I told Michaelina this morning that I finally turned in my story to my teacher yesterday. I knew she would be happy to hear that, because it meant I could now spend more time reading to her every night instead of cutting our story hour short due to my pesky homework assignments.
“What was your story about?” she asked me.
“It was about my mommy,” I replied.
“What about your mommy?” I think she may have expected me to talk about the stroke.
“I wrote about how she used to yell at me a lot when I was a little girl.”
“She did?” She seemed incredulous.
“Yeah, and it made me think about how sometimes I yell at you and I wish I wouldn’t do that.”
She fumbled with the ponytail holder in her hand as I brushed my teeth.
“I wrote a story about you too, mommy.”
“You did? When?”
“In my journal at school.”
Mild anxiety came over me as I wondered how my precious baby girl might relate her emotional stress in words.
“Really? What was it about?” I tried to act casual.
“It was about Gianni taking my dolls and you yelling at him to stop.”
I wasn’t sure if I should be relieved or terrified.
“Oh, okay. Well, that sounds like a good story.”
“Then I wrote about me stealing his lovie and you yelling at me to give it back to him.”
“Hmmm,” I replied. “Is that part made up?”
She shuffled her feet on the bathroom floor and said. “Yeah. I made that part up.”
I thought about how our class has been discussing at length how creative non-fiction authors are permitted certain liberties with the “truth” as they see it.
“Honey, it sounds like you are a really good writer.”
“Yeah,” she said. “I am.”
She cracks me up, for sure. I miss the “little girl” but celebrate the soon to be seven-year old!
I love Lina’s confidence.