A second-grade writing assignment last week. First whole paragraph the Scout has ever had to write. Has to be about animals that do useful work. Police horses, we decide. (Though the Saint Bernard with the whiskey barrell might have been a cooler subject.)
Scout begins to compose.
"My dad and I were interested to learn about why police officers—wait, let me think of a fancy word."
No! I screamed. But it was too late. It was seven years too late. Because, like all human beings, Scout was a bullshitter at birth. And maybe in utero.
All that's left to be done now is to try to teach her how bullshit better.
If anyone can teach her that, it's you. And I mean that in the best possible way.
Posted by: Rueben | November 07, 2011 at 11:19 AM
I'm on it, RB.
Posted by: David Murray | November 07, 2011 at 04:53 PM
David, my dear, let her use all the fancy words she wants. This is HER TIME to be creative and experiment with language. She'll learn -- merely from reading with you and being with you and your wonderful wife -- what great communication is. If you limit her word choice, you LIMIT HER CREATIVITY. Don't go there, friend. (Take it from me, the mother who learned in a school conference that her beloved son found it "very irritating that his mom is a writer because she's always correcting me.")
Posted by: Amy | November 09, 2011 at 09:03 AM