Earlier this week I told my oldest son that he needed to clean his room - something I say at least four times a day to any one of my three children who seem to be having too much fun before their jobs are done. So I was surprised to find my typical two-minute speed cleaner sitting on his floor sorting through old schoolwork he'd collected in his under-the-bed drawers. I tried not to comment on how it looked like he had taken a fan and set it in front of a pile of papers. Instead I glanced at the papers littering the floor, one in particular catching my eye...
As I read the words to the poem/short essay he'd written about what he'd put in a magic box, it took me to a perfect world. It opened a tiny hole into his mind; it held a magnifying glass to his soul. It showed me in beautiful words from a then fifth grader what is really important to him - something he'd never even remotely communicated to me. It reminded me what should be important to me.
Now before you gag and run for the bathroom, let me implore you that I refuse to be one of those mothers who believes her kids are really heavenly beings with tilted halos, or that everything they touch shimmers like a sequin. (splash cold water in face) Richard Paul Evans was brilliant when he once wrote, "It is one thing to take joy in a child's achievements and quite another to aggrandize ourselves through them. It is emotional incest to live vicariously through a child's success."
Be assured my friends, while I'm tap dancing with joy, it is just that. A very happy place to be. So with that in mind, I share with you his essay.
