I confess that until I found The Iron Giant, by Ted Hughes, illustrated by Laura Carlin, at our library, I didn’t think of the movie that came out in 1999 as being based on a book. But of course, it was. And naturally, the book is better.
The author is actually a poet, which didn’t surprise me at all, since much of what makes the story so compelling is the poetic way in which it is told. In the version we read, which came out in 2010 (the original story came out in 1968), the illustrations sometimes include part of the text from the story, which is attention-getting and even moving at times. With repetition and descriptions that use sensory vocabulary in an incredible way, the story slides in for a home run.
As I read it, I was thinking how very different it is from the movie, and about what makes the story so good.
I was working myself up to writing about shame when my three-year-old, Six, came in the house howling. He was covered in dirt, with the epicenter somewhere near his face. I heaved him up over the edge of the kitchen sink, trying to rinse the dirt out of his eyes, but quickly realized a more extreme approach would be called for.
Taking him under my arm in a football hold, I charged into the bathroom and started the water running while Six screamed, begging me not to use the sprayer. But this was a job for the sprayer. A bath just wasn’t going to do it. His scalp was covered in dirt, and it was stuck to his neck and all over his face. Five did it, he claimed angrily.
I soaped him up and came after him with the sprayer, trying to avoid his face. Six is a fan of only one type of bathing – the type that doesn’t involve getting his face or hair wet. I braced myself, and his screaming reached a crescendo.
It’s hard to admit, but giving doesn’t come easily to me. It’s probably there somewhere in my genes, but I’m sure being the oldest of four growing up cemented it in pretty deep. If you didn’t take what you wanted, and take it first, you were going to get scraps. That is just Big Family Life.
In my own home now, with seven kids, I find myself using my large family as an excuse to continue Not Giving. I don’t want to feed the neighbor kids, because my own kids already eat continuously, and the neighbor kids already come over all the time. We would have to increase our food budget to feed a bunch of kids whose parents I’ve never even met. I’m not doing it.
With my friends and family, I want to be giving. But even that doesn’t often come naturally. I have to be intentional about it.
When it’s time to give spending money to the kids, I want them to earn it, even when there isn’t time or it’s not realistic. I have trouble sharing my special treats. When we first got married, I remember how I instinctively pulled my snack bowl away from the Chaplain when he reached over to grab a bite. I still have to fight that impulse. And I hate it when people Ruin My Stuff. Self Preservation Mode is hard to pull out of.
A few years ago, when my mom mentioned how much she loved my echinacea, I saw it as an opportunity to be generous.
Except, I only had one echinacea plant in my back yard that summer.
I don’t usually take selfies at work, but the shift I got this news, I was feeling sad and thoughtful and was in the loneliest assignment on my floor, the back hallway, which I also refer to as Purgatory (not for the patients, just the nurse who cares for them). I wanted to connect with the Chaplain, so I sent him this pic. At the time it was taken, I was chowing down on a Swedish fish, which wouldn’t surprise anyone I work with.
Recently, the Chaplain shared an idea with me from C.S. Lewis’ book The Four Loves. At the time, it was interesting, but didn’t have any real application to me. Then, over the weekend I found out a former coworker had passed away unexpectedly.
The nurse who told me wanted to be able to tell someone who knew her, who would understand.
When I looked up Lewis’ concept, it goes like this:
I still remember the look of disappointment on my Textile professor’s face when I pulled out my final project to present to our class. That term we had learned how to work with our hands. We made our own paper, wove baskets, and made objects from wire and metal. My final project had taken hours. I’d hand-dyed and screen printed fabric in different colors and patterns and sewn it together to make a duvet cover.
