Where's Madeline?
Today I have been searching high and low for my Madeline books, the ones I had as a little girl. My boys were not especially fond of them, so I must have put them in a "safe place" with the other special books, beautiful out-of-print editions of Snow White, and Uncle Remus.
I was thinking about Madeline because little Greta, just turned five, the daughter of friends, was going to come over this evening to make a tutu, draw pictures, and frolic with us while her parents had a leisurely evening at home, finishing their sentences, sipping mint juleps, and celebrating Mama's birthday. As it turned out, Greta was too sick to come over. This child spontaneously started reading just before her birthday last month, and loves books. We snuggle up together to read whenever she comes over, and she nearly always sighs and says, "I wish we could all live together."
I was thinking that Madeline would appeal to her because last week we went to their house for some show-and-tell. Evidently, small girls have very particular outfit requirements for viewing pictures of Thailand. Greta and her Mama disappeared upstairs for a while, and we could hear small sounds of negotiation and general woe. Finally they descended. Greta approached her father and spoke very gravely:
"Papa. I need your help."
"What can I do for you, my sweet Greta?"
"I need to look more FRENCH."
"Ah. I see. Do you need me to work some Papa magic to make you look more *oooh-la-la*?"
Greta nodded.
Papa waved his hands slowly in front of little Greta making swooshy-swooshy sounds, and, "POOF!"
And then there was a festival of hugging and smooching and gratitude.
This is some genius parenting right here, people.
I kept thinking about this as I searched for my books. What a contrast to my own broken parents, who I have mentioned before. When I was twelve, after my first visit to see my dad, post-divorce, I returned home to find that my mother had sold all my bedroom furniture and toys. My room looked so big with just a sleeping bag on that wide expanse, the orange shag carpet, and those few books in tidy piles looked so tiny.
It was curious to me that today, although I was annoyed that I could not find those treasures, the only remaining relics of my childhood, my annoyance was not saturated in any grief. I was aware of that loss, remembered it, but the grief did not grip me. I even chuckled when I realized that Miss Clavel's song was playing on my brain radio: Something is not right! Instead, I felt gratitude that I have this charming, delightful girl in my life.
But, shoot, I'd sure like to find those books! There is one more place I think I might look, a corner of the attic. Crossing my fingers they are there.
I was thinking about Madeline because little Greta, just turned five, the daughter of friends, was going to come over this evening to make a tutu, draw pictures, and frolic with us while her parents had a leisurely evening at home, finishing their sentences, sipping mint juleps, and celebrating Mama's birthday. As it turned out, Greta was too sick to come over. This child spontaneously started reading just before her birthday last month, and loves books. We snuggle up together to read whenever she comes over, and she nearly always sighs and says, "I wish we could all live together."
I was thinking that Madeline would appeal to her because last week we went to their house for some show-and-tell. Evidently, small girls have very particular outfit requirements for viewing pictures of Thailand. Greta and her Mama disappeared upstairs for a while, and we could hear small sounds of negotiation and general woe. Finally they descended. Greta approached her father and spoke very gravely:
"Papa. I need your help."
"What can I do for you, my sweet Greta?"
"I need to look more FRENCH."
"Ah. I see. Do you need me to work some Papa magic to make you look more *oooh-la-la*?"
Greta nodded.
Papa waved his hands slowly in front of little Greta making swooshy-swooshy sounds, and, "POOF!"
And then there was a festival of hugging and smooching and gratitude.
This is some genius parenting right here, people.
I kept thinking about this as I searched for my books. What a contrast to my own broken parents, who I have mentioned before. When I was twelve, after my first visit to see my dad, post-divorce, I returned home to find that my mother had sold all my bedroom furniture and toys. My room looked so big with just a sleeping bag on that wide expanse, the orange shag carpet, and those few books in tidy piles looked so tiny.
It was curious to me that today, although I was annoyed that I could not find those treasures, the only remaining relics of my childhood, my annoyance was not saturated in any grief. I was aware of that loss, remembered it, but the grief did not grip me. I even chuckled when I realized that Miss Clavel's song was playing on my brain radio: Something is not right! Instead, I felt gratitude that I have this charming, delightful girl in my life.
But, shoot, I'd sure like to find those books! There is one more place I think I might look, a corner of the attic. Crossing my fingers they are there.
I hope you found them. And Greta and her parents sound marvelous!
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