On the Devastating Brilliance of Mary Poppins, yes the movie, Part 1

No. The book is not “always better than the movie,” she said on her book blog.

(It is, in fact, possible to love stories without needing to own them and needing them to never, ever be loved by anyone else in a way that isn’t your exact way . . . . hoboy I’m already digressing and we haven’t even gotten started; guess this one’s gonna be a multi-parter.)

Someecards is the internet version of wearing a Garfield T-Shirt that says “I speak fluent SARCASM”


In the case of Mary Poppins, I am the captain of #TeamMovie.

This character is genius and I’m so deeply jealous I didn’t think of it. (original cover)

There is so much to admire about the 1934- books. P. L. Travers sketched a magnificent character with marvelous details like a flying umbrella, a frank way of speaking, and an air of power in her discernment and confidence. Travers had a real gift for dialogue — much of the best dialogue from the movie comes straight from the books — and knew exactly how to make a description vivid without making it tortuously lengthy.

But it was Andrews who brought the character into her full kind-yet-stern, proper-yet-absurd, pragmatic-but-also-a-little-bit-magic brilliance.

Book-version Mary Poppins has a cruel streak and the keen-eyed perceptiveness Andrews emphasized in her film portrayal is far outweighed by her pettiness in the original text. She threatens to call the police (!) on Jane and Michael when they ask her questions she doesn’t want to answer; chews out a menial worker for not admiring her knitting; and pouts when she sees the meager haul Bert’s cap has brought in from his sidewalk drawings because it means he can’t buy her the tea-cake she wants.

Travers was reportedly furious with Walt Disney and the entire concept of movies when the film was finished; she felt they’d ruined her signature character by softening her vanity and quick temper into something more conventionally maternal.


But Dr. V! You hate ubercapitalists like Disney and you love cranky female protagonists and irreverence about child-rearing!

I know. Normally, I am 100% here for unpleasant women in my literature. And I do find Travers’s theatrical indignance delightful and can’t help retroactively rooting for her, and I have contempt for this old man calling her “difficult” in Variety despite the fact that the only reason he was even being interviewed by Variety in 2013 is because of the character she created.

This face. The amazing sarcastic clapping GIF that’s the crown jewel of the internet. It’s all so beautiful.

But for me, it’s just ultimately not that fun to read a book in which a lady is mean to little kids and homeless people. This may be more of a personality quirk on my part than a weakness of the books themselves: I have a visceral reaction to children in peril, even ironically or in fictional universes, that I don’t think is universal or even particularly necessary.

Yet I also don’t really see any reason to read books I don’t enjoy to overcome it and I’m ultimately inclined to praise the nuance of Andrews’s character over the broad absurdity of Travers’s. Andrews-Poppins’s mischief is the kind that disrupts the complacency of a pompous patriarch and his bored children, drawing back the curtain on the underdiscussed elements of respectable people’s relations with one another on the street, in banks, and within middle-class family homes.

Travers-Poppins’s mischief, by contrast, is mostly about itself.

For these reasons, the Dr. V’s Children’s Book List official ruling on Mary Poppins is:

the movie was better.


And, despite Dick Van Dyke’s comically horrendous British(?) accent, there are SO MANY reasons why, from Andrews’s wonderful performance, already praised here, to my cackling delight that controlling anticommunist prig Walt Disney tried to made an homage to the nuclear family but accidentally made a three-hour roast of capitalism instead.

I’ll try to be brief. Stay tuned.




Dr. V’s favorite classics: In defense of The Giving Tree

The Giving Tree, by Shel Silverstein. Harper and Row, 1964.200px-the_giving_tree

I haven’t taken a poll, but I’m pretty sure Shel Silverstein is still widely understood to be a straight-up genius; I don’t think his work is in any danger of being undeservedly neglected for the foreseeable future. But I think it is a thing in 2018 to hate on The Giving Tree a little bit—-because in 2018, we like to believe that in 1960something we didn’t know about boundaries and healthy relationships, but now we know. Perhaps because of the sort of pall of apocalypse around us, we’re ALL ABOUT living our best lives #onhere: we denizens of the internet love lifehacks, space efficiency, and healthy healthy relationship ~*~boundaries~*~.

The tree in The Giving Tree, as some have noticed, severely lacks the latter.

Why on earth, you might think, would I ever want to read my kid a book that equates generosity with literally dismembering yourself for someone who doesn’t care about you? Especially if my kid is a girl, because damn?

Well……..what if I told you that not every book is prescriptive?

What if you realize as an adult that a story you always thought was happy is actually sad, but instead of throwing it out, you just let it be a sad story now?


I don’t believe we were ever intended to sigh with happiness when the boy finally, after years of cruel neglect, gives the Giving Tree the time of day by plopping his wrinkly ass on her face.

Rather, The Giving Tree is about what it means to give, give, give to a boy who is an emotional Benjamin Button: the older he gets, the less wise he becomes, until it’s—-well, whether it’s too late or not is up for debate. The tree isn’t a role model here, but rather a simple creature whose strength is in her endurance: she was there before the boy was born and will remain there after the boy is gone.

Because loving the boy is often painful for the tree, but being the boy is painful for the boy. The boy hardens as he grows older for reasons we’re not told, but that hardness doesn’t bring him wealth or happiness. He’s ungrateful and demanding of the tree, but every time he returns to her, he’s angrier and sadder than the time before; his selfishness drains her but doesn’t feed or fill him.

The boy’s resignation at the end—-the humility of his desires now, and the softness with which he communicates them—-leaves room for readers to bring something to the story. The boy doesn’t actually apologize to the tree and he still seems maddeningly bewildered by how unpleasantly his life shook out. It’s possible he hasn’t learned the lessons we wish he would have. In the tree’s position, would we have offered him a seat?

The story doesn’t tell us whether we should. Instead, it simply shows us that the tree did. Unlike Rainbow Fish (ugh), in which the ending explicitly praises its title character’s dismemberment and humiliation as an ideal outcome, The Giving Tree simply tells us what happened and leaves us to our own thoughts.




I think this is what sets Silverstein apart as a children’s author: he tells stories with simple symbols and fun and often funny prose, but doesn’t use those stories to boss his audience around or influence its morality.

Books can be great teachers. But does every book need to be one? Is reading a story with your child in which the ending isn’t necessarily happy and characters persist in being flawed, even at the end, really the worst thing in the world?


Good on you, Adult in 2018, for recognizing that The Giving Tree is a sad story: that means that you’ve grown. But it doesn’t mean that The Giving Tree is a bad story.


What if you trusted your kid to figure that out, just like you did?



Dr. V’s Favorite Classics: Kings and Wild Things

where_the_wild_things_are_28book29_coverWhere the Wild Things Are, by Maurice Sendak. Harper, 1963.

Boys always have to be king of everything, thought seven-year-old V., reading what seemed to be everyone else’s favorite book.

Where the Wild Things Are is one of those books that is universally beloved, except by (former) me. But unlike some other cases in which my scorn is surely the epitome of justice, over time I have had to admit that it was me, not the late great Maurice Sendak, who was wrong: decades after everyone else, and prompted by Spike Jonze’s film adaptation, I became a WtWTA convert.

Seven-year-old V. was profoundly bored with and mildly contemptuous of Max. The several pages in the middle that were just pictures felt tedious, like watching a slideshow of someone else’s vacation. Back then, my childbrain’s ready acceptance of worldbuilding of any type meant that I didn’t understand that the creativity of the images was anything special. Obviously there is a monster with a bird head and beast claws—-what else would there be?

Also, I distinctly recall feeling really annoyed that this kid was being a jerk but still somehow rated getting his dinner served to him, in his very own room, hot on a tray by the household woman.


Revisiting the book as an adult brought new perspective.

current mood.

Not only can I now appreciate the technique and whimsy of the Sendak’s drawings and the poetry of his gentle writing style, as a grown-up I weirdly have a lot more sympathy for Max than I did as a fellow kid—-sympathy for those momentary funks one gets in, where one wishes to growl at people, to roll one’s terrible eyes and show one’s terrible claws. The fantasy that, by taming other Wild Things, it’s possible to soothe one’s own destructive wildness, becomes deeply appealing in adulthood.

Plus, it’s a great primer on the value of a good time-out.

A Cute Owl and the Beautiful Colorful

WOW! Said the Owl, by Tim Hopgood. Farrar, 2009.

Dr. V.’s take:51wemv1mrul

My youngest kid has previously used “beautiful colorful” as a noun. As in, “look at what I drew! It’s a beautiful colorful!” He also does this with “warm” to describe the cozy sensation of being under a blanket with someone; as soon as I grab my tea and an afghan I have come to expect an inevitable, “ooooh, can be in the warm too???”

Blithely playing fast and loose with grammar is the young human’s only appeal to Darwinism. Though our young are oblivious and possessed of terrible survival skills, adult humans put in the work to keep them alive and healthy and sometimes even sort of clean because they are sincere and effusive and warm in both senses of the word, and they phrase things in ways that can startle our jaded old souls back from the brink of abject bitterness.

Because when you’re guiding a tiny human through this life, you are continually faced with difficult moments and conversations, but so too are you constantly confronted with a parade of beautiful colorfuls that can’t be taken away by a tight budget or horrifying governmental action. Sometimes the world looks flatly depraved, but a little goober brings you into the warm and reminds you of things that are always, always yours, that life is a full and flawed container of multitudes.

I’m a documented fan of Hopgood’s illustration style, and here it’s combined with his own words, a tale of an absurdly cute owl (possibly irresistible even to those with owl fatigue leftover from 2011) who leans in to her curiosity about the day time. She is delighted by what she discovers in the noonday sun, so much so that one wonders if perhaps she will decide to leave her nocturnal ways behind forever—-but, happily, she brings what she learns from the experience back to her natural rhythm and lets it enrich her viewpoint of the night she had been taking for granted.

Wow! Said the Owl is a quick, bright read that’s the perfect inauguration to fall, in that chronicles the colors in much the same fun, holistic way as Jorge Lujan’s Colors! ¡Colores! and serves as a happy little break in the middle of the day or before bedtime. Plus, the title and refrain is fun to say out loud. Wins all around.

Dr. V’s favorite classics: Bea and Mr. Jones

After the other day’s ranty post about an overrated classic, today let’s celebrate an underrated one!

Bea and Mr. Jones, by Amy Schwartz. Harcourt, 1982. 51qxvu6uetl

Dr. V’s take:

We’re familiar with the Freaky Friday plot: two people switch places (or even bodies) for a finite period of time and live life in each other’s shoes. Bonus points if the two people butt heads or appear to be opposites in any way at the beginning of the story, because the journey to mutual respect by the end is all the more gratifying.

Besides Freaky Friday‘s many (many!) remakes—-so many that people don’t realize that the original Freaky Friday was a young adult book from 1972—-this plot device has been employed by such illustrious works as Olsen twins movie It Takes Two, Eddie Murphy/Dan Akroyd movie Trading Places, the candy-maker episode of I Love Lucy, and multiple Disney Channel Original Movies.

The Freaky Friday genre peaked early, you guys. I give you Bea and Her Father—-one of the world’s most underrated children’s books that has everything great about this trading-places plot but also turns the tables on it. As I’ve noted before, pulling off a surprise ending in a children’s book is a rare, beautiful skill; this one will make you “HA!” out loud.

In addition to the adorable premise that Bea would be just as tired of pasting things on other things in kindergarten as her father is of meetings and paperwork, the illustrations—-in that classic line-y textured style*—-of five-year-old Bea in a suit at business meetings are hilarious and the ease with which everyone accepts their swap is delightfully weird.

Bea and Mr. Jones is also refreshingly 1980s about Bea being a girl. Compare these LEGO ads that circulated a few years ago with this one, and you can kind of see what I mean. Bea and Mr. Jones imagines a world in which a five-year-old girl is readily accepted as an executive with no resistance whatsoever, and she finds that it suits her well, even though there are no princesses in sight. We’ve made progress since the 1980s in many ways, but its possible that we’ve lost some things, too: if you’re weary of the constant drumbeat of princesses and sparkles, a girl protagonist for whom the “girl” part doesn’t have to be expressed in that exact way, and who feels no need to explain herself to anyone, is a great find.

But the surprise ending is really the best part. Go read the book before you read anymore of this post, because I really don’t want to ruin it for you.

Go on!

Did you do it?


****spoiler warning****

We know how this story was supposed to go: everybody was supposed to learn a Very Important Lesson about how it feels to be someone other than yourself. Or, as we used to hear it phrased back when we had a POTUS who knew how to do sentences, how it feels to “climb into [another’s] skin and walk around in it.” Empathy, compassion, blah blah blah.

But Bea and her father are like, eh. Instead of learning to appreciate their own lives and respect each other’s struggles more, Bea and her father find that they really like being an ad exec/kindergartner. It turns out that bosses at ad advertising firms are on the same wavelength as strong-willed five-year-olds, while the values of kindergarten skew more toward cooperation and sharing (and of course, the ability to reach things is highly coveted). Bea and her father declare the swap a permanent success and everybody lives happily ever after. It is silly and charming and brilliant and a perfect book.




*I tried to find out if this style has a name, but came up empty. If you know about it, leave a comment or shoot me message!

UGH: Rainbow Fish

Awww, a book about a fish who learns to share! Or a book about a bunch of other nonspecial fish who learn to ostracize others until they receive the bribe they feel they so richly deserve. One of those.

Inquisitive mop-top: But why does the Rainbow Fish give away all of his scales, Dr. V?

Dr. V: Because, darling, the community surrounding Rainbow Fish was so petty and resentful of anybody different from them that they actually demanded that he decimate his literal body and give it to them as an offering before they would accept him. It’s a garbage book and it belongs in the garbage.

Inquisitive mop-top (who is astonishingly precocious and definitely not imaginary): But Dr. V, Rainbow Fish seems like a book you would love! It’s got all of your favorite things: beautiful full-page pictures, a misfit protagonist, and socialism!

Dr. V: True, wee nugget. Also true: Rainbow Fish began the book hella obnoxious. Flitting around marveling at how beautiful you are is lowkey rude and it also makes you very, very boring. If you don’t believe me, take a look at Kim Kardashian’s Instagram.

Im-t(wiapadni): And isn’t this book about [streams of pure light] [angel choir] ~*~*~*sharing~*~*~*~???

Dr. V: No, my dear baby musk ox, it is about a perversion of sharing: the lack of respect for anybody’s boundaries.

If the story of Rainbow Fish depicted its title character learning how to give the world something other than his shallow self-importance, and in so doing, making connections with others that eases his loneliness, I’d be on board.

If the story of Rainbow Fish depicted its title character learning how to show compassion for those less fortunate than he is, or returning the kindness of the those around him by sharing his beautiful scales, I’d be able to overcome the this-is-part-of-his-actual-body aspect of it and get on board.


The story of Rainbow Fish depicts a mildly obnoxious gifted fish getting denigrated and brought down by all of the jealous uggos around him. One of them has the nerve to come up and ask Rainbow Fish to give him one of his scales. When RF refuses to remove a piece of his body and give it to him, Mr. Entitled-Fins gets angry with him, and all of the other fish side with Mr. E-F. Rainbow Fish caves, and this is a Valuable Lesson because it teaches children the universal virtues of recognizing the fact that everyone else is entitled to anything they ask for, so you should never hesitate to dismember yourself to suit others’ desires.

Rainbow Fish ends the book with lots of friends, of course, which teaches a second no less important lesson that if nobody likes you, you should give them stuff until they do; and that being special is bad, so if you’re special, make sure you unspecial yourself until everybody is the same.


The real lesson to be learned here, children, is that jerks deserve each other. #classic

Let us leave them to their dysfunction forever and go be cool to each other elsewhere.

Author Spotlight: Sara Varon

This has gone on long enough. It is high time we discussed Sara Varon.


Last year, Varon released a collection of short stories, comics, and journal entries that discuss her creative process called Sweaterweather (First Second, 2016); part of the inspiration for starting this blog was so that I would have somebody to talk to about my love for writers like Sara Varon. Varon is less prolific than some of the other writers I’ve covered in the spotlights, but literally every last project she’s been involved with is delightful.

Graphic novels for middle-grade readers are kind of a big thing right now. We’re getting graphic-novel adaptations of classics, like Shannon, Dean, and Nathan Hale’s Rapunzel/Jack and the Beanstalk reboots, autobiographical stories like Raina Telgemeir’s work, and even strip comics collected into books, like Lincoln Pierce’s Big Nate series.

Respectfully, I submit that Sara Varon is the indisputable world champion of this cohort, and this is for two reasons:

1. In a world of reboots and the lamentable Everykid phenomenon I mentioned here, Varon’s characters are new, interesting, and a special blend of weird and relatable.

Sometimes this characterization is explicit, as in Odd Duck, which was written by Cecil Castellucci but illustrated with Varon’s signature whimsy, about the friendship of two ducks who don’t quite fit in with the other ducks, or anybody else either, and who aren’t even that much alike between themselves. But affection for the “odd duck” is a cornerstone of Varon’s milieu even when she’s not illustrating literally odd actual ducks. Her characters are all animals, anthropomorphic desserts, or robots, but they are somehow really believable, and her worldbuilding always makes a strange sort of sense. The anteater family in Robot Dreams eats ants, because obviously, but they also enjoy snowball fights and sledding, because obviously. Similarly, the robot shouldn’t swim, because hello rust, but it does enjoy dancing and books, because who doesn’t?

What’s more, Varon’s books explore the task that so often eludes the odd duck: how to forge real, genuine connections in a society that doesn’t seem to have set itself up to quite welcome you, personally. In Odd Duck‘s example, the ups and downs of Theodora and Chad’s friendship teaches them how to discern when differences are superficial and how they can coexist with connections that run much deeper.  Chad may not share Theodora’s preference for tidyness and she may not care for his favorite music, but they share an appreciation for the notion that the world is much bigger than them and support each other’s instincts to be curious.  e1f2720d93d86f791c27a982181c5d00odd59

In Robot Dreams, a graphic novel with a more literal take on the title of an Isaac Asimov short story, Robot and Dog are unable to circumvent the obstacles, both coincidental and self-inflicted, that separated them; they both end up moving on with others. But this more bittersweet ending is okay, too, because sometimes the stars just don’t align for particular relationships to work out, and sometimes that’s okay, too. And in Bake Sale, Cupcake learns how to balance her solitary pursuits with maintaining her relationships with others.

These lessons are thorny and complicated, but Varon presents them with warmth and fun and subtle humor.

2. Her books are genre-bending in ways that they don’t get credit for.

Her books are marketed to children and housed in children’s sections because of their pastel color palettes, ultra-G-rated content, and tenor of kindness and warmth. But they are the best example I have ever seen of media that is truly for “all ages,” if only we can get the heck over our need to categorize books by their shape and size.

Because Robot Dreams is a graphic novel with no text, the reader plays a significant role in infusing the story—-whose ending isn’t unhappy, but it’s not of the straightforward “and then everybody got exactly what they thought they wanted after all” variety—-with meaning and nuance. An eight-year-old can certainly read it, and sit with it, and discuss it from his perspective, but it was also pretty universally embraced by the college students I assigned it to in my university teaching days, and it’s a personal favorite of mine. (Side note: Robot Dreams‘s publisher, First Second, is pretty dope generally if you’re into graphic novels; I highly recommend checking them out.) Odd Duck works as a read-aloud if you skip the talk bubbles and stick with the narration in the captions, but is even better read silently to oneself.

Bake Sale and Chicken and Cat are perhaps Varon’s most early- and middle-grade-reader-specific titles, but these, like the aforementioned Justin Case books, are of the type that one can read as an adult concurrently with one’s child and still find engaging and fun.

If you have never read a book by Sara Varon, your life is more tragic than you know. Get thee to a library or a local bookstore and give her a try!

All ages
Robot Dreams, First Second, 2007.
Odd Duck (illust.; written by Cecil Castellucci), First Second, 2013.

Early- to middle-grade readers
Bake Sale, First Second, 2011.
Chicken and Cat, First Second, 2006.


Grumpy Goat and What to Do with the Sad that You Feel

Grumpy Goat, by Brett Helquist. HarperCollins, 2013.61ticg-ri6l-_sx258_bo1204203200_

Dr V.’s take:

One thing people like about kids is how damn happy they can be. Extremely medium jokes about interrupting cows are the height of hilarity in their worldview—-and never (ever!) get old!—-and they can turn pretty much anything into irrational amounts of joy: crunchy leaves, the existence of squirrels, their own butts. If you can get past the mysterious perpetual stickiness, it’s hard not to laugh when you’re around a little kid for any extended period of time. I’ve often tried to remember what it felt like to have a heart so open, but I can’t get back there with any significant lucidity.

Open hearts, however, are also susceptible to disappointment (see: tantrums; the flip side of the ability to act like a basic trip to the park is a party in your honor is the inability to control your devastation at being asked to wear a coat because it is winter.)

And small, young people experience loss, too, and grief and sadness.

Less gravely, they also sometimes just wake up on the wrong side of the bed, and want to try out cantankerousness for awhile and see how it suits them.

For these days, as in all days, we need books.

Enter Grumpy Goat, a very sweet book about cantankerousness and grief.

When Goat first arrives at the farm, he’s similar to a contestant on The Bachelor in that he’s not there to make friends: “He just kept his head down, scowled, and ate.” (Goat’s hunger, and his inability to feel satiated, may ring familiar, which is brilliant or awful, depending on how much you’re in the mood for a children’s picture book to gaze into your termite-infested soul). hqdefaultBut when he comes across something that strikes him as beautiful, his impulse to care for it disrupts his glare-eat-glare routine, and makes room for some pretty cool games of tag and companionship with his peers.

In many—-maybe even most—-children’s books, this would be the end of the story. And Goat lived happily ever after.

Grumpy Goat takes us a little further, however: the bright days don’t last forever. But when Goat finds himself grieving a loss, his new friends’ response is itself beautiful, too: the pigs “sit with him awhile”; Cow brings him dinner; and “the sheep don’t know what to do, so they stay nearby.” And when Goat is ready to be happy again, so are they.

Helquist packs this model for how to feel hard feelings, and how to help a friend who is feeling hard feelings, into a concise, perfectly paced story—-a sentence or two per page against soothing, full-size illustrations.

* * * * * * *


Check this video of Mr. Rogers explaining why PBS matters to a Senate subcommittee, using his song “What Do You Do with the Mad that You Feel?”

The Virtues of Forgoing Universality: The Case of Justin Case

We (I) here at Dr. V dot com enterprises (my house) have thus far focused mainly on read-alouds for the preschool set for this blog, mostly because there are bazillions and bazillions of them and also you have to read them out loud so it seems worthwhile to keep a running tally of the standouts.

The problem of bazillions and bazillions is less of a thing with books for the older-but-only-so-much-older-than-preschool set, however. Call it the Mean of Eight category: books for those six- to ten-year-olds who have been reading for a while and are way too grown-up to have picture books read to them and yet are actually not very old as far as human beings go. There are still one bazillion, probably, in my very scientific guess, but….a lot of the aren’t very good.

You can’t go wrong turning to that renaissance we seemed to have in the 1960s and 1970s, with the likes of Cleary (I think Strider is underrated), Dahl, and Blume (ditto her weirdo story Freckle Juice). But, as relatable as they somehow remain, these books do present needlepoint as a common hobby and act like going to the corner store by oneself as a 7-year-old is normal; modern books as good as these classics can seem hard to come by.

But not impossible! and we’re going to start talking about more of them around here. Starting with:

The Justin Case books, by Rachel Vail. (Illust. by  Matthew Cordell). Feiwel and Friends (imprint of MacMillan), since 2010.justincase

Dr. V.’s take:

Justin Krzeszewski (he’s half-Jewish; everybody always messes up his name) is just about the nicest kid I’ve ever met. And yet he’s a great example of how being eight means that sometimes your good intentions aren’t quite in line with your social skills, and situations can kind of get away from you.

jc2_04Justin is precocious but also kind of strangely worrywart-y for a kid his age—-hence his nickname, Justin Case. He frets about the largeness of his friend’s head (turns out to be a nonissue, believe it or not), whether there will be sharks at the beach (shockingly, there aren’t), and he takes the liberty of searching the classifieds for new jobs for his parents in New Jersey so he can avoid starting a new school year in third grade (“no movement…, despite all my arguments”).

Justin’s uniqueness is one of my favorite things about him as a character, and Vail makes him totally believable. In my view, too many books aimed at kids this age try to create these Everyboy/Everygirl protagonists (and heaven forfend the ‘twain should meet); the medium-looking, medium-talented, medium kid, who accidentally does some shenanigans and along the way learns the True Meaning of Friendship or other family value.  It’s bland, and it’s also a bummer, because in order to work it relies on certain common ground with readers that may or may not actually exist (see, for example, the stuff I said about apartments in this post).

Justin, however, is his own person. And even though Justin’s natural nervousness might not be something everyone feels themselves, it makes him real. Real characters are always better than imitations of “universality,” which is imaginary; and interesting is always better than familiar. What’s more, Justin’s lack of “runny-aroundy”-ness, as he puts it, is kind of refreshing, considering how quickly people tend to assume that boys are always rambunctious.  And anyway, he has the most important thing in common with other eight-year-olds, which is the fact that he is a goober, and they are all without exception goobers. Though the hijinx in the Justin Case books are pretty tame, they’re paced well and recounted with humor.

These are the kinds of books I can read myself without being miserably bored; this is something I look for in books for my older kid, because it’s fun to be able to chat over chores about what “we’ve” been reading lately. It’s okay if we don’t directly identify with every facet of Justin’s personality—-the important thing is that he has one, and he’s learning how it meshes and doesn’t mesh with those of others. What’s more relatable than that? jc2_05

UGH: The Little Red Hen

By the fiftieth time of reading this, I have a few choice words for one Ms. Hen.

But why didn’t the Little Red Hen share her bread, Dr. V?

DR. V.:
Because the Little Red Hen believes that she pulled herself up by her bootstraps and did all of the work of making the bread herself and is therefore entitled eat all of it herself, an act which is evidently made all the better for her if she can do so ceremoniously for an audience of contrite ne’er-do-wells. The lesson is, apparently, that the Little Red Hen deserves ALL THE BREAD and her neighbors deserve NO BREAD and also MOCKERY. However, the Little Red Hen is forgetting:

  1. she didn’t earn that wheat by being the most virtuous. She completely lucked into it—-and she got it for free, as a side effect of some anonymous wheat-picker’s labor! It was an actual hand-out! Is she chasing whoever dropped the grain of wheat to hand them a piece of her venerable Bread of Industriousness?
  2. the miller? Hello? Kind of an unsung hero here? Little Red Hen acts like taking the wheat to the mill is some astonishing act of determination, but surely the actual milling of the wheat entails some labor? I assume she must be planning to go down to the mill and pass out next-day croutons in the sequel.
  3. just because she decides she wants to undertake a project doesn’t obligate her neighbors to drop everything they’re doing to help her. If she asks for a favor, she needs to take “no” for an answer, and if she doesn’t want to give anybody any bread, she can just keep it to herself and nobody will care. She really cedes a good deal of moral high ground with the “PSYCH!” maneuver. RUDE.
  4. watering one plant is not that serious. It’s really not the kind of thing that anybody needs help with. It’s more like the kind of thing your friends do with you because they like your company and chatting with a person you like in a garden is nice.

So the real lesson, my little darlings, is that the Little Red Hen has no friends, probably because she’s the worst and nags everyone incessantly. If you ever find a free seed, you should try not assuming it entitles you to others’ free labor as well, and instead have fun with it.

With any luck your plant will provide you with something pretty and/or delicious, and you’ll want to pay it forward.