BYOK (Bring Your Own Kleenex)

It's natural for a little boy to pick out a book called "Train to Somewhere" at the library. The cover looked so harmless. A painting of two little girls, suitcases in hand, heading toward an old steamer train.

Noah and I settled on the couch tonight to read the book which he borrowed this afternoon. As I briefly skimmed the introduction (silently) my eyes bugged out with alarm as I looked at my husband across the room. Here is start of the introduction:

"From the mid-1850s till the late 1920s, an estimated 100,000 homeless children were sent by train from New York City to small towns and farms in the Midwest."

AAAAGH!!! I looked at Noah. It was too late to hide the book.

The introduction continued:

"Charles Loring Brace of the Children's Aid Society hoped to place them with caring families. Some of the children did well. Some did not. Some exchanged one kind of misery for another." Oh. Dear. God. Please let the phone ring, please let the phone ring, please let the phone ring.

It concluded:

"This is the story of fourteen orphan children..." Gulp.

Author Eve Bunting gives this brutal (although fictitious and well-illustrated) account of these children who ride the train and make several stops in the Midwest hoping to find a family to adopt them. The sturdy boys are chosen first; the main character, who declares herself "not pretty," is chosen last.

It contains heartwarming dialogue and descriptions such as the following:

"We're not seeing as many going this year as last, though," the conductor adds. "1877 was a peak year for orphans."

"Zachary came to New York on a boat from Liverpool, England, with his father, and then his father left him."

"Clickety-clack, clickety -clee, I'm coming, Mama. Wait for me."

Nine pages later we better understand that line when the main character, Marianne, explains that her mother "kneeled in front of me on the steps of St. Christopher's the day she left me there" and told her she was "going to the West to make a new life" and that she'd come back for Marianne.

The truth is, the story was so sad, I couldn't help but laugh at the horror of reading it out loud to a small child. It was one of those moments where you're thinking, "Is this really happening?" The great thing about kids is that they pick up cues from adults, and since I was laughing so hard trying to keep from sobbing like a baby, Noah thought most of it was hilarious. At other times I wasn't sure what was going through his mind. He was sitting bolt upright staring seriously at me. And that was even with skipping the most horrifying lines. I think we need to switch to SpongeBob.

License to Cry

Most parents (moms, at least) expect to cry on the first day of kindergarten. But it's those unexpected moments that sneak up and do you in. It started with the dentist hygienist who explained, quite matter-of-factly, "These are his adult teeth right here," as she pointed them out on an x-ray. Adult teeth? You mean this small, dependent creature will one day grow up? I cried blasphemy as I fought back tears. I thought first-timers and kids getting cavities filled were the only ones who got weepy at the dentist. Guess not.

The following week I suggested Noah play with his sand table, and while he happily did so, I got comfy in an adirondack chair, leafing through a magazine. "Ah, this isn't half-bad," I thought. Until I looked up and saw that my child had been replaced by a tiny giant who was practically bent in half to reach down into the Little Tikes sand table. Uh, guess he's not a little tike anymore. Kleenex, please.

I was OK today, at kindergarten drop-off. It startled me last year to see his cubby in a different location, and today was no different. He's at the same school, though, so there was too much familiarity to bring on the waterworks. Fortunately I know how to ruin a good thing with a library visit after school. On the way there, I said, "How'd you like to get your own library card today?" (Dork flashback: I still remember standing at the counter with my mother when I got mine.) Noah was excited at the prospect and added, "And maybe we can take out 'Duck'!" Oh. No. Not "Duck."

I unknowingly picked up "Duck" by Randy Cecil at the library over the winter and choked back tears while I read it. Out loud. To Noah. In public. Duck is a wooden carousel duck who longs to fly, "adopts" a lost duckling, and eventually realizes that she needs to give the duckling up to the real ducks so that he can fly with them. Parents about to send kids off to college should not go within 20 feet of this book. There should be a rating system for kids' books. Let's start with a giant "T" for tears, just to save us the embarrassment of having to pause awkwardly to catch our breaths when duckling, all grown up, comes back to give Duck a ride so she can see what it's like to fly. (I think Mr. Cecil might be hinting to his kids that they need to repay their debts to him, however.)

Alas, I had bigger issues than reading "Duck" without weeping. When the librarian handed his shiny, new card to him, a proud Noah exclaimed, "I feel like I have my own driver's license!" AAAAGH!!!!