18/6/99
The
World According
to Little
Girls
The
view from down there
can be quite surprising
up here.
To get my
children's perspective,
sometimes I'll get
down on my knees,
to place my eyes
level with theirs.
This way, I'm able
to see what they
can -- and can't
-- see. The view
can be boring, puzzling,
frightening.
Their intellectual
perspective is something
else. I just can't
get myself to the
level of an eight-year-old.
The view from there
can be naively pure,
simple, literal
-- and sometimes
so brilliantly lofty,
the view from up
here can be humbling.
They were
in London, visiting
the grandparents.
At the Tower of
London -- no, that's
not where my in-laws
live -- their tour
happened to coincide
with an auspicious
occasion. A Beefeater
smiled at my girls
and said, "Now,
don't be frightened,
they're about to
fire 21 guns for
the Queen Mother's
96th birthday."
This dismayed Odelia,
then six years old.
Bewildered, she
looked back up at
him and asked: "But
... but why do they
want to shoot the
Queen Mother on
her birthday?"
It's probably
that adult communication
skills are wanting,
when we're taken
at our word like
that. More recently,
we got into a discussion
about family treasures.
The girls were polishing
the silver. Is that
all we have? they
wanted to know.
Their momma
responded that,
in fact, her parents
"used to have
a lot of silver,
but it was all stolen."
"Why
did Granny and Grandpa
steal silver?"
Odelia asked.
Kiddy logic
is what you'd get
if Mrs. Malaprop
lived in Chelm.
SOMETIMES
THEIR perspectives
reveal startling
truths that we mere
adults are not equipped
to notice. For instance,
our different approaches
to problem-solving:
I think mechanically,
but for children
nowadays there is
always a magical
electronic solution
to everything.
I posed a
teaser to Odelia:
how does one untangle
a coily telephone
wire? She examined
the telephone, pondering
deeply. "Press
a button?"
No, I said, there's
no button for that.
She thought further,
and came up with
-- for our household
-- the correct answer:
"Call for help."
They were
not blessed with
a good Grade One
teacher. After some
months the principal
finally exercised
damage control by
bringing in others
to teach certain
subjects, like reading,
math and Torah.
We asked the girls
what the original
teacher still taught.
"The
difficult subjects,"
Nomi said.
"How
do you know they're
difficult subjects?"
"Because
we don't understand
her."
I managed
a little sympathy
for this teacher
once, when I was
put in her position.
Donna was watching
TV, and an unfamiliar
term arose. I was
at the other end
of the house. "DADDEEEEE!"
she bellowed, "WHAT'S
A 'SEX'?"
I had to
decide, quickly,
what would be worse:
if I answered her
question and she
didn't understand
me, or if she did.
I decided wisely.
I pretended not
to hear her.
Parents with
more experience
have assured me
this will only get
worse when my triplets
reach teenagehood.
They won't even
bother to ask me,
assuming that, as
a dumb adult, I
couldn't possibly
know anything.
I'm really
looking forward
to that.
They're already
preparing me. They
don't ask for help
with homework anymore,
because I've already
shown that '90s
teaching methods
are entirely unfathomable
to me, a relic from
Dumb Time. Ferkrissakes,
in 1971 I was in
the top 0.5 percent
of the Province
of Quebec in Grade
Nine mathematics,
yet I was a heshbon
flunk-out in the
eyes of my Grade
One daughters.
I came to
realize that I was
academically deprived
as a child: there
was only one of
me. My children
used their tripletness
to exquisite advantage
in Grade One: when
they had to add
using numbers beyond
10, they just kept
going -- using each
others' fingers.
They didn't feel
their fingers were
being imposed on.
Their sisters' 20
were like an extension
of their own 10.
(Apparently,
it's the same with
their hair. A few
weeks ago, Donna
and Odelia were
side-by-side, looking
in the mirror as
they styled their
hair. The quiet
was suddenly broken
when Donna yelped
at her sister. "Ow!
You got my
hair in your
pigtail!")
More embarrassing
than my failure
at coaching them
in numeracy is,
well ... they want
to learn to play
Scrabble. They're
convinced they're
ready to play in
the club.
It's a reasonable
request: I'm the
national Scrabble
champion. And their
mother isn't very
far behind.
Problem is,
I'm just not a very
good teacher at
beginner's level.
I can preach on
the complex tactics
of the game, but
my children are
not quite there
yet. You'll see
what I mean by this
note Donna left
on my desk recently:
"to
daddy! wen you kum
home cane you plae
with donna scrabille?
ples leve a anser
heer."
Even if they
can't spell yet,
I'm convinced they're
destined for greatness
at the club. Odelia,
when she was six,
came across the
word "favorite"
and stumbled, unable
to read it. Her
next words floored
me: "I dunno,"
she said in exasperation,
"but if you
mix the letters
around, you get
the words 'fat rovie'"
(Rovie is our cat).
Eventually
we did sit down
to our first real
game of Scrabble.
They caught on quickly,
but after some time
a little fracas
began. They informed
me LAI is a word,
and I assured them
it wasn't. They
insisted,
at which point I
informed them that,
as both the champ
and their father,
I was automatically
right.
They seem
to be taking after
the old man -- literarily
if not literally
-- and I'm proud
of that. Donna wrote
a book. Yeah, a
real book. She took
a piece of paper
and kept folding
it until she had
eight tiny pages.
The book
is titled ג€The Finger
Nails,ג€ and you
shouldn't think
the subject is obvious.
It is about teeth:
"I was
hurrying home in
the dark wen a saw
a man wallking towards
me. 'Do you knowe
watt time it is?'
I askt. The man
lit a match to lok
at his wathc. 'It
is eiht o'clok,'
he sead. and grind
at me. When I saw
his teeth, I ran.
soon I came to anonher
man. 'Why ar you
runing,' he asked
me. 'I just saw
a man with teeth
this long,' I sed.
'Thats nothing,
sed the man. 'Did
you ever see teeth
this long?' I took
one look, and I
ran all the way
hom."
That's the
entire book. Donna
read it to me, proud
as a peacock. When
she finished, she
slapped her forehead.
"Oh, no! I
made a mistake!"
I smiled:
only one?!
"Where's
the mistake?"
I asked innocently.
She turned
to the title page.
"I forgot to
write what I was
writing about!"
