"Don't let them ruin her." -- My kindergarten teacher, talking to my mom.
"It's so hard. You have to know so many things to be a good girl." -- A friend's three-year-old daughter, after he told her why it wasn't a good idea to throw books at people. (She'd chucked her book at him after storytime, leaving him with a nice bruise or two on his forehead, but I digress.)
This three-year-old has been the source of a huge number of wise, insightful, hilarious, and beyond-her-years quotations since she has been able to talk. Her dad posts them regularly to the internet group which is the only context for our acquaintance. I've followed her journey since before she was born. Her parents are marvelous chroniclers, and there have been pictures and stories galore. I feel as though I know her better than some of the children I've met in "meatspace."
What I've seen in her through all the photos and all the stories and all her amazing quotable quotes is an almost unadulterated joy. There's a creative spirit in this child that won't quit. There's a brain that's busy processing All the Things. All the time. And you have to know so many of them to be a good girl.
I can't remember being three. Or four. Or five, really.
I do remember having a magical kindergarten teacher, Miss Neal. Miss Neal (I think I'm spelling that right) loved me. She loved all of us, I'm pretty sure, but I knew she loved me. She was a genius at letting children find what they were curious about and then go explore that curiosity for as long as we needed to. I loved the big, round sink in our classroom. The water came out of a center sprayer and was activated by a circular pedal on the floor. I was fascinated by how that worked. I must have played with it a lot for it to have such a vivid hold in my memory. We had a jungle gym inside our classroom. How cool was that? Miss Neal knew how to help develop curiosity and wonder.
Mom says that when she came to get me on the last day of kindergarten, Miss Neal took her aside, looked her right in the eyes and said "Don't let them ruin her." Mom was quite taken aback and didn't know quite how to take that, but she never forgot it. We moved out of that town and away from that school. As I went through school in our new city and as more and more teachers tried to force us into molds, Mom began to learn what Miss Neal meant.
I probably learned So Many Things. I became a pretty Good Girl. I wanted desperately to fit in and get along, so I began to sand off some of the rougher edges and interesting contours of who I was. At least, I tried to be a good girl. It didn't always work. Mom would sometimes say, "Jeanny, that's not very ladylike." And I would respond, "Ma! I ain't no lady!" (That often got me the Single Arched Eyebrow of Death.)
Mom ran into Miss Neal a few years after we moved. Miss Neal looked her in the eye and demanded, "Well, did they ruin her?" Mom knew what she meant now and said that, yes, probably, in some ways, they might have.
I have a marvelous mother. She has always held space for us to be who we are going to be, to get curious about life and its wonders, to explore the reaches of the heart, soul, and mind. She has always been there to champion us and to help us rebuild the contours and the cupolas and the batty belfries or whatever features made us wild and crazy and unique when the world tried to knock them off.
I hope my young friend who sighed so plaintively about All the Things you have to know to be a Good Girl is lucky enough to have parents like that. I'm betting she is.
How about you? Who showed you the magic of the world?
Tell me in the Comments.
"It's so hard. You have to know so many things to be a good girl." -- A friend's three-year-old daughter, after he told her why it wasn't a good idea to throw books at people. (She'd chucked her book at him after storytime, leaving him with a nice bruise or two on his forehead, but I digress.)
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| Pebbles with cowboy boots. What's not to love? |
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| Joy. Just joy. |
I can't remember being three. Or four. Or five, really.
I do remember having a magical kindergarten teacher, Miss Neal. Miss Neal (I think I'm spelling that right) loved me. She loved all of us, I'm pretty sure, but I knew she loved me. She was a genius at letting children find what they were curious about and then go explore that curiosity for as long as we needed to. I loved the big, round sink in our classroom. The water came out of a center sprayer and was activated by a circular pedal on the floor. I was fascinated by how that worked. I must have played with it a lot for it to have such a vivid hold in my memory. We had a jungle gym inside our classroom. How cool was that? Miss Neal knew how to help develop curiosity and wonder.
Mom says that when she came to get me on the last day of kindergarten, Miss Neal took her aside, looked her right in the eyes and said "Don't let them ruin her." Mom was quite taken aback and didn't know quite how to take that, but she never forgot it. We moved out of that town and away from that school. As I went through school in our new city and as more and more teachers tried to force us into molds, Mom began to learn what Miss Neal meant.
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| This one's me! |
Mom ran into Miss Neal a few years after we moved. Miss Neal looked her in the eye and demanded, "Well, did they ruin her?" Mom knew what she meant now and said that, yes, probably, in some ways, they might have.
I have a marvelous mother. She has always held space for us to be who we are going to be, to get curious about life and its wonders, to explore the reaches of the heart, soul, and mind. She has always been there to champion us and to help us rebuild the contours and the cupolas and the batty belfries or whatever features made us wild and crazy and unique when the world tried to knock them off.
I hope my young friend who sighed so plaintively about All the Things you have to know to be a Good Girl is lucky enough to have parents like that. I'm betting she is.
How about you? Who showed you the magic of the world?
Tell me in the Comments.
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