When I was a little girl – at least eight but no more than ten – I collapsed on the stairs in my childhood home, my wrist pressed to my forehead, and proclaimed to my mother, “But EVERYONE is going to the fall fair!”
Yes. I really did.
Yes. I was serious.
Two days ago my daughter asked me if she could learn to write letters (she’s 3.5, remember). I happened to have a penmanship curriculum book that was given to me, so I took it out, and because it started with T, I started her with T. First I showed her how to write it, then I took her hand in mine, and wrote a couple of T’s and finally I gave her the pen and the page, and told her to go to it.
She wrote maybe 50 Ts all over the page, of varying quality, and then burst into tears. The Ts were not perfect, therefore she had failed.
“I will NEVER learn to write letters,” she wailed, and I gathered her into my arms, and smiled broadly over her head, as I rested my cheek on her hair. I suspect we’ll have many more of these moments before she’s 21.