Claw Machine

There's a restaurant in my parents' town that has one of those good for nothin' claw machines.

You know what I'm talking about. They're in movie theaters, arcades and some restaurants for children (ha!) to try to win a cheap stuffed animal by grabbing it with a four-pronged stainless steel contraption.

All in 20 seconds or less.

And my two little nephews William and Alex always insist on throwing away money want to play with the "claw toy" whenever we go to this restaurant.

As much as I want to say, "Children, the claws are made of a smooth metal which makes the surface quite slippery. Additionally, the managers who operate these machines often pack the animals tightly so that if a perfect claw drop achieves a good grip point on an object, it will easily slide off. Also, some people believe these managers grease the claws to make the toys slide off"... there is really little to be gained in attempting to explain this to two toddlers intent on playing.

So, as most aunties probably would, I always humor them and allow them to lose try to win.

Last night was no exception. William went first. I tried to help him out as best I could with the controller while my husband shouted instructions from the side of the machine. "To the left! No, go right just an inch!"

But as soon as I got a good position on the claw and pressed the release button to go for a stuffed animal, he got too excited and jerked the controller.

Buzz, went the machine. No luck.

Then it was Alex's turn. Again, my husband was the coach as I tried to get the claw in the perfect position before I told Alex to press the release button.

Of course, given that he is only two and doesn't exactly understand claw machine technique, before I had given him the green light, Alex had pressed the button and the claw was on its way down.

But lo and behold, on the way back up the claw was holding on (albeit very loosely) to a purple stuffed bear.

As the claw made its way back to its starting position, it jerked and swayed violently back and forth. I was sure it would drop the bear back into the mountain of cheap toys.

We all held our breath. And to our collective surprise, the claw made it back with the bear in tow.

My husband and I slapped each other high-five, so excited that we had done it. We had won a toy from the claw machine!

Alex jumped with elation, his eyes wide and joyful. "BEAR!" he screamed as I gave him his new toy.

Then I turned to William. There was no joy in his expression. He turned to Alex, who was gazing at his purple bear as if it were gold, and grabbed it from his grip.

"Alex, that belongs to me."

Oh boy.

As they stood there, arguing in toddler talk as to who was the rightful owner of the 10-cent bear that I had just given blood, sweat and $1.00 to win, I wondered...

Is it better to have won a toy from a claw machine and lost it, or to never have won at all?

- Jane

A very serious topic - helping your child cope with death

A girl from Belmont, MA died on the soccer field where she was playing on Saturday. She ran off the field and into her father's arms... where she collapsed. She never regained consciousness. Her name was Maeve. She was only six years old.

My heart goes out to her parents. I can't imagine what it would be like to lose a child at such a young age, preexisting condition or not. The grief must be crushing but an adult has the emotional and intellectual capacity to deal with death. A six year old doesn't.

This morning all of Maeve's first grade classmates should be returning to school but instead I believe they'll be attending grief counseling. But how do you explain death to a six year old, an age group that experts believe is too young to understand the concept, or any age for that matter?

I know it's not very easy to explain death to any child, especially to those so young. My own daughter has, unfortunately, attended three separate funerals with me in just two and a half short years of life but I've escaped the really tough questions because she usually forgets them soon after she's asked. But there will come a day in my life, and yours if it hasn't happened already, when I'll have to try to explain what happens to our loved ones when they die. I am not looking forward to that day at all.

I'm no counselor, and I'm certainly not an expert, so I was wondering how I as a parent could find information on helping my child understand death. Thankfully there are resources easily found on the internet that can help. One site I found particularly helpful was the Hospice Foundation of America. Another web page that offered important information for helping kids deal with death was this one on the Kids Health website. There are many more sites out there, you just need to know how to use a web browser and you'll be inundated with information on helping explain death to children. Most offer the same tips, such as avoiding euphemisms like "gone to sleep" or "losing a loved one", because children around six years old think very literally and they might believe that their friend or relative has, in fact, gone to sleep and will wake up soon. Or worse, they themselves might be afraid to fall asleep because the child might be afraid they won't wake up.

Here's another website I found interesting - the page on PBS.org written after Fred Rogers died.

There are, of course, books you can purchase or check out at your local library as well. Like this one, for kids. Or this one, to help parents learn to teach their children about death.

Like I mentioned before, I'm no expert. I'm better at teaching people how to deal with the death of their dog or cat. And these links are just a few places to start. How do you handle the topic of death with your kids?

Music Together Apart

Caw!

Caw!

Caw! Caw! Caw!

At the narrow edge of the Guatemalan rug, the thin, curly-haired, red-headed, previously demure woman opens and closes her hands at us, cawing, open-mouthed and open-palmed, we will soon discover, like a crow.

Prior to her birdlike outburst she had welcomed us, business-like, as we entered the dance studio one by one with our kids in tow. “You must be Georgia,” she says to my daughter in her car seat, “which makes you Tricia,” offering me a name tag with just Georgia’s name typed across it. It dawns on me that she’s deduced who we are because Georgia has Down syndrome. I don’t do anything with that information really, but I tuck it in my pocket.

Cawing now for what seems like an uncomfortable number of minutes, our leader takes out a pitch pipe, and for a moment I think we might have bitten off more than we can chew—or sing, rather. When she finally begins singing, the rest of us, mostly moms, but a couple token fathers with our children in our laps or between our knees, or, in the case of siblings, both between knees and hanging off shoulders, shyly hum along as we piece out the song. We do our part for the call and answer bits. Rock our hips and shoulders. Bang on the floors, clap our hands. Help our kids to clap theirs. Dutiful.

We generally stick to the age-old themes: moo-cows and butterflies, a couple numbers about the Earth and trees, rocket ships and fire engines. At various points we stand and then we sit again. We wave colorful scarves above our heads and twirl them low down at our feet. Our singing corresponds with the motions. We sing “high high high as we touch the sky and low low low as we touch our toes.”

For a song about choo-choo trains, the kids play various instruments, our intrepid, pitch-perfect, leader collecting “All mouthy ones” in a separate basket when we are done. It takes me a moment to realize she means the ones the babies have been gumming. All of ours go in the gummy basket.

There are approximately 13 children and, thanks to the “Hello Song”, and, of course the name tags, I know all their names. I am terrible with names. I do not know a single one of the parent’s names. Despite their children pawing Georgia’s head. Despite my bopping around with a big goofy grin on my face for their pleasure.

We parents hardly even make eye contact with one another while the class is in session. We sing, in varying degrees of enthusiasm and pitch, and kiss the tops of our kids’ heads. We dance in circles to the left and circles to the right. We pick up each other's children when they fall and get their scarves down for them when they get caught on errant windowsills. Some of us even hold hands after the lullaby song, at the insistence of some of the older children while we are singing our goodbye song.

It is not until the final strains, “Goodbye everybody, hope to see you again…” are gobbled up by the acoustics of the dance studio and we are all standing, adjusting jackets, and buckling car seats, preparing bottles, perhaps goaded by the otherwise silent space we are occupying near the coat rack that the small talk pitter patters on cautious feet.

“You live near the general store? I actually live upstairs. She’s 9-months. We just moved here this spring. Thank you. She looks like her father. And how old is he? He’s adorable. She really seems to enjoy the music…”

And so on—

When just as quickly as it’s started we are jacketed and buckled and bottled. Heading out to our cars. Saying our “See you next weeks”. A procession of Subarus—this is Vermont--some of us follow one another home to our same neighborhood. Quiet. Pitch perfect. Or not. Until next week. Another attempt. At music together

It's later than you think

The least expected moments in our lives are often the ones that create the greatest impact.

I had one such moment yesterday.

At first, it seemed like such an ordinary thought. "I wonder what time it is."

Ah, there's a clock.

But it was more than a clock. It was a reminder, a recollection of sorts... yes, possibly even a nudge from the angels who have gone before me.

There on the clock, in plain English (and in the symbols of another language, and another culture), were the words, "Enjoy life, it is later than you think."

Hey, I just wanted to know the time.

But the clock brought pause. And in that pause, the hustle and bustle of a day at Story Land in Glen, NH with my seven grandchildren brought even greater joy than I could have imagined.

The clock was telling me more than the time. The clock was guiding me, directing me... even enlightening me on my most glorious journey of grandparenthood.

I looked around to see three of my grandsons intently studying the inside of a make-believe wishing well.

"I wonder what's down there," asked Andrew, who at nearly five is the oldest and wisest of the five boys.

"What IS down there, Andrew?" asked William and Jake, both three, and awed by the experience of their older cousin.

Oh, my beautiful little guys, there are dreams and hopes and joys and discoveries and adventures in that wishing well. Wish for all of them. They will come true.

And there were my two granddaughters, Taylor and Maddie, both six and still unaware of their breathtaking beauty and totally non-self-conscious of being with parents, aunties and uncles, and grandparents. Boys? No disillusionment here.

"AARRHH," they exclaim, pirates one and all. We can navigate this ship like the best of 'em.

The clock in the clock tower whispered to me to help keep the lives of these darlings filled with patterns and designs of adventure and enterprise.

And my little baby-boys. Alexander, who at two likes to hang with Pop-up one moment, ride a rooster another moment, and leisurely enjoy a Sno-Kone the next. And Benjamin, who at five months enjoys each gift of each moment.


Perhaps it is the truest and most magical gift of childhood that "time" does indeed stand still, even as the clock in the clock tower sweeps moments away.

And perhaps adults need subtle reminders once and again that "time" will stand still for us... if we are tuned into the poetry of children, and the extraordinary universe of children, where time simply ripens all things.

Ah, it is never too late to enjoy yourself.

Now is the perfect time.



- Sharon

One Fried Mommy, Comin’ Right Up!

I’ve spent the last week with a miserable cold. Deaf from the congestion in my ears, exhausted and phlegmy, I’ve struggled to make it through each day gracefully and have failed utterly. This week has been challenging, and I found myself wishing the kids weren’t feeling quite so well themselves so I’d get a break.

It’s a question that returns with fall each year in my house: is it better to have sick children and be well or have well children and be sick yourself? Of course you don’t want your children to suffer – you would do anything to spare them the misery of a rotten head cold. Right? Riiiiight?

This week? Not so much. I know, I know – I’m a bad mommy. It was painfully hard to pull together enough energy to deal with the routine squabbles and daily tasks when all I wanted was to crawl back into bed. I was so grateful to load my son onto the school bus each afternoon so I could go back to sleep.

By my reckoning, school started a mere 3 weeks ago. If I am doomed to spend one of every three weeks sick this winter, can someone just shoot me now?