Photo by Nalin Bhutt
My boys and I have a usual nightly ritual. Book 1, Book 2, sometimes Book 3 depending on the time; then lights out; every once in a while I'm asked to tell a story that goes something like this: Fireman Sam meets up with Neil Armstrong and they fight fires on the moon, with Moxie, the paramedic at their side (and if Nooa has anything to say about it, a princess inevitably shows up to steal the show); ending with "mama, please sing 'the boys' song" (I'll sing it for you some day); and then hopefully sleep. Although usually sleep is preceded by two very distinct sleep preparations: Ettu usually mutters something rather out of left field (tonight it was "I don't want to ride on the ferries this summer") and then immediately falls asleep; Nooa, however, takes a bit longer, sitting, standing, asking for water for no less than three times; tonight he did two downward dog stances before collapsing on the bed. The fact that they sleep together in a double bed is often a major exercise in personal space negotiation.
I can't tell you how many times we've been told to just leave the room and let them fall asleep on their own, that we've created a bad habit of dependency, etcetera, etcetera. But I'm forever fascinated (and yes, okay, sometimes irritated) with watching this nightly ceremony. The best part of it all is that bedtime is actually something they seem to look forward to. Something they are ready for. But perhaps most importantly, we've realized that the nightly act of reading to them is just too valuable to give up. Lately, the library books on the bed stand have included selections about woolly mammoths. We even drove to St. Louis last weekend to see a wonderful exhibit (originally curated at The Field Museum, ironically) on mammoths and mastodons at the Missouri History Museum. And on that trip we listened to the same story over and over again: Dr. Seuss' Thidwick, the Big-Hearted Moose, from an audiobook of classic Dr. Seuss stories. You may or may not remember this one about the kind moose who lets so many critters camp out in his antlers until he practically starves to death, as his "guests" will not allow him to move across the lake to the mossier spots during the winter, and he is too much of a host to ask them to scram. Finally, the hunters come, and things change quickly and decisively. Thidwick remembers that it is antler-shedding season, so he is able to rid himself of this heavy load and escape to greener pastures. His guests then are not so lucky as they stay behind on their new home at the mercy of the hunters. I've always loved Dr. Seuss for the playful, engaging, and elaborate language. But recently, I've become ever so aware of the not-so-subtle messages in the text itself. And now, thanks to mammoths and moose hunts, among other things, even in the seemingly harmless pages of a Dr. Seuss book, I am confronted with a child's endless curiosity about the harsher realities of indifference (the "guests" attitude to the kind-hearted moose), starvation, hunting, killing, and extinction, just to name a few. And so the education begins.
Photo by Nalin Bhutt
Although I would like to protect my sons from some of the not-so-pleasant aspects of life, I find myself torn a bit between the arguably easier sugar-coating of these ideas and how to more accurately depict our role in the cycle of life and death. Because of Ettu's recent fascination with animal hunting in the time of the mammoths, he was drawn to the figure of a stone-age hunter at the museum. The figure was carrying a spear and a mammoth tusk, and Ettu just had to have it. So we got it, with a tad bit of reluctance, trying to explain the necessities of these hunters and trying to find that balance between the hunt for survival and the hunt that may or may not have caused this massive creatures to find their ultimate end as a species. When we visited the lovely Left Bank Books in downtown St. Louis the next day, we found a beautifully illustrated book entitled Kali's Song, about a boy who is learning to hunt during the time of mammoths. We just breezed through it before buying, and only upon reading it in the car did we realize that the book skipped over the realities of hunting altogether, favoring the story of a boy who used his arrow to play music that charmed the animals and made everyone believe he was a shaman because of his unique abilities to bring peace, guide the people, and cure the sick. Now don't get me wrong, I love, love, love this story. But I was left with the nagging feeling that the authors left out the fact that others were certainly still having to hunt and kill, so that the tribe could survive — not only for food, but for shelter and more — but I guess that's not so important to this story. Because we are not vegetarians, it is essential for us all to understand how the food we eat comes to our table. And I am amazed at a young child's complex comprehension of some of these things. I guess the time for learning is when curiosity meets us wherever we are.
And so the circle continues, and tonight I may be asked to read about the bison and buffaloes that we learned about at our recent visit to The Field Museum. How did they suddenly and brutally disappear after existing for so many years among the Native Americans, who hunted them for survival. Another sad story. Another small step into the larger context of history and what comes after. But for now, couldn't we just go back to Goodnight Moon now? Please?