Parent hacks

I’ve recently stumbled across the fabulous Parent Hacks website, and what kind of person would I be if I didn’t share the link? A selfish person, that’s who. One who probably doesn’t share the remote control, either (I plead the Fifth).

Parent Hacks is full of all the trial-and-error tactics that other parents have stumbled upon, along with links to promising entries on other blogs, like 25 Uses for Ziploc Bags or How to Make Homemade “Baby Legs” (those little leg warmer things for toddlers).

Warning: this site is a sucking black hole of a time-killer. But it’s worth every second to find tips like this one on how to get your diaper pail to actually smell pretty good. Which is an excellent and timely tip, considering that the Diaper Champ funk makes my son’s closet smell like someone crawled in there and died.

Anyhow, enjoy Parent Hacks, and speak up if you have your own awesome parenting tip!

Mommy’s little Jedi knight

Friday was the 30th anniversary for the theatre premiere of Star Wars: A New Hope, so it got me to thinking about the impact it’s had on me and, later, on my family.

On IMDB, the first user comment calls it “A kid’s fantasy. An Adult’s memory”. And that just about sums it up for me. I was born two years after the first one came out, so I cannot ever remember a time when I did not know what Star Wars was. And I loved it—the heroism, the romance and pageantry of it all. Plus, I wanted to marry Han Solo. Shh.

I didn’t grow up to marry Han Solo, needless to say, but I did find a certain sweet drummer who had a Boba Fett action figure (still in the package) hanging on the wall of his dorm room and a Lego X-Wing set on top of his microwave. I think it’s fair to say it was love at first sight.

I hadn’t intended to let the Sprog watch it just yet, because I thought Darth Vader was too scary. Plus, that whole thing with Stormtroopers blowing people away with blasters (though they couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn, usually).

But last September, my husband wasn’t feeling well, so he was watching Star Wars while laying on the couch. I ran out to the library, and when I came back, both my boys were cuddled up on the couch, mesmerized by the Millennium Falcon shooting it out with the evil Empire. We turned off the DVD shortly thereafter, when I expressed concerns that it might be too violent and scary for him. But the reprieve was short-lived.

The very next day, the Sprog started feeling sick too, so I put in his favorite Elmo DVD. He commenced with the grumping and whining as soon as he saw the menu screen (you know how kids are when they’re sick), so I asked him if there was something else he’d rather watch.

“Star Wars, Mama,” he said distinctly. “I want Star Wars.”

So I queued up the DVD and he sat down on his baby potty. As soon as the main title with the trumpet fanfare bamfed onto the screen, he stood up, threw his arms up into the air and yelled “YAAAAY! YAAAAAAY! HOOOORAAAAAY!!! STAAAAR WAAAAARS!!!” Which, you know, is as it should be.

He had watched most of it the day before, so we snuggled up on the couch and watched the thrilling conclusion together; I provided a little simplified narration so he’d have some clue of what was going on.

Near the end, when the X-wings are getting nearer and nearer to the target on the Death Star, I told him, “The spaceships have to shoot the Death Star before the bad guys get them. See Luke? He’s trying to shoot the Death Star. Uh oh! Is Darth Vader going to get him? Hurry up, Luke!”

The Sprog’s eyes were as big as an Ewok’s, and he sat, entranced, as one by one, the Empire TIE fighters picked off the X-wings. I admit, I found myself getting a little caught up in the suspense, too. Finally, when Luke was almost there, the Sprog couldn’t take it anymore. He stood up on the couch and yelled, “SHOOT THE DEATH STAR, LUKE! SHOOT THE DEATH STAR!”

The rest, as they say, is history. He requested (though was not generally allowed) to watch it every single day for months. I finally let him watch The Return of the Jedi in desperation because I was this close to torching A New Hope with hairspray and a Bic lighter if I had to watch it one more time. I did fast-forward through the parts with the Rancor and Emperor Palpatine, though. Still too scary.

But within days, the Star Wars universe was irrevocably sown into his imagination. Cardboard paper towel tubes became lightsabers, with which he would bravely battle Darth Vader. A big cardboard box became the Millennium Falcon, and he would steer it all over the universe rescuing princesses and shooting up the evil Empire. When he asked for (and received) a baby doll to love on, he named it Luke Skywalker. When we were toilet training him, casually mentioning that Jedi Knights always poop in the potty–not in their diapers–got swift results.

He doesn’t ask to watch it as much now (thank goodness), but he still loves Star Wars. Two of his most treasured possessions are the little toy lightsabers we got him for Christmas. And in the meantime, he’s moved on to other fads and obsessions, the way kids will. But Star Wars has a special place in his heart still. And when we do watch it, and I see his little eyes lighting up at the swashbuckling action, the conflict between good and evil, the jaw-dropping special effects, I couldn’t be happier about that.

Discuss: Any Star Wars fans here? Got kids who love it? Speak up and tell me about it! I’m especially interested to hear about the first time you ever saw it, but I’m not picky–any Star Wars anecdotes will do just fine.

Reconsider the death penalty for child rapists

Court upholds death sentence for child rape

I have a bad feeling about this.

To summarize the article, there’s a guy on Death Row in Louisiana for raping–but not murdering–an 8-year-old girl. Louisiana is one of several states that allow the death penalty for raping a child, but this is the first time someone’s actually been given that sentence. Whether or not the Louisiana Supreme Court (and possibly the U.S. Supreme Court) upholds the sentence will test whether or not the age of the victim meets the U.S. Supreme Court’s criteria as an “aggravating circumstance” that justifies the death penalty.

Look, I have conflicted feelings about the death penalty anyway–I think it’s disproportionately sentenced to the poor, the mentally ill, and non-whites, and that’s just to start with–but that has nothing to do with why I’m concerned about the potential fallout from this court case.

My reservations also have nothing to do with some kind of misplaced pity for child rapists, because the very thought that someone could do that to a child makes my blood boil.

No, I’m worried because I think it has the potential to create more problems than it solves, and our children could be the ones to suffer. I imagine those in favor of this law believe it will act as a deterrent to pedophiles. That, and they don’t want to look sympathetic to pedophiles by supporting less than the very harshest punishment. They also probably think it’s a good idea to just go ahead and execute them to keep them from re-offending.

I can understand those reasons. For one thing, pedophiles will keep re-offending, every single chance they get. They are desperately attracted to children, and have the highest recidivism rates of any sexual offender. Life in prison with no parole (or more controversially, chemical castration) would take care of recidivism, but I don’t think the threat of any penalty, death or otherwise, would really stop them from re-offending. It would just make them more careful not to get caught.

Also, if you put the death penalty on the table for child rape alone, I think fewer child rapes will be reported. A 2000 U.S. Department of Justice report said that in 34% of reported sexual assault crimes against children, the perpetrator was a family member. And sexual assault is widely acknowledged to be a vastly underreported crime, so there are surely even more victims than reported. Many people have a hard enough time overcoming family loyalty to report rape; it will be that much more difficult if they know that calling the police means tacitly approving a relative’s death.

And then there’s this: When the punishment for rape is the same as the punishment for murder, then the rapist has nothing to lose by killing the only witness. Sometimes that happens anyway, as with the tragic case of the mother and her two daughters who died in Grayson this month. But more often than not, child rapists leave their victims alive; children are easily intimidated into silence, and the rapists (especially when in positions of trust) can continue to fly under the radar and molest other children. And they will. But if they have to kill their victims to keep from getting caught, they’ll do it.

I admit, I wouldn’t shed too many tears for the death of a child rapist, but I’m not willing to sacrifice a child’s life to see it happen. Because when murder is the sentence for a non-murder offense, I predict we’ll have more than one death on our hands.

Primary reasons

Money spent on 1 super-hero toy to keep the Sprog occupied: $5

Time spent researching media articles and candidates’ websites: 1.5 hours

Time spent making sure I’m eligible to vote, and where I need to go: like, 30 seconds.

Money spent on gas to drive to the polling station: well, it’s two miles away, so, what…$13.50?

Hearing your 3-year-old son say “Mommy, I will vote too when I am a big boy! I will vote every day!”: Stinkin’ priceless.

You all know what you need to be doing today, right?

Godawful baby crafts

OMG. This has got to be the Mt. Everest of baby crochet projects. I picked up the supplies yesterday, and you could pierce ears with that needle and floss your teeth with that yarn. I will likely be working on this for months. Not that I think the baby herself will care much one way or the other. She’d be just as happy to excrete all over my loving handiwork. But she’ll be excreting on dainty filet crochet, by golly.

What is this madness that has taken over my brain? I love to crochet (though my taste runs more toward the skull potholders from the latest Stitch n Bitch book), so it seems natural to want to make something special for my baby. But I must be wary, because clearly this instinct has led many a well-meaning mommy down the path to monstrosities such as these:

Babies are wee and squeezable, yes. We want to dress them in wee and squeezable clothing (with a nursery caddy to match). But this instinct ought not to cloud our judgment regarding the boundaries of good taste. And some of this stuff…yeesh. Just has “vengeful juvenile delinquent” written all over it.

Discuss: Did you ever receive a really revolting craft item from a well-meaning friend or relative? I want to hear every scintillating detail of its godawfulness.

UK basketball and cloth diapering

Okay, fine. This actually has nothing to do with UK basketball, but never let it be said that I’m above shameless trolling for page hits.

But, onward and upward: my husband and I have recently decided to use cloth diapers with this new baby (translation: I decided and then convinced him with an avalanche of pamphlets printed on 100% post-consumer recycled paper).

We know the way will not be easy; there will be

• annoyance: I will actually have to do laundry. Quite often, even. Boo hiss.

• sartorial misadventures: I hope they make Hammer pants for babies, because cloth diapers are not known for their trim fit (except for maybe Fuzzi Bunz).

• possible fatal injury: hopefully our heads won’t swell up and explode from the smug knowledge that we’re saving the world one dirty diaper at a time, blah blah blah shut up and go drink a wheatgrass smoothie already Heather.

But while we’re on that topic, let me make one thing clear: this post is not intended to make anyone feel guilty about their diapering choices. Heaven knows it’s hard enough to deal with the stress of a new baby without having to worry about laundering the kiddo’s dirty diapers. But I’ve done a lot of research on this, and it’s something we feel we need to do.

I’m not going to lay out all the facts and figures (better bloggers than I have already done so, and far more thoroughly than I ever could), but here’s a few highlights:

In favor of cloth diapers:

• If you get the right kind of diapers and use them properly, they won’t leak with even the nastiest blow-outs (according to Lexington’s own uber-mama Guinever)

• Also according to Guinever, they’re really not that hard to launder.

• General health concerns: babies in disposables tend to have more diaper rash, the chemicals used in manufacturing the diapers (especially dioxin) are potentially dangerous, and the scrotal temperature rise associated with using disposables may negatively impact a boy’s future fertility.

• Waste products get processed through the water and sewer lines, instead of being dumped into a landfill and possibly contaminating the groundwater.

• The landfill issue: Cloth diapers biodegrade in about six months. Disposable diapers take at least 500 years to do the same thing; that’s a problem since disposable diapers are the third-most common item thrown away by people in America, and make up 4% of all landfill content, and 30% of all non-biodegradable waste. That’s a lot of garbage, considering each child in disposables generates over two tons of wet/dirty diapers in the first two and half years of its life.

• You’ll save money buying cloth diapers and washing them at home (you’ll have to, since there’s no diaper service in Lexington), and the savings is even higher if you use the diapers on more than one child. But even if you only use them on one kid, people sell gently used cloth diapers on eBay at an excellent profit. Oh, quit cringing, they look just about brand new if they’ve been cared for. And what do you think babies do all over those cute second-hand rompers you buy on eBay?. (Correction: the sale of used cloth diapers has recently been banned by eBay, but you can buy and sell any kind of cloth diaper on the Mother-Ease site.)

In favor of disposables:

• They’re more convenient, especially when traveling or if the kid has just had immunizations. However, there are reasonably easy ways around this if you’re committed to cloth diapering. And putting untreated polio virus in a landfill is kind of gross anyway.

• Daycares often have policies forbidding cloth diapers. Which is silly, because good hygiene practices by daycare workers have a lot more to do with preventing the spread of disease than what kind of diapers the kids are wearing.

• Um, that’s about it.

We’re still exploring all our options and trying to figure out the best way to go about all this; it’s a brave new world for us and I’m not ashamed to admit that I have a lot of research still to go on this. But first I think I need to go shopping for some baby Hammer pants. And possibly the matching sunglasses.

Do any of you all use cloth diapers? What kind do you like best, and do you have any tips for beginners?

Meeting the sibling

It can be a tricky thing, introducing a young child to the concept of being an older sibling. But here’s a heads up on a cool little class that could help.

Tomorrow at the Beaumont Branch Public Library, at 3080 Fieldstone Way, the librarians will host a special workshop for new or soon-to-be big brothers and big sisters. It’s free, and goes from 3:30 to 4:30 p.m. Children will listen to stories that help them deal with concerns they might have, and then they’ll make a special present for the new baby. The workshop is meant for children ages 3 to 6, and reservations are required. For more information call (859) 231-5570 or visit the Lexington Public Library Web site.

I’ve signed the Sprog up for the class, because the first time I told him there was a baby in Mommy’s tummy, he looked at me like I had just served him a plate of fresh warts. He’s all kinds of excited about it now, but it can’t hurt to make sure everyone’s totally cool with the impending embiggening of the family. Hope to see you there!

Go, go Gadget garden!

Women do strange things when they’re nesting. Most do something lovably insane such as cleaning the heating vents with Q-tips. Not me, though. Nuh-uh. I go to Lowe’s and buy them out of gardening supplies — in February. I guess there’s some sort of correlation between being pregnant and trying to get vegetables to grow (though I’ve thus far had a lot more success with Sprog-growing). We even housed the seedlings and grow lights in the future nursery. How much more symbolic can you get?

You’d think all this loving attention would indicated that I’m a halfway decent gardener. Haha. Hahahahaha. I have killed a cactus by underwatering. When I began gardening last year, I tried to start small, with one tomato plant, one bell pepper plant and some zucchini. Admittedly, those did pretty well, even though my poor tomato fell over from bad caging technique. And that same tomato plant intimidated the bell pepper plant into cowering submission because I planted them too close. Oops.

But this year, I have gone clean crazy with the garden. I raised from seed this year, so I have a ton of seedlings: Better Boy hybrid tomatoes, Yellow Jubilee tomatoes, red bell peppers, sweet yellow banana peppers, zucchini, yellow squash, cantaloupes, lettuce, chives, rosemary, thyme, lemon basil, and cilantro.

Actually, scratch the cilantro. I clearly am unable to grow it (though any helpful hints would be welcome), since this is the second year in a row that it’s given up the ghost. This year I think it was overwatering. Last year it was because I foolishly put the pot on the deck floor where my dog would pee on it every time he passed. After some debate, I ended up leaving the dead and shriveled cilantro there all summer so P.J. would continue to use it as his own personal fire hydrant and not move on to some other unfortunate denizen of my herb garden. I saw the chives shiver every time he passed.

But anyway, aside from the poor, poor cilantro, everything else is growing like gangbusters (how do those grow?). So even after I give away my extra seedlings, I’m still going to have quite a few left. It’s not a bad idea to have an extra plant if you grow organic (I do, and it isn’t hard), since you’ll probably lose a few more to bugs or whatever (”whatever” means “gross incompetency” in my case).

But you’ll still probably have a bunch of fresh veggies left over. I know that with one zucchini plant last year, I was rolling in that blasted gourd. I had zucchini like Forrest Gump had shrimp. (Seriously, I don’t know how grocers sleep at night charging $2 a pound for that stuff when it grows like a weed.)

Most people give away their extra produce to friends and family, but may I suggest an alternative? Plant some extra on purpose, and give it away to the poor. Fresh vegetables are expensive, and a lot of people with low incomes end up living on bulky junk like enriched macaroni and rice. And according to this article on the Plant a Row initiative, many hungry children and adults get turned away from food banks because of a lack of resources. Now what’s the sense in that when we can just plant an extra row of stuff and give it away?

It’s not much harder to care for two tomato plants than it is to care for one. And many local food banks are glad for the help. Just be sure to call ahead: some places, such as the Hope Center, have regulations that prevent them from accepting home-grown vegetables. But God’s Pantry, at 1685 Jaggie Fox Way, said they’d be happy to take extra veggies off your hands.

Anyway, my husband is fully in favor of this plan. Mostly for the altruism factor (he really is sweet that way), but I’d be lying if I didn’t say it was because more tilled-up garden in the back yard means less grass for him to mow. I know, win-win, right?

P.S. Anyone got some good zucchini recipes? Toss ‘em my way.

Beautiful reality in a pack of onesies

I remember the first time I really knew that I was going to have a baby, four years ago.

It wasn’t when I took the pregnancy test, because sure, it’s exciting to see that plus sign in the little test window, but everything’s still sort of academic at that point. It wasn’t even when I felt the Sprog kicking me for the first time. That was reassuring, but it didn’t feel much different than a bit of indigestion.

Nope, it was the socks that did it for me.

My mother breezed into the house one afternoon when I was four months pregnant and handed me a gift bag. She knew it was early, she said, but she just couldn’t resist buying something for her first grandchild. I opened it, and it was an assortment of unisex onesies and socks, little rattles and things.

And sitting there, on the floor of the office that wasn’t even a nursery yet, I took the socks out of their cellophane and stared at them. They were yellow with stars. I fit them over the ends of my fingers and thought, My god, those are going to have to be some tiny feet to fit into these. And I pictured the small feet, and the small body attached to them that would be wearing those onesies in the gift bag, and all of a sudden, it clicked for me. I was really, no kidding, going to have a baby.

And now here I am at that place again (or was until last night), unable to believe what all medical evidence is telling me. Not that I’m having trouble feeling pregnant this time around — I’ve had four years to get used to the reality of a baby.

But I just can’t believe that it’s going to be a girl.

Let me put this in perspective for you: It’s been 10 years since a girl was born in my family, and before that, there was a 15-year dry spell. So 25 years and one girl.

In the meantime, there has been a steady stream of rotten old boys (nine, at last count — 12 if you count my husband’s family, which also suffers from a girl drought).

It’s been such a shame that there haven’t been any girls, because there is such a strong matriarchal tradition in my family, and I’ve been so longing to share in that with a daughter of my own.

And now I’m going to have one. It didn’t seem real to me. I’ve been walking around in a daze since Tuesday (see ultrasound image above). But this time I knew the cure. So I went to Target last night and bought a pack of newborn-size onesies. I sat down on the couch at home and took them out of the cellophane. Picked one up — white with tiny pink flowers. Pictured the tiny baby girl who would soon wear it. And all of a sudden, it was real.

Daughter. The word is like Christmas on my tongue.

Thar she blows! A hump like a snow hill! It is Moby Dick!

I went shopping today for a maternity swimsuit.

The horror, the horror.

The selection was abysmal (unless you’re a Small, anyway — plenty of those on the rack).

I went to Target first, since they generally have such a great selection of cool maternity wear. They had one small rack of bathing suits, and only one kind of bathing suit on that rack–a non-descript tankini. Not what I wanted, especially since I’m short, and halter straps tend to be too long for me, making me look like a total Dr. Saggenbitz. And anyway, what gives? There are two pages of maternity swimwear on Target’s website. Pools open in less than three weeks, and this is all they had?

I didn’t go to Wal-Mart because, for a store that caters so much to families, their maternity selection is horrible. Old Navy out near Fayette Mall has maternity wear, but the only bottoms they had were the little boy shorts, and I wanted something with a little skirt. The Gap has the little skirts, but the skirt bottom alone costs as much as I wanted to spend on the whole thing.

So I went to Motherhood Maternity, expecting to find a better selection. Which I did. There was a great selection for sizes small through large. Extra large, not so much. This is no coincidence, though, since they’ve recently stopped carrying XL in many of their “fashion” lines. Read: XL women really just want to look like frumpy, lumpy nobodies.

So all they had in my size was yet another halter tankini, and this little number, which is what I ended up purchasing.

It’s the plainest thing they had, but honestly, I don’t even care at this point. It has all the essential features: 1) inexpensive, 2) top can’t be yanked down by a preschooler who’s learning to swim, and 3) covers the frozen white expanse of my backside.

Still, though, with all that coverage I’m going to look like Hester Prynne at the pool, being punished for carnal knowledge. Perhaps I’ll embroider a fancy red letter “A” on the chest.

Geeks in love

No huge post today, since I’m too beat from this weekend (husband’s graduation, new “big boy” furniture and decor installed in the Sprog’s room). But I came across something that I just had to share with you.

First, a preface: I am a known nerd — I just am, and there’s no getting around it. I play Munchkin. I watch Battlestar Galactica religiously. I qualified for Jeopardy twice in the last three years (cross your fingers that they call me to go on the show, please oh please).

But I never, ever, in my wildest dreams, could have dreamed up anything as awesomely geeky as this wedding cake. Because who among us hasn’t spent at least a couple good hours putting the smack-down on some Goombas?

Just about makes me want to get married all over again just so I could have that much fun with my wedding cake. Knowing my husband, he’d likely insist on one of the other three cakes featured on Geek Sugar. Especially the Star Wars one with Kit Fisto on the topper and what’s-her-name with the stripey head tentacles.

For the ultimate nerd cred, though, here’s one featuring a family of Linux penguins. Or, alternately, the giant turtle Discworld cake. When you’re a geek in love, the possibilities are endless.

Poll:

If you went to a wedding and saw the Mario cake, your first thought would be:

a) How fun! They’re celebrating their love and staying true to themselves.
b) Well, whatever floats your boat, I guess. But that’s kind of weird.
c) I have never seen anything so sad in all my life.
d) What a shame they left out the cool castle level with the fireballs. That would have been so awesome.

Are you gonna have twins, or what?

Due to recent inquiries, I felt it best to provide a few stock answers to Frequently Asked Questions section about my pregnancy:

Why yes, I am pregnant, thank you.

I am not having twins.

I am not going to “drop it” any day now.

I’m actually just five months along.

Stop touching my belly. Stop. It.

Thank you, I had noticed that I am enormous.

No, I don’t worry about getting too big for my maternity clothes. Should I?

No, seriously. Are you calling me fat? Huh?

* * * * *

So help me, people ask the rudest questions about pregnancy. But then, I consider it the height of rudeness to even ask if someone is pregnant in the first place.

An exception to that: if you have known someone for a while, and have noticed a significant change in appearance and wardrobe over the months (including a covert sighting of maternity panel on the pants) then it’s probably okay to ask–though in a roundabout way–if you have to do it at all.

If you have just met a woman? Not okay to ask. Not ever. Not even if you think she looks like she’s about to pop. Not even if you see the maternity panel on her pants. There’s a good reason for this. I once made a woman cry at the Little Lambs Closet sale down at Centenary UMC. The lady looked pregnant, had the maternity panel on her pants and no baby with her. I was pregnant as well, and so as we both stood there browsing through racks of infant clothing, I asked her in comradely fashion when she was due. She burst into tears. Turns out she’d had the baby several months before and just couldn’t get the weight off. I felt so bad I started crying. So beware, and learn where I have stumbled.

Really, it’s treacherous ground, asking a woman if she’s pregnant. Or even, if you know her to be pregnant, guessing how far along she is. Because some of us didn’t start out slender as young birch saplings. Some of us have a little junk in the trunk. Some of us, in fact, have junk all over the metaphorical car, sitting right on top of the preggo bump and making it look perhaps larger than it really is.

What that means is, when you tell a six-months-pregnant woman that she looks like she’s ready to have that baby any day, she hears, “Boy, you sure are a fat little dumpling, aren’t you? Moooooo!” This perhaps explains why I did not buy bedroom furniture last week from the insensitive baboon who was making jokes about how my water was going to break right there in his showroom. Twerp.

And hey, you can’t even assume anything if you think her water is breaking. Because it could be that a psychotic beagle has simply peed on her while she was napping. And yes, that did happen to me the day before I gave birth to the Sprog. We no longer have said psychotic beagle, but that is another story for another time. My point is that not all is as it seems. And even if it’s exactly as it seems? A little tact would be appreciated. Your need to satisfy your curiosity is not crucial enough to risk seriously offending someone.

Besides, we’re talking about a volatile cocktail of pregnancy hormones and self-consciousness. You mess with the bull, you get the horns, baby.

Good grief, I can’t even type that with a straight face.

Discuss: Under what circumstances do you consider it appropriate to ask a woman if she’s pregnant/how far along she is? And what’s the rudest thing someone has said to you/your partner during pregnancy?

Poetry that kids will actually read

There was an episode of Arthur on the other day in which Arthur’s friend Buster could not be convinced to read a book, no matter how his friends begged. That is, until he stumbled upon a copy of Robin Hood, which he finished in no time flat. When asked, Buster shrugged and said that maybe he just needed to find something he liked reading.

It’s in that spirit that I’m giving you all the heads up on these two books of poetry for children. I know a lot of kids who adore reading, but not so many who love to read poetry. Which is such a shame, you know? A short, punchy poem can smack you in the face like no prose you’ll ever read.

That really good stuff, it’ll make you hum and curl your toes and tap out the rhythm with your fingers. It’ll turn over and over in your brain like a strange stone in a rock tumbler. And best of all, it’ll make you love language. The problem is getting kids into it, but once you sell them on that first dime bag of verse, it’s all over but the crying.

To that end, here are two books I’ve come across lately, both of which feature cool poetry that elementary school-aged kids could really sink their teeth into.

The first is Behold the Bold Umbrellaphant by Jack Prelutsky.

This book is a collection of poems about different creatures that are animal-object hybrids. It struck me as very Alice in Wonderland-ish, both in the conception of absurd inventions like Pop-up Toadsters (toasters + toads), and in the delicious portmanteaus coined to describe them. The verse itself is silliness incarnate, but very witty and rhythmic. Here’s a sample from the poem The Lynx of Chain:

The Lynx of Chain must not forget
To vanish when the weather’s wet,
For water soon would make it rust,
Reducing it to orange dust.

It keeps a sharp and watchful eye
On every cloud that happens by.
And that is why the Lynx of Chain
Is never spotted in the rain.

Ooh, that’s a rotten pun in the last line there (I love it). Also worth noting are Carin Berger’s illustrations, all done in collage with textured materials both interesting and apropos (such as, the elephant-hybrid is cut from pages of what looks to be a Thai manuscript).

Publishers Weekly recommends this book for ages 4 and up, but I don’t know if many 4-year-olds can appreciate the kind of wordplay this book hinges on. But I think 6- and 7-year-olds could probably enjoy it a great deal.

Aaaaand … onward and upward! The second book of poetry is Central Heating: Poems About Fire and Warmth by prolific children’s author Margaret Singer.

It’s one in a series of poetry books Singer has written, each about a different element such as earth or water. All of the poems in this book are, surprise, about fire and heat.

The imagery is more complex here, inviting kids to start thinking in metaphor, but it stays fresh and accessible throughout. And Meilo So’s inventive lino cut and line drawings, all in fire-engine red, provide interest to the page without taking focus away from the poems.

I admit, I thoroughly enjoyed reading this book, and look forward to when my son is old enough to appreciate it himself.

Here’s an excerpt from the poem Landmark:

The old house next door
sat boring, ignored
until the fire came
and threw a peculiar party.
Neighbors in hats and coats
gathered on the sidewalk, spilled into the street,
gawking, talking to folks they’d never greeted before,
watching flames light up windows too long dark,
listening to the loud music of sirens, cell phones, radios,
cheering the firemen in shiny striped coats
spraying water like silver holiday streamers.

Central Heating would probably be appropriate for a slightly older crowd, say, 4th- and 5th-graders with a decent reading vocabulary. Younger children could enjoy an adult reading it to them, as long as they’re old enough to not to lean on illustrations for reading comprehension.

So anyway, I highly encourage you all to take a look at these two fine books. I think your kids will really like them.

Bonus: The Institute of Making Up Convenient Statistics says that introducing kids to good poetry early in life means a 73% reduction in the likelihood of them writing hateful poetry about alienation when they get to the 9th grade. See? Everybody wins.