Yup, that was today's bumper sticker joy all the way from 84th Avenue to South Santa Fe. At first I thought it was just funny, but then I realised that this truck had real religious stickers all over it and then it became HILARIOUS. I am beginning to have an odd affection for the uber-Christians of late because they provide such a great deal of entertainment; one of my students asked me the other day - in complete seriousness - whether or not I was worried about going to Hell.
I told her that not only am I going to Hell, but I'm pretty sure I'm a contender for future president of said location. After all, if Heaven exists and will be populated by these self-righteous Bible thumpers, then who wants to go there anyway?
Enough of that one...
My daughter wanted to set up one of our old desktop computers in her room last night; when I asked her why (because they are not wireless internet capable), she replied, "so I can keep writing." At the risk of sounding like I might pry, I gently queried, "Oh? So what're you writing?" as if it was nothing at all - as if I didn't want to jump immediately for delirious joy. "A story," she said. Ah, flesh of my flesh, feels the urge to tell stories. Could a mother be any prouder? I love that she is becoming Mini-Me, and not the version of me I was at her age, either, but the me I'm proud for her to know. I adore the fact that she falls in love with rock stars, writes poetry to her blog on MySpace, makes fun of me for sitting at jigsaw puzzles for hours but will soon be unable to resist the temptation to put it together and join me as long as we can sing along to Fall Out Boy songs together. I love that she tells people exactly what she thinks and does not fear the consequences; I love that she has boundaries she sets for herself and these override all others, including mine. I love that she is only fourteen and that I trust her judgment and ability to self-monitor more than I do for most people twice her age.
And I wish I could claim credit for any part of it, but sometimes I genuinely believe she is just an older soul than I and came to the world again with more wisdom.
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2 comments:
"gently queried" LOVE it. Owen wanted to read the bedtime story to Ivy and me the other night. Upon completion, it took everything I had not to burst into tears of joy, which would've effectively terrified him from ever doing such a thing again.
More proof of her intelligence: the fact that she wants to write on a unit far from the vast pull of the internets... I'm gonna be plugging in my old jalopy laptop at home tonight!
It's true! I've learned to quell my urge to beam, weep, dance, or otherwise acknowledge anything she does that makes me proud. After all, it's only cool to do if your mom hates it or is at least indifferent...
Just keep pretending that it's no big deal if he reads to you... haha.
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