This is hers. All hers, characters, plot, syntax, grammar, spelling, and all. She likes Quiet Time best, she says, in her 2nd grade day. Behind recess, of course. She writes and writes, her teacher says. Nothing could make me happier to hear.
It's an odd thing, though, to hear your child is gravitating towards the things that make you tick yourself. It's a joy and pride, and it's a worry. I worry that because I'm sharing things with her that I love, she wants to love them, too, just because they're mine. I worry that she won't be her own person, that she just wants to copy me. I worry that she won't find her own joy.
It also makes me worry what I'm going to give her that she doesn't need: my issues, my quirks, and even some of my fears.
But then I read what she wrote, and I listen to her teacher. I watch her scribbling away at a story, a song, a poem, or a sketch. She's been scribbling since her beloved easel arrived for Christmas when she was 2. Now there's an art center, her own development, that encroaches on our dining room from its huge picture window spot. For the light, you know.
But then I listen to her and watch her, and I know she's her own person.
For the record, when she's a spy? Her cover will be fashion designer. So if, in, say, 2034, Women's Wear Daily reports about the newest edgy designer with a penchant for secrecy? Well,...
Also for the record, I asked the 7yo who doesn't always want me to post a picture of her anymore if it's ok to put her writing up on my website. I asked, then I let her think about it for a few days, then asked her again, making sure she knew she could say "no."
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