Happiness is a Hemulen

The other night, as a ruse to get little a to wash her hair, I told her the story of the little mermaid. The great thing about making stories up, or telling them from memory, is that you can make them last just the right amount of time - and build in cunning ploys to get what you want along the way.

I'm not sure how well I remembered it, I was trying to avoid Disney creeping in too much (though couldn't get away without the mermaid being called Ariel, of course), but also kept getting flashes of Angela Carter popping in to my head, which is possibly a little too advanced for four and a quarter. So I steered clear of 'every step she took felt like sharp knives' feminist symbolism, but did leave Ariel pining for her friends and family in the sea, in spite of being happily in love with her Prince.

"I like that story" was the verdict from little a
"oh good. Why did you like it?"
"Because it was sad"

Isn't that interesting? I definitely have a tendency to steer towards the happy ever after, and even happy all the way through stories. With the exception of a bit of George's Marvellous Medicine I'm probably horribly guilty of wrapping my child in narrative cotton wool.

I'm going to have to wean myself off that.

But am I allowed to keep my two treasures on the theme of searching for happiness?

One is a new discovery from an old favourite: Tove Jansson and WHO WILL COMFORT TOFFLE? I'd been itching to buy Moomins from the moment little a became a twinkle in the eye,and I can remember reading this to her when I was on maternity leave, which was definitely too advanced and more for me than her. Anything Moomin is an absolute treat, and this is a quirky love story up there with the Zeeder and the Zyder as something you could just as well give to your first love as read to your small child.

The other is a secondhand find, from an author I'd not heard of, though a quick google tells me I possibly should have. It's called HAPPINESS! by Eva Janikovsky, with totally brilliant and deceptively simple illustrations by Laszlo Reber. The author is from Budapest, and the translation I suspect is a little clunky. But it's funny and endearing, and honest and true: a little boy learns that what makes him happy isn't necessarily what makes those around him happy - but that making others happy can make you happy, even if you're doing something which you didn't expect to make you happy. If you get what I mean. There are some grownups I'd like to send this to. But in the meantime I like reminding myself as much as I like the message it gives to little a.

So, last night, as we swung gently on the swingseat in my parent's garden*, I could feel happy, even though I was reading the super-icky adventures of Lettice the ballet-dancing rabbit - because 'It's really very difficult to find out what makes others happy. But, you see, it can be done'.




*I have to confess to cheating a little - it's so much easier to be happy here than anywhere else, because it is my favourite place in all the world. I whiled away many a long summer holiday curled up here with a good (and not-so-good) book ...