It's Christmas Eve and the kids are all just settling in for the night. We'll open the gifts in the morning so they get to go to bed with butterflies in their tummys and excited anticipation. In the morning my wife and I will pretend like we're asleep and we can't wake up in a ruse to see how bad the kids want to get their gifts. It will be a great time for us! ;-)
While the kids were putting up their clutter from the great room, I picked up a mini notebook to figure out who it belongs to. I could tell by the penmanship and horrible, horrible spelling it belongs to my youngest daughter, who is six. But I was amazed at the little poem she wrote:
Poor little bird.
Poor little bird.
He is laying in the street.
How can I help him eat?
He is laying in the street.
Where did she learn to write any poetry?! She is already able to express her emotions much better than I and possibly experience them as well. But she's still goofy. On her way to bed she was singing to herself "...tis the season to be germs." She is a total mystery to me.
2 comments:
That's very cute... and you are right, she is already showing a vastly deeper emotional capacity than her father. Does cynical sarcasm count as an emotion? I suppose anger is an emotion so you have something at least.
Unlike her father, she wants to help the bird, you would likely want to quickly put it out of its misery. But, hey, you did not have an angry post this time, so that is somewhat of an improvement.And I'm still blown away that you came up with a good name for a metal band. Weird!
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