Post by anirbas on Mar 6, 2007 9:33:21 GMT -6
"Mom! You'll love this! I wrote it in Language Arts class and I made an A on it! I just don't know if you'll like the story, or not. But, that's okay, 'cause you'll love the teacher's comments, afterwards."
I'm wondering to myself, how could I not love anything she'd written? I live to see papers and poems she's written for English class to see if the spark is there inside her...To see if she's got the guts to utilize the spark, blow it into a roaring conflagaration--
the turning of words and phrases into something more--poems and stories and such fantastical lore.
That was before my daughter, Ivy, handed me the paper she'd done, with an impudent flourish and a big grin.
At the top, the number 100, with an A+ beneathe it was written in big letters in bold red ink. What's not to love about that? The first line stated this story is about my mom. What's not to love about that?
I envisioned I was about to be parentally idolized in prose by her.
Perhaps, my own oddly individual, exotic beauty extolled. LOL
My kindnesses to strangers, pointed out. Afterall, she often witnesses me dowling out any extra cash and coins I have to the homeless guys, in our area. And I give her extra money all the time to treat her girlfriends to a slushie at lunchtime. I'm always buying her clothes, though she often complains, I wander around in what amounts to rags, in her opinion...Well, duh, daughter of mine...'Cause I'm buying clothes to fill your closet instead of mine...
I thought perhaps she'd go on about the three months I was sicker than sick, and yet carried on, taking her and her sister-in-law back and forth to school; and watching my grandson so my daughter-in-law could work, even though I was running a fever and looked like a walking zombie.
How I stop what I'm doing to help geriatrics put their groceries in their cars; or how I volunteered to help with everything when she was in grade school--I was room parent, party momma, choir mom, art projects helper mom. For six years, every cold and stomach bug, my daughter's class caught, I caught, too-because, I was there, almost every week.
Key words were and are, I envisioned...And we all know, just because we envision something, doesn't mean, that's what is about to happen...No less than with this story, written by my daughter, that started with the first line, "This is a story about my mother."
Well, at least the first line fed my parental illusions of a story extolling my motherly virtures, talents and glories. And the second line, took me out of fairytale land, killed my delusions and smacked me right back into reality...
My daughter, the sixth grade writer, from that line onwards,
wrote a cypherical rant and rave fest of all that my "overprotectiveness" had done to ruin her young,
eleven to twelve year old life.
Oh, my stars! I quelled at her portrayal of me, but my pride in her writing skills, surpassed that disappointment. She sliced me!
She diced me! She passionately ripped me to pieces with amazing verve, vim, vigor and style! I was so proud of her and the writing fire I saw burning in her words! She told it like it was--to her tweener, I wanna be a valleygirl mindset...
I looked like the wicked witch in Hansel and Gretal. I'd thrown her into a cage to fatten her up for later consumption. I didn't let her go on a "date" with her then "boyfriend" to the movies, even with his mother going and sitting two rows, behind them! And he broke up with me, because she wouldn't let me go to the movies! My mother is overprotective, I tell you!
That's a lie, I pointed out to her. You told me, she was going, yes. But, you told me, she was sitting in the back row and you guys, were going to be sitting in the front row. Like she can see what's going on from that distance, down there...Give me a break! I even told you okay, if I went and sat a few rows back...But, no, Perdita wouldn't have any of that! That's a lie, Ivy!
"No, it isn't, Mom. I was using creative licensing, stretching the drama of the story..."
Hahahahaha...How can you slap that statement down when you're a writer, paid or otherwise, yourself?
"But, your characterization made me look like the Wicked Witch of the West, Ivy! By the way, excellent writing! You ripped me like a pro! I'm so proud of you even though you made me look like a meanie! That kind of hurts my feelings."
"Well, Mom...Read the teacher's comments...You'll feel better...
I got an A+ for writing the paper...But, you got an A+ from her, for being a good parent..."
I read the comments and it was so. Her English teacher first empathized with her, recalling how she felt like her mother was overprotective, when she was a kid, too. But, now that she had a fifteen year old daughter of her own, she knew her mother hadn't been overprotective. She'd just loved her and been a really good mother. Her teacher then pointed out, Ivy was lucky to have a mother, she found overprotective. It meant Ivy was loved dearly and loved well, on top of that. And Ivy's mom, got an A+ for parenting, in her teacher's opinion.
I danced! I pranced! I grinned like a 'possum!
My daughter had the fire of a writer in her! This paper was
proof positive!
And both of us, had gotten an A+ from the teacher,
for our effort and work. It was a feel good moment
for me. One I'm obviously still cherishing, as I wrote
this story about it...
~Sabrina.
I'm wondering to myself, how could I not love anything she'd written? I live to see papers and poems she's written for English class to see if the spark is there inside her...To see if she's got the guts to utilize the spark, blow it into a roaring conflagaration--
the turning of words and phrases into something more--poems and stories and such fantastical lore.
That was before my daughter, Ivy, handed me the paper she'd done, with an impudent flourish and a big grin.
At the top, the number 100, with an A+ beneathe it was written in big letters in bold red ink. What's not to love about that? The first line stated this story is about my mom. What's not to love about that?
I envisioned I was about to be parentally idolized in prose by her.
Perhaps, my own oddly individual, exotic beauty extolled. LOL
My kindnesses to strangers, pointed out. Afterall, she often witnesses me dowling out any extra cash and coins I have to the homeless guys, in our area. And I give her extra money all the time to treat her girlfriends to a slushie at lunchtime. I'm always buying her clothes, though she often complains, I wander around in what amounts to rags, in her opinion...Well, duh, daughter of mine...'Cause I'm buying clothes to fill your closet instead of mine...
I thought perhaps she'd go on about the three months I was sicker than sick, and yet carried on, taking her and her sister-in-law back and forth to school; and watching my grandson so my daughter-in-law could work, even though I was running a fever and looked like a walking zombie.
How I stop what I'm doing to help geriatrics put their groceries in their cars; or how I volunteered to help with everything when she was in grade school--I was room parent, party momma, choir mom, art projects helper mom. For six years, every cold and stomach bug, my daughter's class caught, I caught, too-because, I was there, almost every week.
Key words were and are, I envisioned...And we all know, just because we envision something, doesn't mean, that's what is about to happen...No less than with this story, written by my daughter, that started with the first line, "This is a story about my mother."
Well, at least the first line fed my parental illusions of a story extolling my motherly virtures, talents and glories. And the second line, took me out of fairytale land, killed my delusions and smacked me right back into reality...
My daughter, the sixth grade writer, from that line onwards,
wrote a cypherical rant and rave fest of all that my "overprotectiveness" had done to ruin her young,
eleven to twelve year old life.
Oh, my stars! I quelled at her portrayal of me, but my pride in her writing skills, surpassed that disappointment. She sliced me!
She diced me! She passionately ripped me to pieces with amazing verve, vim, vigor and style! I was so proud of her and the writing fire I saw burning in her words! She told it like it was--to her tweener, I wanna be a valleygirl mindset...
I looked like the wicked witch in Hansel and Gretal. I'd thrown her into a cage to fatten her up for later consumption. I didn't let her go on a "date" with her then "boyfriend" to the movies, even with his mother going and sitting two rows, behind them! And he broke up with me, because she wouldn't let me go to the movies! My mother is overprotective, I tell you!
That's a lie, I pointed out to her. You told me, she was going, yes. But, you told me, she was sitting in the back row and you guys, were going to be sitting in the front row. Like she can see what's going on from that distance, down there...Give me a break! I even told you okay, if I went and sat a few rows back...But, no, Perdita wouldn't have any of that! That's a lie, Ivy!
"No, it isn't, Mom. I was using creative licensing, stretching the drama of the story..."
Hahahahaha...How can you slap that statement down when you're a writer, paid or otherwise, yourself?
"But, your characterization made me look like the Wicked Witch of the West, Ivy! By the way, excellent writing! You ripped me like a pro! I'm so proud of you even though you made me look like a meanie! That kind of hurts my feelings."
"Well, Mom...Read the teacher's comments...You'll feel better...
I got an A+ for writing the paper...But, you got an A+ from her, for being a good parent..."
I read the comments and it was so. Her English teacher first empathized with her, recalling how she felt like her mother was overprotective, when she was a kid, too. But, now that she had a fifteen year old daughter of her own, she knew her mother hadn't been overprotective. She'd just loved her and been a really good mother. Her teacher then pointed out, Ivy was lucky to have a mother, she found overprotective. It meant Ivy was loved dearly and loved well, on top of that. And Ivy's mom, got an A+ for parenting, in her teacher's opinion.
I danced! I pranced! I grinned like a 'possum!
My daughter had the fire of a writer in her! This paper was
proof positive!
And both of us, had gotten an A+ from the teacher,
for our effort and work. It was a feel good moment
for me. One I'm obviously still cherishing, as I wrote
this story about it...
~Sabrina.
Please make sure they take the child to the doctor!!
