At the bookstore the four-year-old boy keeps asking his mom to buy him books that are geared towards young teenagers and older elementary school children. After saying 'no' for the dozenth time, his mother finally makes him an offer - "Read one page from any of those books and I'll get it for you." The kid opens a book, stares at it, then says loftily, "I don't feel like reading now. How about I read it when we get home?" His mother laughs but doesn't relent.
As if I'm plucking petals off a daisy, but instead of saying "He loves me, he loves me not" it's "I can do this, no I can't."
Children spill into the cafeteria, squashing ten to a table, swiping at brownies and slices of pizza, sending up a cloud of chatter that their chaperones attempt to shout over.
I've walked past this building many times, but I go inside now and take delight - clerestory windows, doors with leaded glass, a giant ornate clock, stairwells curling up past stacks of books.
The joy of making someone laugh so hard they have to slap their hand over their mouth to keep crumbs and pieces of cheese from flying out.
Throughout the meeting I'm on edge. Some of what we discuss seems helpful, but I'm not sure. I don't want to be misled.
I appreciate their encouragement and advice so much. I'll need to let them know.