小女儿写在纸上的一首小诗让我欣喜不已:看来,尽管我们的相貌、性格和爱好是如此不同,但我们都热爱写作。可惜,这只是我一厢情愿的误会……
My 6-year-old daughter, Nina, wrote a poem the other day that I won’t soon forget.
Her inspiration[1] struck during one of our “lazy” Saturday mornings. In our family, “lazy” is code for watch as much TV as you like, just stay out of the kitchen so I can drink coffee and read the newspaper. Nina’s two sisters have no problem cooperating. Nina, however, persistently travels back and forth to the kitchen to forage for yellow apples and salty nuts.[2]
On this particular Saturday, Nina also came in hunting for pen and paper. Finding both items on the kitchen table in front of me, she bent over and began writing. She looked up only once, casting me an impish grin to confirm that yes, in fact, she did mean for me to notice her.[3] Meanwhile, I wondered what she could be writing.
Nina has always been a mystery to me.
For one thing, she doesn’t take after[4] me at all. Looks? No. Personality? Temperament[5]? A perfect inversion[6] of my own. She chooses fruit desserts over chocolate, repetitive board games to dramatic play, and fact over fiction.[7]
Bounding out of school one day, she waved an oversized atlas at me.[8] “Look, Mom!” she exclaimed. “A book full of maps, and only maps!” Until that night, I had never read an atlas in my life. Even our likes are mismatched[9]. She likes snakes, owls, and cats. I like dead snakes, owls only as graphic[10] art, and cats not even in theory.
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