Eat, Read, and Be Mommy

I am rarely a fan of movie tie-ins.  When I worked at Borders (may it rest in peace), I’d look at new copies of established books coming in with actors and actresses on the cover and usually wince, and not just because it meant more copies to fit on the shelf; I wanted Tolkien’s own drawings, not Liv Tyler!  (Not that the editions with Tolkien’s drawings are still in print, but those are still my favorite.  Even if my secondhand copies have seen some seriously better days.)  The cover art chosen by the author/publisher/whomever tends to express something about the book in question that a still of an actor doesn’t, and I want the idea, not the still.

For me, this often (but not always) holds true regarding the trend towards photographic covers as well.  I just finished Kathryn Erskine’s Mockingbird, and my copy is a lovely blue hardcover; the current paperback available on Amazon is a photograph of the back of a girl’s head in front of a tree, and I’m just not feeling it.  Current cover art aside, however, Mockingbird is a pretty amazing book.  Caitlin’s Asperger’s makes her an incredible naive narrator, and the school shooting aftermath that frames the plot was timely and beautiful, despite my initial misgivings.  (The inside cover told me Caitlin’s brother was recently dead, not how he died, and so that was a surprise.)  As a parent I wanted to shake her father more than once, and yet the man lost a wife to cancer and a son to a school shooting in a 2-3 year period; he’s also dealing with a grieving special needs child.  That’s rough.  It was a privilege to tag along during part of a community’s journey to healing–even a fictional one–and Erskine does an excellent job reminding us that communities grieve as both communities AND as individuals.  Caitlin’s path to closure is not an easy one, especially since kids are not always kind to the different, but she treads it while we cheer.

And cry.  But I blame that on parenthood.

Anyway.  This is a relatively brief but profoundly beautiful read, and one I highly recommend.  (Read the print copy, though.  I did NOT love the narrator on the audio.)  I don’t want Mockingbird‘s plot to be timely and relevant–none of us do–but we live in the world we live in, and this book is at least one beautiful thing that was created as a response to a tragic one.

I finished Booki Vivat’s third Frazzled book last night–Minor Incidents and Absolute Uncertainties–and it was a beautiful thing.  Abbie Wu stresses and worries about the kinds of things that I did at that age, and Vivat’s illustrations are an amazing part of her storytelling.  I love that she focuses on adjusting to changes and learning how to remain yourself as things change, rather than boy/girl drama; yes, that’s also a part of middle school or junior high, but Abbie’s problems and the solutions she finds are relatable (and helpful!) to a far wider audience.  We didn’t all have boy- or girlfriends in junior high, but who didn’t have to learn to deal with shifting friendships as people’s interests change?  Who (that HAS siblings) hasn’t struggled to see their siblings as complete people, instead of the parts of them we become accustomed to focusing on?  Who hasn’t felt like Abbie Wu?!  (It’s possible I enjoy saying “Abbie Wu” in my head a little too much.)

This third book sees Abbie headed to “Outdoor School,” at which her Popular, Perfect brother Peter is a counselor.  How she finds her place there is a delight from start to finish–and on that note, I’d better pass the book on to my 10-year-old before she realizes I finished it last night and comes to find me.  If you’ve got a latter elementary schooler, definitely give Vivat’s series a try!

I picked up Suzanne LaFleur’s Listening for Lucca several years ago; the BYU Bookstore was offering 75% off of their bargain books and Lucca took place on the Maine coast.  Sold!  What’s more, elective mutism has interested me since I was in college, so I was really expecting to like this book.

Meh.

Yes, what details LaFleur gives about the setting ring more or less true, but the setting doesn’t feel like a major part of the story.  Yes, the main character’s little brother doesn’t talk, but a)he’s four and b)there didn’t seem to be a solid story there, not one that made sense.  Yes, Siena collects lost items that she finds, but that doesn’t seem to be comprehensively explored.  Yes, she has a 6th sense of sorts, but THAT doesn’t feel fully explored, either.  Even the portion of the book that takes place in the past doesn’t feel fully told.  It isn’t that there’s just too much going on; yes, there are different story strands, but they are perfectly capable of fitting together into an excellent novel.  It’s more that Lucca feels like a long short story.  Nothing is developed enough to work nicely as a cohesive whole, not for a novel.  Siena and Sam’s relationship didn’t make sense to me–what on earth led him to spend time with her, given her complete lack of friendliness or conversation?–and Siena’s attitude about her mother was straight up irritating.  At the end of the day, I was unimpressed enough that I’m donating this to the library instead of passing it on to my kiddos, and that’s saying something right there.  The premise really was fabulous–it could have been a contender!–but, well…meh.

Kara LaReau’s The Jolly Regina (The Unintentional Adventures of the Bland Sisters #1) is a delight for a plethora of reasons.  The dry humor, the vocabulary words at the beginning of each chapter (each of which is most properly used before the chapter is done), the puns (oh, the puns!), and the nod at the end to Melville’s Bartleby (which made me squirm in sheer delight)–they make for a lovely reading experience.  Jaundice and Kale Bland are a pair of sisters whose daily activities include mending socks, watching the grass grow, eating cheese sandwiches, and staring at the wallpaper; their kidnapping by an all-female band of pirates is quite the shock to their systems.  How they manage to come out on top in the end is a testament to inner resilience, sea shanties, and the usefulness of children’s dictionaries.  If you’re looking for the adventurous absurd–and who isn’t?–you really can’t miss this series, folks.  It’s the perfect antidote for the back-to-school blues.

My oldest asked me to get Mustaches for Maddie for her at the beginning of the summer; it wasn’t available in e-audio for me, but my fabulous hubby ripped (I think that’s the word?) the book-on-CD for me and made it so I could listen to it on my phone after all.  Yay for being able to enjoy books while exercising!

Anyway.  Mustaches for Maddie is based on the true story of the authors’ daughter, who was diagnosed with a tumor on her pituitary gland that was pressing against her brain and causing escalating problems for her in the process.  It’s a lovely first-person telling of how Maddie faced two surgeries, figuring out problems with friends and school on the way.  Kids should love Maddie’s genuine voice and fabulous flights of imagination, while parents–well.  It’s based on a true story about a girl with a tumor, folks.  If you’re a parent there are ALL the feels, which is why I was sniffling when I started this post.  I could go on, but my new 7th grader just got home from the last day of her first week of junior high, so really–just read it.  It’s totally worth it, I promise.

Just make sure the nearest tissue box isn’t empty.

This morning I finished the last few pages of Camp, Kayla Miller’s sequel to Click, and my 10-year-old is going to be all kinds of grabby when she finds out.  (Her obsession with graphic novels is fierce and unfailing.)  My oldest is likely to read it as well, but the story has my second girlie written all over it; Camp, like Click, is a story about figuring out how to be yourself in a friendship and still be a good friend.  This time around, Olive has gone to sleep-away camp with her friend Willow, and while gregarious, fun-loving Olive is happy to jump into the group activities and be friends with her bunkmates, helicoper-parented (seriously) Willow…isn’t.  In fact, she’s downright hostile to other campers’ overtures of friendship.  This baffled me on a personal level–I wasn’t great at joining groups, but I welcomed people including me in a kind and friendly way–but then, I was never the homesick kid either, so I chalked that up to a total difference in personality.  Olive, of course, soon chafes at Willow’s possessiveness, and both girls struggle before eventually finding their way.

I thought Camp had more depth than its predecessor, although I still think art comes more naturally to Miller than skillfully showing, telling, and pacing a story.  Laura-the-Camp-Counselor’s advice to Olive is excellent, and the resolution is nice, even if it is a bit best-possible-scenario-ish.  If you’ve got an elementary schooler who loves graphic novels, this is an appropriate and enjoyable option.  And even though Miller’s skills still aren’t quite up to Telgemeier’s, they are definitely improving!

The first couple of days of school haven’t been this stressful in years, but having a new 7th grader starting junior high and worrying about just about everything is wearing,  you know?  And of course, Saturday was my second girlie’s birthday, and that was a whole different kind of busy.  The good news is that she pretty much loves what she got–new Barbies are getting played with frequently and her new graphic novel barely left her hands for the first 24 hours.  (She likes to just start over when she finishes, AND study the pictures, too.)  The unfortunate news is that I missed TWO posts, which is why you’re getting a quick one on an even-numbered day (books to review are stacking up).  For tonight I chose Teen Boat!, by Dave Roman and John Green, because I am plenty excited to make this one GO AWAY.

Sadly, I’m not even kidding.  John Green’s graphic novels for younger readers have been delightful–Hippopotamister was universally loved at my house–and I was hoping that something with a tagline that read “The angst of being a teen/The thrill of being a boat!” would be weirdly funny.  Weird, yes, because seriously, the kid turns into a boat.  AND everyone knows about it–Teen Boat (TB, for short) is his actual name.  Funny, well–it had its moments, I suppose, but I couldn’t get past TB’s whiny personality (“no one understands what it’s like to be me!”) and his complete and utter shallowness.  Girls are viewed as objects of varying attractiveness, except for his best friend, whom he cheerfully uses without any reciprocity of friendship whatsoever.  Perhaps teenage boys will like this or find this relatable–a kid who’s always trying to get the cute girl but loses out to the jock, and whose best (female) friend adores him and gives him support and caring without receiving anything in return from him AT ALL–but I desperately hope not.  The friend’s perspective is probably supposed to give balance, but TB learns nothing, and whining “no one understands me” when you make no effort to be the sort of person you want people to be for you is extraordinarily off-putting.  Maybe being a 40-year-old mom of 3 girls (and one boy) makes me overly critical, but I don’t need my kiddos reading about shallow and callous jerks who mostly whine about other people being callous to them.  I say skip this one.

My older girls and I finished Matthew Loux’s The Time Museum, Volume 2 this week, and we ALL enjoyed the ride.  My oldest loves adventure, my next oldest loves graphic novels, and I love history; something for everyone, right?  In this second installment, Delia and her epoch squad travel to both the past (Versailles) and the future, they work with a second epoch squad headed by Richard Nixon, and some of them crush on each other.  Loux manages to make the awkwardness and frustration of teen feelings appealing to me as well as my daughters, which is an impressive feat in and of itself, but he also spins a good adventure.  This is a winner for a varied audience, so if you haven’t read the first volume, now’s as good a time as any!

(Pun intended.  Also, I was wondering before I read it if the series would go on; the ending leaves no doubt that Loux isn’t done with this story.)

Yes, you read that right, folks.  I finished Hamster Princess:  Little Red Rodent Hood on Sunday, and it was impressively bizarre.  Also hilarious, of course–Mumfrey’s interjections were especially fabulous this time around–but still bizarre.  It’s possible that the structural differences contributed to that, since Little Red felt more complicated in the ‘who’s the bad guy?’ department, but I doubt they made that much of a difference.  Harriet Hamsterbone is consistently both unexpected and wildly entertaining, so if you haven’t read the “Hamster Princess” series, well–what are you waiting for?

In other news, school starts Monday and kids need haircuts and we haven’t actually packed away what’s in the kid’s school drawers from their last school year.  We’ve got two more sessions of swimming lessons, back-to-school/carnival night, a dinner that my eldest and I are involved in, and a birthday between now and then.  Good times will be had by all, I’m sure.  Best of luck in your back-to-school endeavors!

If you don’t remember Harrison Ford moaning, “Snakes!  Why did it have to be snakes?”, than you may not have grown up in the 80s.  The hero of Carl Hiaasen’s Squirm, however, has whatever the opposite of ophidiophobia is (and yes, I just googled ‘fear of snakes’).  Billy Dickens is a wildlife person in general, but he’s got a particular fondness for snakes.  He knows how to handle them, too, which is about to come in handy, because his life is about to get complicated.  His long-lost father, grizzly bears, an endangered panther, spy drones, a couple of Crow Indians, a dead parrot, a ranch hand named Rusty, and lots and lots of shoes (not his) are about to invade Billy’s summer.  Will you be along for the ride?

Seriously, though.  Carl Hiaasen.  The man’s a crackup, and my oldest is going to love this one!