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I have been chastised.


By Bottled Lightning and Freckles McYoungest.  (Boywonder doesn’t give a flyin’ monkey butt.)


About my language. No, not the %&**@#!! kind.  They’re fine with that.  It’s text slang.  Apparently, you have to have a license to use it, and there’s an age criteria.  Under 30.

Things like “K” instead of okay.



I guess those words aren’t so cool when they’ve been typed by liver-spotted, arthritic fingers.  I get it.  If your mother understands teenspeak, it kind of defeats the purpose.  Tribal jargon is a fine tool for keeping the old folks at arm’s length.

But I’m a YA writer and I think I should get a special dispensation.  How else am I going to grasp the colloquialisms of the foreign tongue?

They are harshin’ my squee.  Prolly gonna have to deal.



book report #7: where the wild things are, and aren’t

Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak.


If you’ve never heard of this book, let me be the first to welcome you to earth:

As a child, I read this book.  Once.  I hated Max.  I thought he was a naughty little boy.  He scared me more than the Wild Things did.  He was a kid running around terrorizing his own dog with a fork, for God’s sake.

I had nothing more to do with him until I had hellions of my own.

(Before you decide that I am the only child that reacted that way, read this exchange between Mr. Sendak and one mother:

Mother: “Every time I read the book to my daughter, she screams.”
Sendak: “Then why did you continue reading it to her when she does not like it?”
Mother: “She ought to, it’s a  Caldecott book.”

Sendak mentioned that he thought that was ridiculous and “if a child does not like a book, throw it in the trash.”)

When Boywonder was young we did LOTS AND LOTS of things that didn’t cost one red cent.  Feeding bread too stale even for us, to the ducks at the park.  Digging gigantic holes in the back yard.  Going to see the covered wagon and steamboat exhibits for free at the Kansas City Museum.    Highest on the list, of course, was a weekly visit to the library.

On one sojourn to the children’s floor, my darling three-year-old with the nearly-blond hair and the trust-me dimples came running  with a fascinating-looking book…

You guessed it.

Oh no!  Boywonder wanted this book!  He was a bully!  A jerk!  Maybe even a psychopath!

With trembling fingers, I turned to the first page:

“The night Max wore his wolf suit, and made mischief of one kind…and another…”

Gee, that sounded like a certain little boy I knew rather well.

“…his mother called him ‘Wild Thing,’ and Max said ‘I’ll eat you up…'”

Wow.  I know someone a lot like his mom, too.

We flipped the pages, Boywonder lingering over every Wild Thing portrait.  We laughed as Max wielded his authority over all things wild, and sighed when he came back  to his own home where his supper waited for him.  “And it was still hot.”

We read it three more times before we checked it out.

So why the big difference in reaction?

Who knows.  I’m sure it’s some big deep psychological secret that I would be loathe to reveal.

But I think it’s as simple as this:
Boywonder focused on taming the Wild Things.

I focused on the kid wielding a weapon on his beloved pet.

I think my son got the point a whole lot faster than I did.

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