My eight was hide-and-go-seek, dreams of being a movie star, and not a care in the world. His eight is a face dirty from tears, a series of citations, and too much yelling. MJ had another tough day. Playground skirmishes, glasses on the asphalt.
Sometimes I wish I could be eight, too. I would take his hand in mine and ask him to play with me. I would smile at him and he would smile back. The California sunshine would warm the tops of our heads as we played and pretended. Knight and damsel. Astronaut and alien. Pirate and mermaid. We would have our own language and a super secret hand signal that means: "I think you are the very best."
And he would believe it.
2 comments:
Wow. Love your thinking about being eight again. Super magic of three crafting. Glad your posting. Your picture is adorable. Aren't sons fun?! :) MHG
I know you are a good teacher by what you see as important on a playground. I have a passion for the underdog, too. I'm retired now and watch as my first grandchild go to Kindergarten--one ends the journey, another begins. Keep slicing/teaching--you've got it!!! I have 3 sons, too.
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