Strong in this One, the Force Is
Posted on May 31st, 2011 by Carey Mednick
The summer of 1977, everything changed. That was the summer I met my boyfriend, Han Solo.
I was seven, and on a particularly scorching afternoon, my aunt took my older sister and me to see Star Wars. It was my sister’s idea (I wanted to see something like Benji) and her persuasive pinching made me change my vote. Despite my feeble protests, I was dragged along to the single-plex; I was probably driving my mother crazy and she needed some “I’m OK, You’re OK” time with her pack of Kents and an ice-cold Tab.
As I rode un-booster-seated and un-seatbelted in the back seat of my aunt’s Chevy Malibu, I was scared. Scared of aliens and monsters and guns and death and movies that potentially featured vomiting and head spinning, like The Exorcist. Once inside the frosty confines of the theater, I sunk slowly into my seat as the lights dimmed. But, as the trumpets sounded and the white text began scrolling into the distance, I was slowly sucked into that galaxy far, far away, full of funny creatures and hairdos and a bad boy who stole my heart. My sister was sucked even further away and she ended up seeing the movie at least 30 times that summer, sitting through showing after showing with her clique of geeks. And so was born (as Yoda might say) a family legacy of Star Wars fans.
Flash forward to Episode 2011. My almost 3-year-old son, Ian, and I are on a playdate at his friend Sean’s house. Sean has an 8-year-old brother who’s into typical 8-year-old brother things … action figures and lots of ‘em, especially Star Wars. The house is a like a battlefield littered with body parts and robot arms and big, black pieces of angry, wandering plastic.
Sean, who just turned 3, proudly shows off his favorite birthday present. The 7-year-old inside me is squealing … it’s a glowing light saber with movie-quality “vrammmm” and “wahhhhhmm” sound effects that, back in 1977, I made with my lips while wielding a broomstick. Sean’s brother (of course) already has his own light saber and Sean hands it to Ian who’s immediately taken with its blue brilliance.
Sean begins to duel with Ian and gives Ian’s light saber a couple of hearty thwacks. Ian looks completely befuddled, puts the light saber down and decides to have an animal cracker instead. Sean is a tad frustrated.
“Ian doesn’t have an older brother, so he doesn’t know about Star Wars,” Sean’s mother gently says to him, “How about a drink and we’ll play with something else?” Sean’s current poison is Gatorade, which is his older brother’s beverage of choice. As he downs the blue liquid, I have visions of his teeth crumbling out of his head like a meth addict by the time he’s 10. Ian is happy with a cup of Hawaiian Punch, a rare drink in our household.
We head into the family room and Sean’s mother brings out some Legos. Sean grabs a group of blocks and points them at Ian. I immediately recognize the L-shaped chunk as a gun. Sean smiles at Ian and says, “It’s a gun.” Ian’s expression doesn’t change. He blinks at Sean and picks up a red plastic car.
Sean’s mother notices the look on my face (I’d make a terrible poker player) but doesn’t say anything; I can tell she’s slightly embarrassed. I have a feeling my face is covered in dismay with a piece of annoyance stuck between my teeth. Fortunately, Sean doesn’t put up a fuss at Ian’s indifference and instead lays the “gun” down and moves on to an assortment of video game controllers, telling me that he likes playing Wii. I bite my tongue to keep from saying, “Wii. That’s what Ian’s daddy and I are trying to get him to do in the potty.”
For a more seemingly age-appropriate distraction, Sean’s mother brings out the Superman and Batman play sets. The Batman set has a doorway in the shape of the Joker’s leering face, which is pretty creepy. Ian crouches down to get a better view, then turns to me and puts a hand on my knee seeking reassurance.
Sean’s mother apologizes, saying, “I’m sure you don’t have anything like this at home.” I exhale a weak agreement and leave it at that while steering Ian toward the non-NRA-sanctioned Legos. We play a bit more, and then as crankiness befalls the boys, we exchange goodbyes and go home.
I carry my sleeping son into the house, scattered with brightly colored toddler toys and nary an angry plastic piece in sight. When he wakes up, I’m sure he’ll want to play Mommysaurus and Iansaurus, or run an imaginary car race around the living room and across our two sleeping greyhounds, or sing the ABC song while accompanying himself on piano.
I can’t help but feel a slight twinge of sadness for Sean; although he’s a lovable little boy, he was born into the World of Big Boys and their Big Dark Toys. As much as I know Ian is going to be exposed to—and absolutely love—light sabers and laser guns and the creatures who use them, I’m glad that he plays like the almost 3-year-old boy he is and isn’t mimicking the actions of someone who’s begun to understand that the world is not always so sweet.
In a couple of years, once Ian realizes that happiness is a toy gun, then (according to Yoda), share a light saber we will.
Three Very Hungry Caterpillars
Posted on November 2nd, 2010 by Carey Mednick
I am worried about my children. Are they safe? Are they cold? Do they have enough to eat? Have they been eaten?
These children are my three monarch butterflies. I watched them with pride as they changed from practically microscopic eggs into plump yellow-, black- and white-striped caterpillars and then into breathtaking butterflies. It was one of the coolest things I’ve ever seen.
In mid-August, my friend, Melissa, brought stalks of milkweed to our playgroup. The monarch’s lifecycle takes place all on this pretty unremarkable weed. As a preschool teacher, Melissa had raised many generations of monarchs in her classroom. She had tried another kind of caterpillar but the liquid that came out of the chrysalis when the butterfly emerged resembled blood—a potentially gruesome sight that could have resulted in more than a few traumatized preschoolers as well as a few angry parents.
Melissa really wanted to share the milkweed with the other moms. Everyone smiled pleasantly as she excitedly explained the process but, in the end, no one was interested. (Maybe “bugs” are just too “messy”—unlike two-year-olds.) I, with a long history of loving animals of all kinds (except any fast-moving insect that decides to skitter up my bathroom wall when I’m vulnerably alone in the shower) was thrilled.
I carefully took my milkweed stalk home in a paper bag. It already had a caterpillar on it, no bigger than an eyelash, and two tiny eggs. Melissa’s butterfly habitat is in a big plastic pretzel jar, so I dug around and found one in the garage. (After 12 years of marriage, my husband’s tendency to hoard had finally paid off.) I cleaned the container, made a few air holes and then gently placed the milkweed inside. And watched and waited.
The caterpillars grew to about two inches long in less than two weeks, munching the leaves down to the veins. My son, Ian, at 2 ½, didn’t completely understand the process, although he did constantly ask to pet the caterpillars. (They are actually kind of fuzzy, like velveteen.) Those endlessly chomping little creatures made me realize that Eric Carle’s The Very Hungry Caterpillar is actually nonfiction.
One after another, the caterpillars soon went into the chrysalis stage. The chrysalises are almost as gorgeous as the butterflies that eventually emerged; they resemble pieces of jade rimmed in bright gold. Unfortunately, we were never home to see the butterflies actually emerge. We would return from a morning out to a slightly damp butterfly, unrolling its long tongue (I’m guessing it was a tongue) to taste the air and stretching its wings to dry them off.
After a day to allow the butterfly to get accustomed to its new form, I would take Ian out into the backyard to release it. He would demand to hold the jar on the way out. I spotted him like a pipsqueak gymnast’s coach, making sure that the butterfly was not jostled too much in enthusiasm. For the first butterfly, we unscrewed the lid together and, after a few seconds, the butterfly flew out over Ian’s head. It lightly brushed his hair as it caught the wind, which he found more hilarious than a burp. A few days later, the second butterfly took off like a shot, circled our yard and quickly became camouflaged against the leaves high up in our walnut tree. The third butterfly was practically motionless at the bottom of the container, so, fearing that I’d have a screaming child on my hands if I opened the lid and it turned out the butterfly was “sleeping”, I surreptitiously released the last one myself.
As I watched it circle our house twice and then bounce off into the distance like a skimmed rock, I was genuinely sad. Sad to say goodbye to the butterfly, sad that summer was really over. The generation of monarchs we released were the final ones of the year. They’re heartier than the first generations earlier in the summer because these butterflies make the trip south for the winter, then return the next year to start the cycle again.
I could probably end here with a melancholy comparison of butterflies and children, but I’ll leave that to the experts: the people with way too much time on their hands who originate the cloying junk e-mails that are forwarded to me by people who really don’t know me at all. If you want to be amazed at how simple—yet complex—a miracle can be, go get yourself some milkweed next summer and watch and wait with your child. It’s free, and there’s no better show around.
The Football Pledge
Posted on August 4th, 2010 by Carey Mednick
The schedule has been announced. The anticipation is building.
The Baltimore Ravens’ public training camp at McDaniel College is around the corner. The excited chatter begins, “When are we going? How are we getting there? What jerseys should we take for the sweating, stinking monoliths to sign?” (OK, sweating, stinking monoliths is all me.)
The men (and a couple of women) in my family are buzzing … except in my house. My husband, Scott, and I are not, nor have we ever been [insert any sport here that requires a ball] fanatics.
While Scott’s brothers were inside watching football, he was oftentimes out in the garage with his father learning how to take apart a car engine. In my case, I have a sports chromosome missing; perhaps it’s skipped a generation. My aunt was an elementary school gym teacher for many years. Lanky and vocal, she resembled a slightly gentler Sue Sylvester from Glee. (What was strange was that she disliked kids except for my sisters and I whom she loved as her own.) But, a shadow of disappointment never failed to flicker across her face as I missed balls, swung golf clubs like a gorilla, or yawned at the mention of her beloved Washington Redskins. I suppose I take after her sister, my mother, whose sole athletic interest was scurrying around campus in a twin set, pencil skirt and heels in pursuit of frat boys.
My dad, who was one of the aforementioned frat boys, was a rabid fan of the Baltimore Colts. He would come home from every game completely hoarse from screaming at the crew-cut crew. In the 60s and 70s, many of the players owned restaurants which we ate at faithfully: Johnny Unitas’ Golden Arm, Ordell Braase’s Flaming Pit, Bill Pellington’s Iron Horse … all of them swanky, smoky man caves with black vinyl chairs, red leather menus, beef in every cut and size, and stiff whisky sours. So since food was involved, I should have at least liked football a little, but no such luck.
This year, I’ve decided to undo my decades of apathy. This year, I’ve vowed to become a Ravens fan. And, I’m bringing my husband along with me. We’re not doing this for ourselves (we have other important things to do on Sunday afternoons, like taking a nap) but for our 2-year-old son, Ian.
Here’s why: my sister, Laurie, and her husband, Stan, never particularly cared for football, and then my nephew, Danny, was born. Danny found football fascinating at a very young age and now, at 14 years old, lives and breathes it. Through years of watching games together, Laurie and Stan share in the thrill of victory, as well as the occasional agony of defeat, that Danny experiences. It’s something (amongst many other things) that brings them even closer together and they relish having a subjective view of what gives their child such joy. That’s the kind of connection (amongst many other connections) I want Scott and I to share with Ian.
So this is my pledge to my son. I will not let my eyes glaze over as your daddy explains to me how football is actually played. I will learn every Ravens’ player’s name and position. I will try to follow your cousins’ football discussions even though they sound like some foreign guy language. I will wear all purple on Fridays. I will care about whether or not they win. And, I will watch the Super Bowl for the game and not just the commercials.
Somewhere my aunt is waving a giant foam finger and smiling.
The Bel Loc
Posted on May 12th, 2010 by Carey Mednick
Miss Ruth ambles across the brown-speckled tile floor.
“Eee-ann … Eee-ann …” she calls. My nearly two-year old son, Ian, eyes her and continues to chew his saltine. He then decides to favor her with one fist clenching and unclenching in a wave.
“Ahahahaa! I got a wave!” Miss Ruth crows and picks up my glass to refill my Diet Coke. 
The Not-So-Great American Songbook
Posted on January 29th, 2010 by Carey Mednick
I don’t sing. It’s a simple fact. I never have, and swore that I never would. Not even into my hairbrush for fear that the bristles would shrivel in agony. That’s until Ian arrived.
Now it’s time for The First Bath. To say it doesn’t go well would be a slight understatement. When it’s over, I look at the shivering, mewling stranger and wonder if the hospital has a 30-day return policy. Or, if just baby wipes, hand sanitizer, and the tried-but-true mom-thumb-lick/kidcheek- swipe will provide adequate cleansing until he sprouts a fuzzy upper lip and a deep voice.
Imperfectly Perfect
Posted on January 24th, 2010 by Carey Mednick
One gallon of tartar sauce? Check. 48-pack of deodorant? Check.
As the Mednick family winds its way through the cavernous warehouse club store, piling ginormous find upon ginormous find into our cart, our fearless leader (a.k.a. my husband, Scott) is a dead man walking, uttering, “Not enough room in the car … not enough room in the car.” I cheerfully counter with, “It’ll fit … it’ll fit.” In the meantime, our son, Ian, ignores our conversation and is instead intrigued by a Swiffer bulk pack.
Close to $250 later, I buckle Ian into his car seat while Scott arranges our purchases with the precision of a bomb diffuser in the trunk of our mini SUV. He decrees his mission accomplished with a satisfying thump of the door closing.
The Art of the Story
Posted on January 21st, 2010 by Carey Mednick
Flashback: 1981. As a sixthgrader, I was asked, “What will you be doing in the year 2000?” My answer? “I will be an artist, lawyer or dental assistant.” Nowhere in that list of completely random careers was my ultimate fate: becoming a writer.
As a kid, I loved putting on plays, writing stories, and dressing up. My mother spent many hours sitting on the basement steps, chain smoking Kent cigarettes and sipping Tab, while I regaled her with tales of Martians, robots, orphans, and fairies, with the Bionic Woman and Donny & Marie thrown in occasionally for good measure.
We Have Ignition
Posted on January 21st, 2010 by Carey Mednick
The other end of the line fell silent.
“You are NOT serious,” my sister, Kathleen, said. “You are NOT giving me your car.”
“Yes, I’m serious! I wanna give you our car!” I replied in the irritated little sister tone I’ve never managed to outgrow as I grabbed my son, Ian, who was about to do a header off of a sliding board. “It’s YOURS.”
She started crying… and then I did, too. (Fortunately, Ian did not.)
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First time here? Yay! So happy you stopped by! Here are some links to start you off:
A Year in Review: The Best of Classic Play! 2011 Leaping
Walkie Talkie Dictionary
Marshmallow Building
Virtual Science Camp
Rainy Day Activities
Cooking with Kids
Ewok Birthday Party
Man vs. Wild Birthday Party
Play Dough Circuits
Family Field Trip: Stargazing
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