When I was little, I read a lot of books.  A lot a lot.  My grandmother was a librarian.  So she made sure I could read when I was three and by the time that my classmates were just learning one-syllable words, I was reading novels.  Picture books had very little use to me.  I wanted words, and pictures took up so much page space where I thought words should be.

I'm very well-read.

Or was.  I don't read too much contemporary fiction.  Nor do I care too much for any non-fiction.  Jesus invented the History Channel for a reason.  That reason is so I can sit on ass that God invented and learn while having the luxury of two free hands that can be used for snacking.  Books+snacks= mess.  I hate to see someone eating and reading at the same time.  It cheapens the medium.

One of the books that I didn't read was Where the Wild Things Are.  It was banned from several libraries when my grandmother would have been working there, and I'm guessing that is the reason she never picked it up for me.  I finally got to it as a teenager, when I was babysitting some kids.  I didn't like it then, and I didn't like it when I saw it years later at a friend's house.  Remember, I'm WASPY, and we don't catch on to emotions very quickly.  I thought the book was dumb and boorish.  WASPY people think most things are dumb and boorish unless they are about education or whiskey or social advancement.  But, I bought it for Jake when he was very small because kids are supposed to have Where the Wild Things Are.  He didn't like it much.  He was scared of the monsters.  So I tucked it away for the better part of two years.

Two weeks or so ago I pulled it out again to show him that it wasn't so scary, and he agreed.  "It's not so bad", he shared.  "I told you so, now go to bed.  Monsters aren't real.  Sweet dreams".
Then I saw the movie, which pulled up all sorts of childhood inadequacies and lingering issues and parental fears and stuff.  Feelings.  Ones that didn't go away by looking at my diplomas or drinking whiskey.  Ack. 
So, I pulled the book out again to see what sort of emotions I could dredge up in Jake.  If I was going to be heavy in the heart, he was too.  Dammit.  We're family.  All for one and all for me.

Note: I have worked extremely hard to foster and develop Jacob's Emotional Intelligence these past 4 years.  It's sort of what we specialize in at work, so I figure I may as well carry it over to my home and make it the crux of my parenting style.  EI is pretty damned important in the world these days.
Mostly because we are all basically retarded stunted when it comes to feelings and stuff.  If there were helmets and knee pads and short yellow buses for people who are emotionally retarded slow?  I'd wager to say we'd all be a bunch of special needs kids.  By "we all", I mean "me all", fer sher.
Also, when you Google "emotion"?  Emotional Intelligence is the first thing that Google suggests.  So I guess the idea has really caught on.  Good on that.

Every page of Where the Wild Things Are is so incredibly charged.  Each word is important.  Each picture.  The body language and the facial expressions and the placement of characters.  Everything.  The book is traditionally about anger, but Jake pulled out revenge and sadness and bliss and hatred and neglect and loneliness and concepts of hierarchies of power and maternal love and maternal frustration and child love and child frustration and the cyclical and volatile nature of all the love and frustration mashed together and judging people on appearance and the importance and experience of nurturing others even if you aren't well-nurtured and trusting other people to keep you safe and working up the courage to face the unknown and and and.
All I did was read the words and ask Jake to tell me about the pictures.  He came up with everything else on his own.  We spent over an hour with the book.  All I said was the text.  All I did was nod and touch his hands, his heart, and his face.  He did all the talking.

There aren't too many times I am able to tell myself that I'm doing a great job with my kid.  I'm afraid I'm coming off as pompous or maybe that I'll jinx things or I'm looking through rose colored glasses.
He's good.  Ish.  He's kind.  Kinda.  He's lovable and loving and loved.  Sure.  But my mission to put him in touch with himself and others and provide him with a strong and useful vocabulary to describe what he is feeling, what he may feel, and what others are or may be feeling is working.

I'm really proud of him and I'm really proud of myself.

Now if I can figure out a way to stop him from jamming his socks and boogers in between the couch cushions.

Let's practice.  Using effective and well-constructed I-Messages.

"Jacob, when I find your mess between the couch cushions, I feel very __***___ because it seems to me that you are not respecting the rules of this house and these messes create extra work for me.  This is time that we could be spending together playing but instead I'm stuck chiseling your snots and digging for socks.  Before you put your hands down that crack, please think about what you are doing and how it may make me feel."

***Clicking on those stars takes you to a list of thousands of feeling words.  Now to chose one that is all encompassing of the way I feel when I'm doing grunt work for a four year old...