Four Year Old Prodigies - Better Believe It

Aelita Andre - Four Year Old Prodigy (not mine!)

Did you see that video of the child prodigy abstract impressionist whose first solo exhibition is opening this week in New York? She is no more of an artist than the next kid, but what a lucky ducky to have such a cool studio space, an apparently limitless budget for acrylics and a collection of punky princess clothes that mommy lets her trash.  Makes me feel a bit square for insisting my kids put on their plastic aprons, sit at the table and not spill their thimble-fulls of finger paint.

"Do not spill your thimble-full of finger paint!".  Say that ten times, I dare you.  With tongue-twisting skills like these, little wonder I birthed a prodigy of my own, of the existential philosopher variety.

Tonight's dinner time question was "What does it feel like to be dead?", but Little Bear's most common question is "Does that exist?".  He's trying to figure out where the line is drawn between reality and fantasy, and asks this in relation to anything from monsters, angels, knights in armour, the Easter story, jellyfish and fairies to ghosts.  These things have pretty straightforward answers - they either definitively do, definitively don't or nobody knows so you can just decide (and I'll let you decide which falls into which category).  But things start to get complicated when he points to representations (or misrepresentations) of things in photographs, magazines, billboard ads, films, TV programs and illustrations.  I find myself embarking on lengthy attempts to demystify the film industry ("That's an actor darling, pretending to be someone else, telling an imaginary story that was written by a writer, filmed by a cameraman" etc) or the advertising industry ("That's a photo of something real, photo-shopped by a graphic designer and made into something pretty unreal" etc), but my responses always fall short of his complete satisfaction.

We went to the Instituto Moreira Salles recently (our default rainy day in Rio routine) to see an exhibition of video portraits by Robert Wilson.  We're talking high-res flat screens with what appear to be stills of celebrities, until you notice that parts of the picture change.  Little Bear was completely entranced (so was I by the way, especially by the work featuring Brad Pitt in his underpants ) and of course he asked 'Do they really exist?".  My explanation was that yes, it was a real person who really exists, and this was a video of them.  When little bear wondered 'How do they eat?' I realised that he thought the people were actually stuck in a box up on the wall, behind a glass screen.  And why not?

That's what is so genius about all four year old kids; their total ignorance.  They haven't got a clue about what is likely to be real, what is clearly not, or any of the practical reasons why Brad Pitt wouldn't really be stuck in a box in the gallery.  They don't know how things should or shouldn't be done, and no concept of any of the boundaries that separate their imaginations from the world around them.  It must be magical living in a world where everything seems possible - including four year olds having their own gallery shows.  Prodigies or not, they have a lot to teach us...not least that it's okay to for them to get paint all over their pretty clothes.

You know you have Brazilian kids when...

Kids at Museu da Republica, Catete

1. They know their way around dead cow: At four years old, Little Bear has hung out so much at traditional Brazilian barbecued meat restaurants (churrascarias) that he already knows the names for different cuts of beef.  Yesterday he was requesting fraldinha (flank steak) while snubbing the noble picanha (rump) or fatty cupim  (hump). Along the same lines, he also eats whole chicken hearts like only Brazilian children can.
2. They don't have vocabulary for winter garments: My children have pretty much no idea what gloves, scarves or woolly hats are, let alone winter jackets.  As summer draws to an end here it's actually become cool enough to wear clothes again, and the other day Little Bear asked excitedly if he could put on some 'long shorts''.   A year in Rio has robbed him of the words 'trousers' and 'jeans'
3. They actually ask to brush their teeth and wash their hands: You can't get a cleaner child than a Brazilian one.  Kids in the playground barely get a chance to play between nose-wipes, hand washes and getting dirt dusted off them.  This is a country where you commonly have four bathrooms in a two bedroom flat,  everyone takes their toothbrush to work so they can brush after lunch, and many people shower at least twice a day. Well, my kids have picked up the clean bug from their dad. We have to brush their teeth approximately every five minutes and they are meticulous about hand washing after going to the loo.  I shouldn't complain but it's just so very foreign.
4. They drink coffee and tea:  I was shocked to hear about friends' children being offered milky coffee as a drink at their nursery.  My kids aren't exposed to that, but they are offered mate, a caffeinated ice-tea drink, on a regular basis.  I didn't think they liked it, but according to Little Dove's teacher, on Friday she drank litres of the stuff.  As for Little Bear, this weekend he has decided that milky coffee is delicious and has been drinking all the dregs of Mr B's lattes.
5. They play at valet parking:  If my children are playing at driving in a toy car, one drives up to the other, gets out, gives them the key and goes into an imaginary restaurant, allowing the other sibling to park the car.  Spoilt brats I know, but it's just a reflection of the fact that here in Brazil - and especially in Sao Paulo - you get valet parking everywhere.  When I was a kid, I would dress myself and my brother in rags and we would play 'paupers' by sitting in the corridor begging money from passing parents.  Clearly my children have bigger aspirations.

Nossa Senhora makes the Children's Day

That's her on the back of the fire truck

Today was a national holiday in Brazil, in celebration of the country's patron saint, Nossa Senhora de Aparecida.

I've been curious about her since I arrived in Brazil. As far as saints go, she's got a pretty distinctive look, with her dark skin, her embellished, tent-like blue cloak and her golden crown. Coming to think of it, she's the only Saint I can name, apart from St George, whose dragon is a bit of a giveaway.

The story began with some fisherman in Guaratinguetá who were fishing for a feast held in honour of a visiting dignatory. They weren't having much luck, being that it wasn't fishing season, so they prayed for help. Lo and behold, their next haul netted a broken figurine of Jesus' mum, and after that they caught a whopping amount of fish.

These days the area around her first miracle has evolved into her namesake city and pilgrimage destination, Aparecida. I've passed the gigantic basilica there many times and have always been curious to stop there to pick up some Catholic kitsch, but we're always in a hurry. On her special day, October 12th, about 35,000 pilgrims attend mass there, inside what is the largest shrine in the world. You can watch all the jubilation and devotion live on the dedicated TV Aparecida. It looks like quite a party, if you're into crying, crowds, concerts, confetti and communion.

As it happens, the 12th October in Brazil is also Dia das Crianças, children's day. As if every day in Brazil isn't children's day, on this particular one you have to give your kids presents and be especially nice and patient, even when your four year old has taken to roaring like a lion when he doesn't get his own way.

The favorite moment of everyone's day in our household was when these two celebrations converged. We were just about to disappear down the metro station steps when a group of police motorbikes, sirens and lights a-go-go, cruised down Rua do Catete. They were the advance party for a fire truck carrying an effigy of Nossa Senhora de Aparecida, presumably to a church somewhere else in Rio. She in turn was followed by a cavalcade of over 500 motorbikes and motor-trikes of every possible description.

As the procession passed by in a cacophony of cheering, tooting and flag-waving, Catholic bystanders crossed themselves respectfully. Even I felt surprisingly moved, with pre-tear prickles in my eyes. As for my son, I though he would end himself with joy. Sirens, Police motorbikes, fire trucks and an army of friendly bikers! Nossa Senhora, you are clearly a mother who knows a thing or two about little boys.

Sweets for my Sweets

I'm a pretty big advocate of bribing children with sweets.  Mine will do just about anything for a lollipop, but I'm not so sure I approve of Catholic Saints following the same strategy!  Today was apparently Saint Cosme and Saint Damiao's day and my children were thrilled to receive not one but five paper bags full of sweets from strangers on the ten minute walk to school, in accordance with Brazilian tradition. 

They were accompanied by Luiza today, but I checked the booty when I got home and found a thoroughly Brazilian stash of goodies.  Twirly meringues (suspiros), shaggy white coconut sweets (cocada), heart-shaped pumpkin and sweet-potato sweets (doces de abobora e de batata doce), peanutty squares and brilliantly named 'pe de moleque' which means 'rascal's feet', presumably because the nut pieces stuck into toffee look like really dirty feet.  Finally, slack handfuls of fruit chews and lollies.  The kids think they have died and gone to heaven.

Funnily enough, my nearly-four year old did ask me this morning what happened to people when they died.  I told him no-one really knew, because once you're dead you can't tell anyone.  Some people, I explained, think they will go to heaven where there are loads of sweets and toys.  They also believe that if you are naughty you will go to a hot place with lots of fire.  Other people think that you will be born again as someone else's baby, or an animal.

He was excited by the potential for fire engines in hell, but finally decided to back being reborn as a bee who didn't sting people.  Dear Cosme and Damiao, it's going to take more than five bags of sweets to win this one over!

Adaptation

I am into my second consecutive week of tension headaches, thanks to what is known in Brazil as 'adaptation': the ritual of staying at nursery school alongside your little ones until they are fully ready to give you their permission to go, which, according to the school psychologist, might be tomorrow, next week, or when they turn eighteen. Fabulous.

Yes, I am waiting patiently for my 20 month old daughter to make the gestures that mean "it's ok mummy, I do not blame you for abandoning me, you can go and get a manicure now".

She is doing pretty well actually. I have graduated from sitting within easy cuddle distance at all times, cross-legged on the hard floor or scrunched up into diminutive nursery furniture, to sitting for hours on the uncomfortable sofa beside the water-cooler. Hours and hours of death by screeching, squealing and back-ache, during which I ponder the Brazilian approach to children, education and discipline.

That's a fat enough topic to write a dissertation on, but I'll just stick to the question of who's in charge: I don't generally subscribe to the parenting philosophy that requires I ask my children permission for anything. They do as I ask, not the other way around. Demand feeding? Nope. Since day one it's my way or the highway. For example, if I want them to get off the swing in the playground, I tell them it is time to get down from the swing, NOW!

In Brazil however, it's the opposite. Let them eat whenever, whatever . They want to be rocked to sleep in your arms in the late afternoon even if it means they then won't sleep until ten that night? Laissez faire. And when it's time to stop hogging the swing? Mummy puts on her sweet pleading voice, asks queridinha if she wouldn't rather be on the slide instead, and waits for nodding acquiecence. If the child doesn't want? The child doesn't do.

I guess the same attitude translates into the school environment too, hence the whole 'permission to leave' thing . Certainly, I remember the December after my son started his nursery in Sao Paulo how absolutely horrified I was at the Christmas party to see Father Christmas trampled to within an inch of his life by unruly tiddlers; two, three and four year olds surged onto the stage like teen rockers; shouting, clambering and stamping to get on the old man's lap. Teachers looked on helpless, not one of them with the gall to restore order. My God, if that had been my school, Christmas would have been cancelled and we would have all been on sock-sorting and table-setting duty for the rest of our lives.

Of course I could send my children to The British School and pay royally for a more academic, disciplined approach akin to what I myself experienced. But on second thoughts...maybe not. Is it really that bad letting the children call the shots? I remember my grandmother's "why say no when you can say yes" parenting advice. I'm not sure I agree, but there is certainly something lovely in the Brazilian reverence for small children; their infinite patience and nurturing love.

Case in point: Yesterday, a few hours into the school day, my daughter became upset about something and was finally brought to me by her teacher for a quick cuddle. She had been crying, her eyes all wet and her nose all runny. As she leaned towards me with her arms outstretched, a foot long string of teary snot dripped from her nose. I instinctively recoiled with a loud screech. Her teacher however, deftly twirled her wrist to wind the snot around her forearm, as though it was her greatest pleasure.

Yes, I'm sure my daughter will adapt fine to a place where she will be loved to bits and allowed to do pretty much whatever she likes. I may just have to re-adapt to her!