childhood

I was having breakfast recently with the appealing young woman who used to be my little girl, when she suddenly looked across the table and, out of the blue, began reminiscing about a game we used to play when she was in the first grade. "Remember how you'd put the cereal boxes in a circle on the kitchen floor,” she asked, “and then spin me around until I stopped in front of one of the boxes, and that would be the one I had for breakfast?" I smiled, flashing back to the hurried mornings when that game had been the only way I could make sure she didn't spend a precious five minutes pondering her cereal choices and wind up missing the school bus.

So many conversations with my children today start out with the words: “Do you remember...?”  The question always delights me. It feels as if they are extracting some happy detail from their childhood and presenting it to me like a gift. After all, kids are the repositories of our parental pasts, and when their memories are good ones, we can feel gratified. 

Our children often remember the little things that we, their parents, may not. So, just as I will never forget sitting on my father’s lap raptly listening to his nightly stories about a made-up, Orphan Annie-like character he called “Garbage Can Mary,’’ my grown-up daughter remembers how I pretended my fingers were “tickle bugs” and used them to tickle her awake in the morning. And just as I can still picture my mother hand-delivering trays of tea and toast to me whenever I was sick in bed, my son fondly recalls how I sat on the floor of his room and read him a book—about a mighty steam shovel, or a courageous dog, or a legendary first baseman—every night of his young life. 

Of course, our kids are bound to remember the times when they felt we were mean or unfair. I have many such misdemeanors on my rap sheet, and have found that the best way to deal with them is to either express regret, if I think they have a good a case against me, or explain myself, if I think they don’t have all the facts. 

So, when my daughter, at the age of 18, accused me of refusing to get her the American Girl doll she claims she begged me for when she was 10, I speculated that I probably hadn’t taken her request seriously since, as I remember it, she never liked dolls and wouldn’t play with the little girl next door who did. While I ultimately did say I was sorry she’d been disappointed about the doll, I immediately went on to enumerate some of the half million other things she’d asked for that (often against my better judgment) I had bought her.

Despite my daughter’s complaint, I’m convinced that it’s not the American Girl dolls and the X-boxes that count most with our kids, but the daily time and attention, comfort and fun we give them as regularly as we give them dinner. At least these are the things that seem to spring into their minds most often— treasured memories that fit into their pockets and that they carry out into the world, where they become signposts for their own behavior as parents.

I wish I’d grasped this essential truth earlier on. I might not have fretted so much about not getting them every little thing their hearts desired.  Maybe I didn’t listen hard enough to my own childhood memories. If I had, I would have realized that I knew all I needed to know about which ones matter the most. I only hope I’ve passed that lesson along, intact, to my children.

It’s late afternoon. I’m writing this sitting in a lawn chair in front of a campfire, part of a tidy arrangement of tents and RVs. Above me is a canopy of trees. “Next door,” a mother and her small child are curled up in a chaise reading together. The gravel road in front of me is crunching with little kids on bikes, whooping and ringing bells on their handlebars. Families are walking back from the lake, still wet, smiling and laughing.

This is our favorite state park—great for family camping. It’s no utopia, but it’s a place where families relax and engage.

Family camping is enjoying a resurgence. That’s great news, and here’s why:

A recent wave of research suggests that parents need to be thoughtful about three cultural changes that are affecting our children: the amount of time kids spend in front of screens (perhaps more than we all realized), the amount of physical activity kids get (too little), and the amount of unstructured time offered them (not much). Family camping, I realize as I talk to and observe families here, helps mitigate all three of these concerning trends.

For starters, camping makes it easy to go off the grid.  I don’t know a parent who doesn’t worry at least a little about how much time their kids spend with screens. Just when we’d become more comfortable handing kids tablets and smartphones, a recent survey reports that we may be underestimating how much time our kids spend on these devices—and that too much screen time could be harming their physical health.

If you have a kid who has a hard time putting down his or her device, camping may make it easier. The birdsong, the wind whispering in the trees, and a beckoning mossy path all work together to reset our inner metronomes. We slow down and discover that, in this moment, at this place at least, the virtual world holds less appeal than the real one.

Even parents seem to unplug at the campsite. Rather than compulsively checking email and Facebook, parents seem to be more present, talking and playing with their kids. In the 2014 Highlights State of the Kid survey, 62% of kids 6–12 said that they felt their parents were often distracted when they wanted to talk to them. The number one distraction? Cell phones.

Camping reveals the wonder of nature.  The national conversation about “nature deficit disorder,” spawned by the influential, best-selling book Last Child in the Woods by Richard Louv, is troubling. But it’s not always easy to find ways to connect kids to the natural world, particularly if you work long hours, live in an urban area, or are simply weary of combating the lure of video games and television. Direct exposure to nature, however, is essential to healthy child development, to our kids’ physical and emotional health—and ours too. Another plus: outdoor activities tend to be active—helping to balance out the sedentary, video game–playing and TV-watching that are sometimes consumed in excess over the summer and can even lead to too much weight gain.

Camping gives kids rare and important free time. Parents leave the schedules at home, and kids have a voice in what they want to do. Hit the playground or the lake? Go fishing? Play wiffle ball?  Take a bike ride or hike with the family? Almost every option amounts to good, unstructured fun. Experts say that unstructured play, especially when it’s kid-directed, is great for kids. It builds confidence, stimulates creativity, and helps them discover new interests.

Of course, there are other ways to moderate screen time and move the kids outside for Vitamin D and physical activity. But as I hear the delighted shrieks of children having fun, I know that camping is one very good way. And let’s not forget the after-dark camping ritual. At night, campers gather around the glow of the campfire—rather than the glow of a TV screen—to talk and laugh together. And, okay, maybe to have a s’more or two.

I’m off to find the marshmallows.  

I had some fun drawing and making art with a classroom full of enthusiastic 2nd Graders today. I showed some of my art and they showed me some of theirs and then I even got the chance to sniff some of their "smelly markers." It was a good partnership.

While showing some of my recent Highlights work to the class, I told the story of illustrating a Monster named Odo, who just wants to be useful in the world and not just go around scaring people. Sadly though, every job he tried to do would always end the same way. Either it just didn't feel like him, or he would become overwhelmed by it all, and fail. He was a kindhearted monster, but stuck in a big, furry, eight-armed body. It wasn't until he was helping out a complete stranger that he finds his true calling. And it was something that he always was, but just needed the time to find. When did he find it? Well, when he stopped looking of course.

I thought of some parallels between Odo and myself growing up, and even now as an adult. I got in trouble as a kid. Not real trouble but goofy trouble. Talking, wandering, doodling in class. Normal trouble. I had all these varieties of interests and personal quirks, but nothing solid to pin them too. So I just got stuck getting in trouble here and there, all the while waiting to find my niche and eventually become the artist I ended up being.

After our little workshop had ended that day, the kids went out for recess. Everyone except one kid, that is. He was still sitting at his desk, waiting to go outside. We talked a bit more about his drawing (which was fantastic) and, unfortunately for him, the fact that he's also a chatty fellow who doesn't know when to stop talking and telling stories to his classmates. So as punishment, the teacher has him wait an extra 5 minutes before getting to go join his friends at recess. The ultimate torture device for a kid like myself, but a fair one.

At first glance you might see this kid as a "Trouble Maker." But at a second glance hopefully you see a little bit more.

At first glance you might see this kid as a "Trouble Maker." But at a second glance hopefully you see a little bit more. I smiled over at him after talking to his teacher and said "Hey this might all pay off someday. You'll probably end up being a best-selling author or reporter or motivational speaker or something. But right now, today, you're just late for recess." That made him smile a bit, and then it was time to head out and join his friends.

That's a bit of what I learned today from the people who weren't teaching me. That we all have our future selves inside us from the beginning.

That's a bit of what I learned today from the people who weren't teaching me. That we all have our future selves inside us from the beginning. Who we are and who we will someday be, has always been there. It probably was coming out in many different ways then and probably still is even now, and not all of them are great. We will probably get in trouble for some of those ways while we figure it all out too. That's just the process.

But with proper guidance, a loving hand and getting cut a little slack every now and then, we will find out who we always were anyway. We can actually become Odo the Monster and end up in the right place. We can actually become Mitch the artist and be sniffing watermelon markers on a Wednesday afternoon. And yes we can become Alex the award winning Nightline News Reporter who never backs away from a good story.

But meanwhile, while we sit and try to figure it all out, we're all just gonna be a little late for recess. Might as well draw a little doodle to pass the time.

When I was a toddler, family legend goes, another child tossed my lovey, a ragdoll I had named Monica, into a small barrel of trash that had just been lit. Before any of the adults present could stop me, I reached in and snatched my doll from the small fire. Luckily, neither of us were burned. The only one who really suffered was the bully, who was, most certainly, punished. But, oh! How I would have suffered if I hadn’t been able to retrieve Monica. She was everything to me.

Whatever you call it—a lovey, a comfort object, a transitional love object or TLO  as a former preschool teacher I know says—that special object to which a Baby or Toddler attaches is a big deal.

Typically, a TLO is soft, like a blanket or a teddy bear. Its softness, psychologists say, is evocative of a mother’s loving arms. Cuddling with this object is the next best thing to cuddling with mom. 

This attachment usually begins around the age of six months, when babies are beginning to experience the freedom of early mobility. At this stage, they are starting to see themselves as individuals separate from their parents. They are beginning the long journey from complete dependence to independence. So, of course, they crave solace. Of course, they need soothing. The TLO is just the ticket—at least for many babies and toddlers.

I have known parents who were slightly alarmed at the attachment their children developed for a blanket or a bunny. But having and using a TLO is a healthy part of childhood development. In fact, pediatricians sometimes encourage parents to help their child attach to a soft toy or blankie by taking it with them wherever they go and using it to help comfort their child.

My son’s “lovey” was a stuffed black bear, which he, as a toddler, named Big Dark Street. (Interestingly, he took the name from a line in a picture book that he must have found comforting: Big dark streets love little street lamps.) As a toddler, my son took Big Dark Street everywhere--until we lost him once on a vacation. My son was distraught; his mom more so. I spent hours calling every home, restaurant, and hotel we’d visited on our trip, asking if they’d found a little boy’s beloved bear. “We’ll check and let you know,” was the usual response. One day, about two weeks later, a box arrived in the mail—from a Holiday Inn. We opened it, and, sure enough, there was Big Dark Street. A note was pinned to his back that read: “Goodness, I’m glad to be home!”

But it wasn’t long before Big Dark Street went back into a box and into a closet. My son, like most kids with TLOs, moved on not long after preschool started. The classic children’s story, The Velveteen Rabbit, describes well this short, sweet season of childhood. Cuddled and loved until he was literally worn out, the stuffed rabbit lost its meaning to the boy over time. But the boy, we presume, grows up well-adjusted and independent. The rabbit did its job well.

Occasionally, when I’m rummaging through boxes in storage, I’ll come across Big Dark Street. Each time, I’m compelled to pick him up, breathe in his scent, and give him a hug. His job now is to soothe me—the mom who misses the toddler who loved his bear (and his mother) so ferociously. Fortunately, that bear can still work its magic.   

Before I could read or write, I knew how a library card worked—and I desperately wanted one of my own. The librarian said that I could have one–as soon as I learned to print my name. I got right to work on that, and I can remember receiving the application and laboriously filling it out. I was barely tall enough to reach over her desk to give it to her, barely able myself to read what I’d written. But she gave me a card bearing my name—not my mom’s–which I literally wore out in months.

My lifelong love of books and reading started early. In our house, reading was spontaneous as much as it was routine. My mother consistently dropped what she was doing whenever I held up a book. Our bi-weekly grocery list always included a new Little Golden Book to add to my collection. If she forgot to buy it, I’d cry until my father sent her back to the store.

To keep my voracious appetite for stories somewhat sated, we regularly headed for the local library. My love of reading no doubt endeared me to our local children’s librarian. And she certainly endeared herself to me, encouraging me (“Yes, you can read this!”), empowering me (“You can choose your own books!”), and broadening my taste (“If you liked this, then you might like this”—so NOT an invention of Amazon.com). I worked my way through all the biographies, devoured the shelf of Newbery winners, and thrilled when the librarian set aside a new book she knew I’d like, making me feel special. My childhood library felt like home.

I began herding my children into our local library as soon as they were able to toddle. Libraries had changed greatly since my childhood, of course, with the added comforts of bean bag chairs and cozy corners filled with pillows. But the essential experience was largely the same, and my kids came to love the Saturday mornings we spent among the stacks. As it did for me as a child, the library offered my children access to more books than I could afford to buy. Many of these became favorites, checked out again and again, their trademark phrases becoming permanent parts of our family’s lexicon. 

Someone’s having a “Terrible, Horrible, No-Good Very Bad Day.”

A person’s a person, no matter how small.

I love you to the moon and back.

And it was our librarian who introduced my son to Ruth Krauss’s classic Big and Little (later reissued and re-titled And I Love You). I would not have guessed that my rough-and-tumble, car-crazy little boy would love this poetic book so tenderly, committing it to memory and naming his favorite stuffed black bear “Big Dark Street,” a phrase from the book’s reassuring conclusion that “big dark streets love little street lamps.”

Libraries have been such an integral part of my family life, that I was startled, recently, to talk with others who don’t feel the same way. I have a friend whose third-grader has never seen the inside of a public library. She is well educated and a person of considerable means, and her family buys the books they decide they want to read.  

I asked a middle-schooler I know if she used the library for homework help or research. She looked at me blankly. “We have wi-fi at home,” she said.  

But she doesn’t have a librarian skilled at helping her develop judgment about which sources are credible and which are not. I am sad that my friend’s third-grader didn’t get introduced to Big and Little, or another book he’d love- -likely one that his mother would never have selected for him.

So I wondered: Is the time-honored custom of taking our children to libraries falling by the wayside?

Informally, I surveyed friends who are parents—and grandparents – of young children. One mom told me that her preschooler selects his own library books each week and sleeps with them. A friend talked about how her granddaughter chooses a library visit over a trip to the park or the local ice cream stand. A volunteer at our local library reports that Storytime for Toddlers is alive and well—resplendent with wide eyes, giggles, and wiggles.

What a relief to hear that, for many families, libraries still rock.

To children’s librarians everywhere, “We love you to the moon and back.”