This morning my daughter, stuck in a holding pattern awaiting school’s start, wandered the house bored. She eventually made her way to my bedroom (as she so often does) and under my bed (not so common) to find my “to be saved” boxes of drawings and school projects that I store there with the BEST intentions of framing or at least putting in a scrapbook one day (though the whole idea of scrapbooking intimidates me more than the piles of stuff accumulating under my bed). She went through and found an item from kindergarten, titled “All About My Mom.” I have no idea why I don’t recall her presenting me with this a few years ago. (That’s not true; I have an idea: my memory is shot.) Her responses to the card’s questions/prompts were eye-opening.
She loves me because I “got mofe re wii.” No, I haven’t a clue. Though she does love the Wii.
Why am I special? “She tacs kir of me.” I think I take care of her.
What am I “good at,” you wonder? According to my second born, it’s “ignoen my dad.” Yup, she’s right on that one. Ignoring her dad. (Her teacher later told me that working with kindergarteners gave her privileged info into the lives of her students. “You’d be shocked to learn what some kids share with the class.” I started giving serious thought to homeschooling.)
My favorite food? “Shose.” Correction: sushi was and remains HER favorite food.
The kicker? My daughter got my age right (somehow she’s been able to tell people my exact age, without prompting, since she turned 2), but she declares me to be 5’ tall (Seriously? I’m 2 inches shy of 6’) and that I weigh 40 pounds. (Seriously? Oh, wait. I mean, I love that kid.)