My 7-year-old daughter is a real Einstein. That sounds facetious, but it’s true. I don’t mean that she is a short German Jew who is so smart she can’t dress herself. She’s just smart. I won’t indulge my proud-parentality by detailing all the things she excels in, but for the purpose of this anecdote I must point out this: At seven years old, she is a writer.
On the trip back from Grammylaine’s house, she occupied herself by working on her third book. She wrote for 20 minutes or more, erasing and rewriting, brow furrowed. Then she said, “Momma.”
I looked back at her, expecting to be asked how to spell a word.
She looked confused and a little perturbed. (You writer-people out there will understand this.) She said, “Momma, does it bother you when you write and write a whole lot, and when you go back and read it there’s not very much?”
Oh, baby.
Filed under: Life
I love this post! I can relate as both a writer and a mother. My four-year-old recently wrote her first ‘book’ about a grasshopper who hurts his leg playing soccer.
Aw, how cute! Thanks for stopping by, Lisa.
That’s great. And she is an Einstein.