Charlie and The Chocolate Factory - A Revisionist Reading

Harp and I just finished Charlie and The Chocolate Factory. It was as good as I remembered it - a wacky tale of hope, fantasy, and socio-economic disparity. I mean - who can forget Veruca Salt's demand for an Oompa-Loompa, "I want an Oompa Loompa Daddy, and I want it now," while Charlie and his family starve and pin their hopes for a golden ticket on Charlie's annual birthday chocolate bar.

I read the book at least ten times when I was young. I've seen the movie a dozen times, but this was my first look back at the text as an adult and let me tell you, I've got some thoughts.

1) The book is a stark portrayal of class politics and consumption. Charlie Bucket is basically a Dicken's character, living on the fringes of society, barely surviving in a pre-welfare state on cabbage soup and his father's pittance as a cap-screwer in a toothpaste factory.

2) The Oompa Loompa's are slaves, working around-the-clock to run Wonka's factory, creating brilliant poetry and being paid solely in cacao beans.

3) Augustus Gloop, Violet Beauregaurde, Veruca Salt and Mike TeaVee are kids who, despite their faults and obvious mental illnesses, are punished callously for natural curiosity and desire. Well, maybe not, but in the age of counting and time-outs, juicing little girls and stretching little boys on taffy pullers doesn't really fit with the positive parenting models so many of us try to follow every day.

4) Wonka might want a more sophisticated probate plan than selling a boatload of candy bars and hoping for some undernourished pre-teen with a big heart and no life experience to follow Wonka's plan for making candy for the rest of his life? Just a thought.

But beyond the new criticism, bringing my thirty-eight jaded, PC years to the book, I still loved it - especially when Harp gasped at Violet's fate as a blueberry, or laughed when Veruca and her family earned the assignation of "Bad Nuts" and were hurried into the garbage chute by a contingent of industrious squirrels. I'm not sure why I cried when Charlie found the golden ticket - maybe memories, nostalgia or I'm not as jaded as I thought, but I can't wait to read more Roald Dahl with my best new audience.

At the End of the Day

At the end of almost every day, I've got nothing left. It's not rocket science - kids (and life generally) take everything, every scrap of mental, physical, and spiritual energy throughout the day. So, is it really any wonder that I don't want the hanky panky at the end of the day? I can't figure out how men do it, or randy women for that matter; all day they deal with the stress of work, commutes, then parenting and they still wanna notch up the bedpost. All I really need is a little conversation, "talk about day," as we call it and fifteen minutes with my book before I fade away and have to do it all again.

Now the middle of the day is something different. I might get a flicker, a spark, a yen for the mind body connection. Sometimes, I'm determined to hold on to my libertine thoughts, to keep them alive and burning until night, when we might have a free moment. But almost without exception, the fiery thoughts from the afternoon dissipate with dinner, cleaning, stories and bath time. It makes perfect sense and yet the loss of the fire is a little sad; it's there after all, ember's still burning. But little people, with little hands, little messes and little needs always manage to snuff it before the blaze can really burn. Might be that Chris needs a job closer to home. :0

Camp Woes

Summer camp is great right? I have nothing but fond memories of those hot, sticky camp days, filled with watermelon, sweat, singing, crafts and easy friendships. When I signed up Harp for summer camp, I thought I was giving her a gift, her first camp, her first days of non-stop fun with water-play, art and exhausted, sun-filled goofiness. Not so much. And I'm slowly starting to realize that a pattern is emerging. It goes something like this:

1) Mom has memories of childhood
2) Mom attempts to recreate memories of childhood using child as vessel of nostalgia
3) Mom is surprised, nay...flabbergasted when child doesn't like cool things
4) Mom moves quickly through less dramatic stages of grief, arriving at "acceptance,", before child requires big contribution to therapy fund
5) Mom contributes to therapy fund anyway

This sequence has happened enough that I should probably get a clue. But it's not always black and white, not always clear what she will and will not like. Soccer was a favorite on the playground, perfectly aligning her running and energy, but when she finally had a place on a team, she balked, participating only with incentives and then only half-heartedly. So we're done with soccer.

Wash, rinse, repeat with several sports and activities, save horseback riding where she was forced to prepare the horse for an hour, including cleaning up poo for five minutes before she was allowed to mount the beast. Go figure. So, I'm spinning a little on kids and activities. Some days I want to give up, to have our summer days filled with only lazy, unstructured play. It's supposed to be good for them, for their executive function. Turns out, unstructured play might be great for brain development but too much of a good thing can make mama coocoo. And Harp's bored out of her mind inside of an hour; and if her friends on the block are otherwise occupied, it gets ugly fast. So, like everything else I try to find a balance, some activities, some down time.

I just really thought she'd love camp - that she'd come back exhausted, overflowing with new songs, new experiences, sun burns and chlorine. Again, not so much. And I thought that this camp was perfect for her energy, for her balls-to-the-wall energy. And then one night last week, it hit me like a mac truck. I've been trying, in earnest, with the best of intentions, love in my heart, eye on the prize to match her energy with her activities........instead of matching her interests with her activities. When will I realize that she's not me?

Sisters and Cookies

A few days back, we were walking to the store because Harp found a dollar, immediately assumed ownership of the cash (that had been sitting by my bed) and like her parents, decided that money found should be money spent. So, we headed to the store to buy something with her own money - to choose an item and pay out of her own little purse. She decided on a cookie from the cafe, an oatmeal chocolate delight - big, chunky and delicious.

And she shared it all the way home with her sister, doling out little bits faster than she could eat them herself. Because, although Rosie is young in years, her appetite for sugary goodness is quite well developed. When anything sweet crosses her lips, she shoves the stuff in her mouth like she's starving...all while signing the word "more" and shouting her desire for "more" through the food patiently awaiting mastication inside her cheeks. The girl wants more. And Harper just laughed and obliged...with her very special cookie. I'm constantly awed by Harper's patience and care of Rose. There are times when they need the normal amount of guidance to learn how to get along. But more often than not, I'll look over to see Harp setting up a bed on the floor just for Rosie, fetching Rose's Kitty or blanket, helping her brush her teeth (one of Rose's favorite activities), or simply relieving her frustration with a difficult toy. She's truly the kindest sibling I've ever seen, gentle and generous.

So when the cookie was almost gone and I was walking ahead of the two of them, the little thing that Harp did and said shouldn't have surprised me, but it made me smile all the way home and honestly, I'm still smiling. "Here ya go Rosie, you have the last piece." Just like that, the last piece of cookie. Sisters.........Rosie might never know just how very lucky she is.