-girl from Rhode Island moving to Po-Dunk New York, attending a secular music camp and meeting a life-long friend who led her to her alma mater in Illinois where she (eventually) finished a Master's in Teaching only to quit teaching, move back to RI and take a job as an Agricultural Extension Agent (a job for which she had no formal training whatsoever) at the University of RI where she met her husband, bore two gorgeous children, survived a divorce and more, and through it all finally found something meaningful to write about.
Not much of a story when you look at it like that. But then you add in the details, the little brush-strokes God includes just because He can, and that life is something extraordinary. Because this little not-much of a girl has seen God move.
I have seen God provide Christmas gifts to a family of poor dairy farmers in the form of a check from a closed-out account thought to be empty. I have seen God provide the money for those same three children to attend private Christian colleges. I have seen God bolster this woman with friends who really are extraordinary, people who share the Gospel in places where they risk their lives every day.
I have been part of a life-changing, campus-wide revival. I have seen God meet my physical needs when their was no reasonable expectation of it. I have been the humble recipient of God's hand of healing.
And I have "deserved" none of it.
But is that not the beauty of our God? It is NEVER about us. It is ALWAYS about Him. It is about His love. His mercy. His grace. His long-suffering. And also His justice. His wrath. His dominion.
I am just an ordinary person. But in the hands of an extraordinary God, there is no limit to what this ordinary person may do.
The same is true of you.
So there are times, like tonight, when I look back at how God has moved in my life, and I stand amazed. I see a farm-girl from Rhode Island moving to Po-Dunk New York, attending a secular music camp and meeting a life-long friend who led her to her alma mater in Illinois where she (eventually) finished a Master's in Teaching only to quit teaching, move back to RI and take a job as an Agricultural Extension Agent (a job for which she had no formal training whatsoever) at the University of RI where she met her husband, bore two gorgeous children, survived a divorce and more, and through it all finally found something meaningful to write about.
Not much of a story when you look at it like that. But then you add in the details, the little brush-strokes God includes just because He can, and that life is something extraordinary. Because this little not-much of a girl has seen God move.
I have seen God provide Christmas gifts to a family of poor dairy farmers in the form of a check from a closed-out account thought to be empty. I have seen God provide the money for those same three children to attend private Christian colleges. I have seen God bolster this woman with friends who really are extraordinary, people who share the Gospel in places where they risk their lives every day.
I have been part of a life-changing, campus-wide revival. I have seen God meet my physical needs when their was no reasonable expectation of it. I have been the humble recipient of God's hand of healing.
And I have "deserved" none of it.
But is that not the beauty of our God? It is NEVER about us. It is ALWAYS about Him. It is about His love. His mercy. His grace. His long-suffering. And also His justice. His wrath. His dominion.
I am just an ordinary person. But in the hands of an extraordinary God, there is no limit to what this ordinary person may do.
The same is true of you.
Wednesday, October 26, 2016
Carving Memories
Monday I took my kids to my parents' farm for "fall fun." We took a wagon ride driven by Grandpa J. We ran around in the corn maze (where we found 2 of the 4 "stations"). We picked pumpkins out of the pumpkin patch. (We would have picked apples but for the April freeze that decimated most of the New England tree fruit crops this year.)
For her pumpkin my daughter chose a little green one, not quite soft but a little "flexible." My son chose a large, perfectly orange, endearingly crooked one. They wanted to carve them. I was strongly encouraging painting.
This afternoon I yielded, and we carved Ranita's pumpkin. (Chinchita was angy; I promised we could do hers tomorrow!)
As I made the first incision around the stem, I was suddenly flooded with memories of one October two decades ago at Wheaton College in Illinois. It was my sophomore year of college, and some friends invited me to their dorm to carve pumpkins. I'd never carved pumpkins before, but we made this an adventure!
The others made very cool Jack-o'-lanterns. Mine was different: a nose, an eye, a mouth all on different sides. (I knew I wasn't an artist; at least I could be unique!) We dried the seeds and then ran around in the dark throwing pumpkin innards at each other. (Could that have been my idea? We used to throw rotten tomatoes at each other at the end of tomato season on the farm . . . very well could have been!)
How we laughed!
We divvied up the seeds in plastic bags. When we went to snack on them the next day, they were not crisp. They were soggy. We called each other to figure out what to do. Over to my room they came, and my hairdryer went into action. Very effective!
The pumpkin, however, did not last long. It created a bit of a spiritual dilemma for one of my roommates, so in solidarity we tossed it. (Really, can you blame her? A nose, a mouth, and an eye . . . not even in appropriate places?! Even I found it a bit weird!)
That was the first, and last, time I carved a pumpkin. Until today. My son helped separate out the pumpkin seeds (which I dried to perfection) from the guts. We had planned on our own pumpkin fight, but the cold was prohibitive.
When it came time for designing, I was relieved to hand the marker to him and let him draw to his heart's content. Then I carved. It is perfect! I told him about my last foray and assured him that he was a much better designer than his mother, though he insisted I was "the best pumpkin carver in the world, Mom!" Gotta love my babies!
Then, because I fell victim to the moment, I found a small candle and lit it inside. A few moments later, my daughter reached for the open mouth of the pumpkin. I knew she couldn't reach the flame, but I yelled, "Stop!" all the same. And then another memory.
My mother has a picture of my brother, my sister, and me when I was about my son's age. I am sitting on the floor with my sister on my lap, half-suffocated by my embrace. My brother is sticking a finger into a lit Jack-o'-lantern. By the expression on my face, it is clear that I am yelling "Stop!"
I find it funny that a woman who has a total of 3 Jack-o'-lantern memories suddenly saw her entire life summed up by a pumpkin, some seeds, and a small flame.
And she found it to be very good.
For her pumpkin my daughter chose a little green one, not quite soft but a little "flexible." My son chose a large, perfectly orange, endearingly crooked one. They wanted to carve them. I was strongly encouraging painting.
This afternoon I yielded, and we carved Ranita's pumpkin. (Chinchita was angy; I promised we could do hers tomorrow!)
As I made the first incision around the stem, I was suddenly flooded with memories of one October two decades ago at Wheaton College in Illinois. It was my sophomore year of college, and some friends invited me to their dorm to carve pumpkins. I'd never carved pumpkins before, but we made this an adventure!
The others made very cool Jack-o'-lanterns. Mine was different: a nose, an eye, a mouth all on different sides. (I knew I wasn't an artist; at least I could be unique!) We dried the seeds and then ran around in the dark throwing pumpkin innards at each other. (Could that have been my idea? We used to throw rotten tomatoes at each other at the end of tomato season on the farm . . . very well could have been!)
How we laughed!
We divvied up the seeds in plastic bags. When we went to snack on them the next day, they were not crisp. They were soggy. We called each other to figure out what to do. Over to my room they came, and my hairdryer went into action. Very effective!
The pumpkin, however, did not last long. It created a bit of a spiritual dilemma for one of my roommates, so in solidarity we tossed it. (Really, can you blame her? A nose, a mouth, and an eye . . . not even in appropriate places?! Even I found it a bit weird!)
That was the first, and last, time I carved a pumpkin. Until today. My son helped separate out the pumpkin seeds (which I dried to perfection) from the guts. We had planned on our own pumpkin fight, but the cold was prohibitive.
When it came time for designing, I was relieved to hand the marker to him and let him draw to his heart's content. Then I carved. It is perfect! I told him about my last foray and assured him that he was a much better designer than his mother, though he insisted I was "the best pumpkin carver in the world, Mom!" Gotta love my babies! Then, because I fell victim to the moment, I found a small candle and lit it inside. A few moments later, my daughter reached for the open mouth of the pumpkin. I knew she couldn't reach the flame, but I yelled, "Stop!" all the same. And then another memory.
My mother has a picture of my brother, my sister, and me when I was about my son's age. I am sitting on the floor with my sister on my lap, half-suffocated by my embrace. My brother is sticking a finger into a lit Jack-o'-lantern. By the expression on my face, it is clear that I am yelling "Stop!"
I find it funny that a woman who has a total of 3 Jack-o'-lantern memories suddenly saw her entire life summed up by a pumpkin, some seeds, and a small flame.
And she found it to be very good.
Tuesday, October 25, 2016
Rest, Soldier!
I'd like to share a dialogue I had today.
Me (in a slightly whining tone): "I am just so tired. Between my various jobs and the housework and the kids and the counselors and the legal stuff . . . I'm beat."
Drill Instructor (loudly and unsympathetically): "Stop your whining, Soldier! Who do you think you are? Do you think you're the only single mother in the country? Suck it up! You've got it easy! Your ex pays the child support, doesn't he? On time? Do you know how many women would be thankful for that? Man up, already! And give me twenty!"
Okay, so I don't really have a drill instructor. (Me in boot camp? Not in this lifetime!) But the conversation was real all the same. I had just discovered a crack on the inside of my living room window (which is a whole other story for another time) that needed to be replaced ASAP. As there is no such thing as replacing any window ASAP, I did the next best thing: I patched.
First, on my sister's suggestion, I lined the inside with cardboard and held it in place with duct tape. Then, because I am neurotic about my kids' safety, I grabbed some of the shrink insulation my ex is so fond of and began my first foray into winter-proofing my windows.
I don't know if you've ever undertaken such a task with two young children underfoot. If you haven't, DON'T. It is guaranteed to devolve into chaos. I began with the cautionary warnings: Please don't touch the plastic or the tape.
I might have saved my breath. As I was trying to cut the cardboard to size, I heard rustling. I turned to see Chinchita skating across the floor on a giant piece of plastic. Probably should have been a funny moment. Was not funny in the moment. I already had dollar signs flying around my head as I contemplated the window. I only saw more as I imagined the tears being made in the plastic. I reprimanded her and confiscated the plastic.
I finished with the cardboard and began applying the double-sided tape to the frame. I heard cutting sounds. I turned to see Ranita attempting to cut the cardboard with my scissors. (Have I mentioned I'm a little safety conscious?) I took away the scissors, warned him about the dangers of sharp objects, and returned to the window.
I got the plastic up more or less smoothly and turn on my hairdryer. I have a slightly perfectionistic tendency, so I carefully heated, starting in one corner and delighting in the ever-tauter plastic until I could not observe the faintest ripple. (I would like to say the pleasure in a job well-done superseded my irritation at having to do the job in the first place, but that would be a blatant falsehood. I was pretty miffed.)
Job done, I turned to the kids on the couch and gasped. Chinchita had unrolled the remaining length of double-sided tape and expertly created a knotted ball of epic proportions. Torn pieces of cardboard littered the floor. I banished both children to their room.
It was at this point I engaged in the internal dialogue above.
People close to me have described my drill instructor's words as "harsh." I have never really viewed them that way. Honest? Motivational? Spot on? Painful? Yes. Harsh? No. Haven't you heard that sometimes the truth hurts?
Truth is a funny thing, though. It is not always one-sided. On the one hand, my drill instructor is completely correct. Compared to many in the world, my situation is NOTHING. I'm not imprisoned or beaten for my faith. I'm not homeless. I'm not out of work. I'm not without family or church or friends. I've got it good.
There is another voice in my head, however. His is harder to hear. He doesn't yell. He whispers. He doesn't blame or condemn. He comforts. He woos. He says, "Come to me, all ye who are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Rest in the Lord. Wait patiently for Him. Be still, and know that I am God."
Not only are His words truth; He is truth.
So I wrestle with the dichotomy of work and rest. (Maybe another version of faith and works?!) I have to do. There are children to love, bills to pay, property to maintain. It is a heavy burden, yes; but it is mine. And a part of me admits to relishing the challenge . . . on the right day!
But there is also the need for rest. Emotional rest. Physical rest. Spiritual rest.
How do you get rest without forsaking responsibility?
Today I thought about some ways to incorporate rest into our daily life. I say "our" because I suspect my children are in as much need of soul-rest as I am. And let's face it . . . we spend a great deal of time together! Here are some of my ideas . . . I'd love for you to comment below with things that have worked for you:
Me (in a slightly whining tone): "I am just so tired. Between my various jobs and the housework and the kids and the counselors and the legal stuff . . . I'm beat."
Drill Instructor (loudly and unsympathetically): "Stop your whining, Soldier! Who do you think you are? Do you think you're the only single mother in the country? Suck it up! You've got it easy! Your ex pays the child support, doesn't he? On time? Do you know how many women would be thankful for that? Man up, already! And give me twenty!"
Okay, so I don't really have a drill instructor. (Me in boot camp? Not in this lifetime!) But the conversation was real all the same. I had just discovered a crack on the inside of my living room window (which is a whole other story for another time) that needed to be replaced ASAP. As there is no such thing as replacing any window ASAP, I did the next best thing: I patched.
First, on my sister's suggestion, I lined the inside with cardboard and held it in place with duct tape. Then, because I am neurotic about my kids' safety, I grabbed some of the shrink insulation my ex is so fond of and began my first foray into winter-proofing my windows.
I don't know if you've ever undertaken such a task with two young children underfoot. If you haven't, DON'T. It is guaranteed to devolve into chaos. I began with the cautionary warnings: Please don't touch the plastic or the tape.
I might have saved my breath. As I was trying to cut the cardboard to size, I heard rustling. I turned to see Chinchita skating across the floor on a giant piece of plastic. Probably should have been a funny moment. Was not funny in the moment. I already had dollar signs flying around my head as I contemplated the window. I only saw more as I imagined the tears being made in the plastic. I reprimanded her and confiscated the plastic.
I finished with the cardboard and began applying the double-sided tape to the frame. I heard cutting sounds. I turned to see Ranita attempting to cut the cardboard with my scissors. (Have I mentioned I'm a little safety conscious?) I took away the scissors, warned him about the dangers of sharp objects, and returned to the window.
I got the plastic up more or less smoothly and turn on my hairdryer. I have a slightly perfectionistic tendency, so I carefully heated, starting in one corner and delighting in the ever-tauter plastic until I could not observe the faintest ripple. (I would like to say the pleasure in a job well-done superseded my irritation at having to do the job in the first place, but that would be a blatant falsehood. I was pretty miffed.)
Job done, I turned to the kids on the couch and gasped. Chinchita had unrolled the remaining length of double-sided tape and expertly created a knotted ball of epic proportions. Torn pieces of cardboard littered the floor. I banished both children to their room.
It was at this point I engaged in the internal dialogue above.
People close to me have described my drill instructor's words as "harsh." I have never really viewed them that way. Honest? Motivational? Spot on? Painful? Yes. Harsh? No. Haven't you heard that sometimes the truth hurts?
Truth is a funny thing, though. It is not always one-sided. On the one hand, my drill instructor is completely correct. Compared to many in the world, my situation is NOTHING. I'm not imprisoned or beaten for my faith. I'm not homeless. I'm not out of work. I'm not without family or church or friends. I've got it good.
There is another voice in my head, however. His is harder to hear. He doesn't yell. He whispers. He doesn't blame or condemn. He comforts. He woos. He says, "Come to me, all ye who are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Rest in the Lord. Wait patiently for Him. Be still, and know that I am God."
Not only are His words truth; He is truth.
So I wrestle with the dichotomy of work and rest. (Maybe another version of faith and works?!) I have to do. There are children to love, bills to pay, property to maintain. It is a heavy burden, yes; but it is mine. And a part of me admits to relishing the challenge . . . on the right day!
But there is also the need for rest. Emotional rest. Physical rest. Spiritual rest.
How do you get rest without forsaking responsibility?
Today I thought about some ways to incorporate rest into our daily life. I say "our" because I suspect my children are in as much need of soul-rest as I am. And let's face it . . . we spend a great deal of time together! Here are some of my ideas . . . I'd love for you to comment below with things that have worked for you:
- Reading together
- Watching a movie together
- Playing in the leaves in the backyard
- Coloring together
- Playing trumpet while the kids "accompany" on "percussion"
- Mini yoga sessions
- Blowing bubbles
- Playing Pollyanna's "glad game" (Don't think this clip reflects my views of Sundays . . . the kids and I love our church!)
- Singing silly songs . . . or praise songs . . . or just plain singing!
Sunday, October 23, 2016
Blogging with Ranita
I was working on an article today when my son got up from his "nap" and came over to take a look. With his arm snuggled around mine, he put his head on my shoulder and began to "read" what I had written. It went something like this:
Of course, he said yes!
So what follows is a blog straight from the lips of my four-year-old, Ranita:
His Sharptooth stories are taken from the movie The Land Before Time and its sequels. The rocket blowing up the garage probably comes from watching Hatari! and Toy Story. (He says, "I really get a kick out of Hatari!")
Ranita's assumption that Ducky in The Land Before Time is a Parasaurolophus fits with the company's advertising materials, but the drawing more closely resembles a Saurolophus. There's actually a debate about it, if you can believe such a thing! (http://landbeforetime.wikia.com/wiki/Dispute_over_Ducky%27s_species)
Also, my son typed "The End" himself. I just assisted with the shift key. He was very proud of that!
I won't have him guest-blogging often, but I thought supporting his burgeoning interest in writing was a good thing. Hope you enjoyed!
"I really like writing about farms. And I really like articles. But I don't like when they smell like manure. My mother likes to look at farms because they look so pretty. And she likes doing articles on the farms."While it was not exactly what I had written, much of it had the ring of truth to it! He wanted to help me write my article. I didn't think that was the best idea. So instead I asked him if he wanted to help me write my blog.
Of course, he said yes!
So what follows is a blog straight from the lips of my four-year-old, Ranita:
"I had some fun with my Sunday School teacher. I went fishing. I did some crafts. I learned about Jonah. And I love going to Sunday School.
I forgot my Sharptooth stories that are pretend. Chopper was going too fast and somebody grabbed the swing backward and it pushed him forwards and he shot into the air. He fell onto a rocket, and the rocket blew up the garage. And I have ten more Chopper Stories.
Chopper was a smart little dinosaur. He always liked playing with his friends Littlefoot, Cera, Ducky, and Petrie. Well, Cera is a three-horn and she likes banging into hard things. Littlefoot is a longneck and likes whacking things with his tail. And Petrie likes to fly around, throw little things at big rocks, and explode them. Ducky likes to swim really fast. Ducky is a Parasaurolophus, and she likes swimming very fast. That's it. The End."For those of you who do not live with us, I think a few explanations are in order! His Sunday School teacher had them "fishing" while learning about Jonah today. (Although he has gone fishing before . . . and is very good, I might add!)
His Sharptooth stories are taken from the movie The Land Before Time and its sequels. The rocket blowing up the garage probably comes from watching Hatari! and Toy Story. (He says, "I really get a kick out of Hatari!")
Ranita's assumption that Ducky in The Land Before Time is a Parasaurolophus fits with the company's advertising materials, but the drawing more closely resembles a Saurolophus. There's actually a debate about it, if you can believe such a thing! (http://landbeforetime.wikia.com/wiki/Dispute_over_Ducky%27s_species)
Also, my son typed "The End" himself. I just assisted with the shift key. He was very proud of that!
I won't have him guest-blogging often, but I thought supporting his burgeoning interest in writing was a good thing. Hope you enjoyed!
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