Tuesday, May 22, 2007
A glimpse into the mind of a 6-year-old
At 6 years old, Maya isn’t just fascinating to watch, as she figures out how to navigate the world around her, she’s also a source of prime entertainment and unexpected wisdom.
In a written report on what she did in kindergarten the preceding week, Maya wrote: Wednesday “We had ches pesu and aplles and pars and vechtbls. It was dlishish.” (Translation: We had cheese pizza and apples and pears and vegetables. It was delicious.)
She was discussing, not long ago, the boys in her kindergarten class. One of her siblings asked her, teasingly, whether she “liked” any of them. She considered the question for a moment, then offered that she did find a boy named Brandon attractive. He’s cute, she said, And nice. And smart. “But,” she added, “he always has boogers coming out of his nose.”
Ah, the pitfalls of kindergarten romance.
Maya wrote: Thursday “We had computer lab. I did freech ous. I did kid pix.” (Translation: I did free choice. I did kid picks.)
As she was settling into bed one night, she suddenly asked Rhonda, “Mom, if you had a restaurant, wouldn’t you just give the food to people who are hungry and poor?” Rhonda said, yes, she would. Maya added “I know that certainly Dad would.” Lots to love there: compassion for the needy; simple, direct problem solving; contemplation of serious issues far beyond her years; a rather sophisticated vocabulary; and a flattering perception of her father’s goodness.
I can live that.
Maya wrote: Friday “We had sign languaga. We lrmd hw to say slide. You pat 1 hand down ven you pat 2 fingrs on top of your athr hand and ven you got a slid in sign languaga.” (Translation: We had sign language. We learned how to say “slide.” You put one hand down. Then you put two fingers on top of your other hand. And then you got a “slide” in sign language.)
She’s learning to read and loving it. One day, as she was meticulously sounding out unfamiliar words in a book she was reading aloud, Rhonda complemented her on her calm dedication to the effort. (Jaden, her 7-year-old brother, gets famously upset when he doesn’t know a word and has to slow down his race to through the text to figure out a word.) Maya nodded and said, “I go carefully because I want to be like Dad – I want to be an author.”
OK. I can live with that, too.
Maya wrote: Wednesday “I had lunch. It was pesadiprs and apllss and frpoot and chklit milk or wit milk. I ast if me and Mackenzie cad have sam mor. It was delichichs.” (Translation: I had lunch. It was pizza dippers and apples and fruit and chocolate milk or white milk. I asked if me and MacKenzie could have some more. It was delicious.)
Our bedtime routine usually involves me resting next to her after lights out and singing, reciting poems or telling stories until she’s in that pre-sleep twilight zone. One night, she snuggled in to me and I put my arm around her. I was smiling to myself, proud of how strong and smart she is. I’m proud of her secure sense of herself as a person and her the-world-is-mine-to-enjoy attitude. I thought she was asleep, and was about to leave, when she suddenly said, “Daddy, when you have your arm around me like that, I feel like I’m a little baby again. I feel safe.”
Translation: Maya – my smart, strong, funny, compassionate daughter who believes she rules the world – feels safe in her daddy’s arms. And maybe, just maybe, there’s a “because” tucked in there somewhere.
I can live with that.
At 6 years old, Maya isn’t just fascinating to watch, as she figures out how to navigate the world around her, she’s also a source of prime entertainment and unexpected wisdom.
In a written report on what she did in kindergarten the preceding week, Maya wrote: Wednesday “We had ches pesu and aplles and pars and vechtbls. It was dlishish.” (Translation: We had cheese pizza and apples and pears and vegetables. It was delicious.)
She was discussing, not long ago, the boys in her kindergarten class. One of her siblings asked her, teasingly, whether she “liked” any of them. She considered the question for a moment, then offered that she did find a boy named Brandon attractive. He’s cute, she said, And nice. And smart. “But,” she added, “he always has boogers coming out of his nose.”
Ah, the pitfalls of kindergarten romance.
Maya wrote: Thursday “We had computer lab. I did freech ous. I did kid pix.” (Translation: I did free choice. I did kid picks.)
As she was settling into bed one night, she suddenly asked Rhonda, “Mom, if you had a restaurant, wouldn’t you just give the food to people who are hungry and poor?” Rhonda said, yes, she would. Maya added “I know that certainly Dad would.” Lots to love there: compassion for the needy; simple, direct problem solving; contemplation of serious issues far beyond her years; a rather sophisticated vocabulary; and a flattering perception of her father’s goodness.
I can live that.
Maya wrote: Friday “We had sign languaga. We lrmd hw to say slide. You pat 1 hand down ven you pat 2 fingrs on top of your athr hand and ven you got a slid in sign languaga.” (Translation: We had sign language. We learned how to say “slide.” You put one hand down. Then you put two fingers on top of your other hand. And then you got a “slide” in sign language.)
She’s learning to read and loving it. One day, as she was meticulously sounding out unfamiliar words in a book she was reading aloud, Rhonda complemented her on her calm dedication to the effort. (Jaden, her 7-year-old brother, gets famously upset when he doesn’t know a word and has to slow down his race to through the text to figure out a word.) Maya nodded and said, “I go carefully because I want to be like Dad – I want to be an author.”
OK. I can live with that, too.
Maya wrote: Wednesday “I had lunch. It was pesadiprs and apllss and frpoot and chklit milk or wit milk. I ast if me and Mackenzie cad have sam mor. It was delichichs.” (Translation: I had lunch. It was pizza dippers and apples and fruit and chocolate milk or white milk. I asked if me and MacKenzie could have some more. It was delicious.)
Our bedtime routine usually involves me resting next to her after lights out and singing, reciting poems or telling stories until she’s in that pre-sleep twilight zone. One night, she snuggled in to me and I put my arm around her. I was smiling to myself, proud of how strong and smart she is. I’m proud of her secure sense of herself as a person and her the-world-is-mine-to-enjoy attitude. I thought she was asleep, and was about to leave, when she suddenly said, “Daddy, when you have your arm around me like that, I feel like I’m a little baby again. I feel safe.”
Translation: Maya – my smart, strong, funny, compassionate daughter who believes she rules the world – feels safe in her daddy’s arms. And maybe, just maybe, there’s a “because” tucked in there somewhere.
I can live with that.
Labels: Maya
