Who knew? Reporter's kids are 'awsame' journalists, too
By Cindy Stauffer
Updated Feb 19, 2007 15:52
Who is the easiest to pump for information. Who has to win the battle and who doesn’t care. Who actually brushed their teeth and who just pretended.
But most of the time, our conversations go something like this:
Me: How was your day?
Them: Fine. Mumble. Mumble.
Me: What did you do?
Them: Nothing. Grunt.
I simply did not know they had such rich inner lives until I read their journals and essays that they brought home from school.
Who knew they had so many dreams? And were so wise?
I mean, this is the same trio that scares away old ladies in the cereal aisle with their vigorous discussions. Froot Loops vs. Lucky Charms. Film at 11.
Or who first tried out a whoopie cushion. In front of my sister’s boss. Who is a judge. (To his credit, he laughed. But I didn’t.)
In his journal, my 9-year-old son shared that he loves dirt bikes, money, breakfast, Johnny Cash, a chair in our living room and April.
He hates green beans and bats.
And when you think you caught a fish? But it’s really just a stick? He really hates that.
My 12-year-old daughter wrote this about herself: “I am a fun and cheerful person. I am a friend whom anyone can come to if they have a problem. I am a girl you can laugh with anytime you are down in the dumps. I am someone who will never smoke or make a bad decision like that. I am a big time obnoxious gum chewer.”
And this was my 8-year-old daughter’s description of “The last day of school,” which also was the final day of her retiring teacher’s career:
“The last day of school Mrs. Patten was losing her voice. At the end of the last wew sendens Mrs. Patten was crying and we were singing You Are My Sunshine. It was sad. I almost cryed. Mrs. Patten gave us a hug and a pencil. She also said to every one, ‘I love you all.’ ”
I learned all kinds of things about my kids through their journals and essays.
My older daughter wrote about being as fast as a cheetah and as alert as a fire alarm going off, as festive as a party hat and as pleasant as a spring day. (Well, she is 12. Three out of four ain’t bad.)
My younger daughter wrote about running around with her friends at recess. “We ack like each other are moms.” (I wonder what the other kids thought when my daughter loudly commanded them to hang up their wet towel.)
And while I knew my son worries about tests, I did not know he worries about the war.
“I just love everything. Everything is just awsame. I’m glad I live in the United States. But I wish we weren’t in war. ... I wonder why people have to fight the war. It’s mean!”
I also did not know that he fantasizes about having very, very long legs or being very, very tiny.
“I would sneak in people’s houses. I would crawl in beds and tickle they’re feet.”
I also did not know that he had such a fine sense of logic.
“I look like myself. I look like myself because there are no people that look like me. Maybe there is. But I never met them.”
The boy wonders about things. What do his cousins, aunts, uncles, grandmas and grandpa do all the time when he’s not around?
And: “I always have wondered why people fall asleep. It’s kind of wierd. But I’m glad it happens. It’s relaxing!”
This is what my younger daughter wrote about dreams: “Martin Luther King had a dream that if people whould not be jugid by the coler of thier skin that little black boys and little black grils whuld jone hands with little white boys and little white grils.
“He spoke to thousands and thousands. He spoke about living in peace.”
The boy has dreams, too.
“I wish I could change bad people into good people. So no one would get hurt. Then the world would be a better place. Good people are always the best.”
Wise guys. Who knew?
(The Voices column is written by a rotating team of New Era staffers. It appears Mondays.)
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