So a few mornings back my daughter awoke complaining of a stomach ache and had a slight fever. We kept her home from school, but after after a couple hours, she was fine. I sort of wondered if her sudden illness and swift recovery was the product of some school-related anxiety.
So, as she sat coloring, I launched into a riveting story about how when I was in fourth grade I once made myself sick worrying about art class. I had a very, let’s say intense, art teacher, and she looked dimly on my troubles during a weaving/sewing unit. I was hopeless, skill-less, tangled and very scared of the teacher. So much so that I ended up in the nurse’s office.
Then I moved to the happy ending. The nurse was a more patient sewing expert who gave me some tips. And I felt a lot better after I told someone about my problem. It was after school special-caliber stuff.
So, I said, if there’s something bothering you at school, it’s OK to tell us.
She looked at me for a few moments, cocked her head and said, “Well, even I know how to weave.”
I just bet you do, sweetie.
Ah, these are the moments. You impart deep wisdom. Her eyes light up with the recognition that her father is a poophead. And she’s only 6. My cover is blown even before first grade.
I plan to spend her teenage years tinkering in the garage.