Alison Hodgson

Expert on the etiquette of perilous times.

Deep Thoughts with Cakie H.

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Eden turned 7 last Monday. That morning I asked her how it felt.

“I don’t feel different yet,” she said, “it takes a while to get used to.”

Yesterday we were driving when she said out of the blue, “Mom, I can’t believe the world never stops.”

I asked her what she meant.

“Let’s say you’re dead but there’s still things happening when you’re not alive. Somebody’s probably still playing, somebody’s still running and that’s never ever going to stop.”

I was quiet.

“It’s just something strange I think about.”

“It’s a deep thought.” I said.

“It’s a good thing to think about.” She said.

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This girl just asked me if she could have a jack knife when she’s in third or fourth grade.  
We’ve been in conversation about her having a jack knife “when she’s older”, but this is the first time she’s pinned me down to an age.  I managed to pawn her off with a, “We’ll have to see.”  She’s a keen admirer of all of her brother’s jackknives, especially the Swiss Army one that my mom gave him for Christmas.  She was turning this over as we spoke.
“Why do you want a jack knife?”  I thought to ask.  
I’ve been so busy delivering my responsibility homilies it’s never occurred to me to question why she wants one at all.  Thinking about it now, I guess I just assumed that, “It’s Eden, of course she’s attracted to something dangerous,” but, as always, this kid has depth and a quick answer.
“If a robber came and trapped us in a bag I could pull out the scissors and cut us out.”

https://alisonhodgson.com/2009/08/273/

Paul don’t read this until Sunday!

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“Mom, I’m writing a book and I’m stuck; I don’t know what to write.”  Eden said.

Oh baby I understand.
“It’s about my life and it’s for Dad for Father’s Day.”
“How about something about Kindergarten?” I suggested.
“First day of Kindergarten?  I got it.”
“Mmmmm…what’s something that you and Daddy have done together?”  I asked.
“MOM, this is a book about ME for Dad, not a book about things me and Dad do together!”
I wasn’t able to help her.
Dang writer’s block.

A Mouse Named Winkie

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Although Lydia and I were the ones who spotted the mouse, hobbling around the pool area, it was Eden and then Christopher who rushed to his aid. Lydia and I were both seized by a mixture of empathy and fear. It was clear from the way he was moving that there was something not right with the little thing – that he was practically newborn didn’t occur to me. When I see something or someone hurt, my stomach hurts.

This sort of empathy is great, to a point. If you’re having a medical emergency and you need prayer; I’m you’re girl. And I will certainly be Johnny on the spot if you want a moving description of your pain. If it’s first aid you’re looking for then – sorry – I can’t help unless you’re one of my children and I’ll probably be gagging while I administer it.

Lydia seems to be cut out of a similar cloth.

When Eden found out about the mouse she rushed to his side, assessed the situation, got Christopher to help and then came to stir me into action. Armed with my kitchen gloves she was a pint-sized Florence Nightingale. Lydia eventually warmed up and helped try to feed him. Later she even held him a while. But it was Eden who set the therapy ball in motion.

At dinner when she suggested naming him Sparkie or Scout Lydia rolled her eyes. I told Eden she could name him whatever she wanted. Scout was one of the names I had proposed when naming Jack and Eden was my only ally. Since then it has been her go to for stuffed animals, toads and frogs.

Later she, Lydia and I were all on my bed and she called the naming committee to order.

“We’ll go around and each make a suggestion, then we’ll vote on it. You first Mama.”

“I vote for Sparkie.” I was researching something and maybe wasn’t totally investing in naming the mouse.

“No, you have to come up with your own name.”

“Oh. OK.” I had been reading the Economist earlier and trying to think of a male (we all sensed the mouse was a boy) name, Milton Friedman popped into my head.

“Milton.”

Eden wrinkled her nose. “I don’t like that.”

Lydia sat up, “Milton, I kind of like that. He was a poet…who was blind. I like it.”

American economist, English metaphysical poet; it’s all good.

“Lydia, you need to make your own suggestion,” The Enforcer reminded.

“I don’t have one. I vote for Milton.”

“You can’t until we all make suggestions!”

“Eden, what do you want to name him.” I stepped in.

She thought for a minute, “I’m thinking about Winkie…”

“Ooooh, I like it.” I said.

Lydia snorted. “Winkie! You want to name him Winkie!”

“Is it time to vote, Eden?”

“Yes. If you want Milton say ‘aye'”.

Lydia raised her hand.

“Say ‘aye'”. Eden prompted.

“Aye!” Lydia obeyed and then noticed that I was silent. “You’re going to vote for Winkie!”

I raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything.

“If you want Winkie say ‘aye'”.

Eden and I both raised our hands and said aye.

There was a protracted argument, but we finally settled (after some diversions: another round of forced suggestions and subsequent vote) on Winkie Milton H_______.

We think it has a certain ring.

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Eden is nursing a baby mouse back to health, at least that’s what she thinks. In truth she’s probably keeping vigil over, even hastening, its death, but do you have to be so judgey?

Per her direction I called our local nature center. I subtlely made it clear that the Young Naturalist was at my elbow and that I was merely her mouthpiece. She had been gunning for giving the mouse a bath because it had rolled into its urine. I discouraged this, but she was concerned about hygeine. I mentioned this to the woman at the nature center who confirmed that it was better off staying as dry as possible.

“What can we do?” I asked. “We REALLY want to do SOMETHING.”

The woman laughed, “I was the same way when I was a kid.”

And then she said we could try to give it a little food and water and place it in a sheltered spot to protect from predators.

Christopher had picked it up off the pavement and put it in one of gardens. He came inside to wash his hands.

“Poor little thing, it’s probably going to die.” His voice broke at the last and tears sprung into his eyes. “Nature can be so cruel.”

The three kids gathered around it and tried to feed it a bit of warmed milk. Earlier it had opened its little mouth, but now the milk just dripped down its face. When I came out to check on them they had given up.

“We decided to stop because we were concerned that the milk would block its nasal passages.” Lydia informed me.

Eden has tucked the mouse into the nest they made with some clean rags in a box. The box is safely closed in her playhouse.

Earlier today I was in the poolshed and took note of the liberal covering of mouse poop over the shelves I purchased and organized last summer. My thoughts were murderous and there is always a mousetrap set with peanut butter under our sink and yet I find myself wanting to dash out to the playhouse to check on our little patient, hoping to find its tiny heart still beating.

https://alisonhodgson.com/2009/06/290/