“How do you spell ‘Tempurpedic’?” my nine-year-old daughter called from the living room.
“Tempurpedic? Like your pillow?” I yelled from the next room.
“Yeah.”
“I think it’s T-e-m-p-u-r-p-e-d-i-c.” I said. “What’s this for? I thought you were doing homework.”
“I sort of am,” she said.
Curious, I peeked in the room. She was spread out at the coffee table, books here and there. Her silver pup using her backpack as a pillow.
Spotting me, she quickly folded herself over her paper, protectively hiding the words. (Like I could make them out anyway. Lately, words are becoming readable only after being moved closer, then further away, then closer again.)
She shot me her version of the look I give her every time she intrudes when I’m in my home office, writing.
I held up my hands. “Okay, okay.”
Several minutes later: “How do you spell ‘sacrificed’?”
I took another peek in the room. There was something about the rotten grin on her face, the I’m-up-to-something expression.
“I’ll tell you if you’ll tell me what you’re working on,” I said.
She scrunched up her face, trying to decide. “I guess I can tell you,” she said. “This place called Reeds Jewelers is holding a contest for fourth and fifth graders. Whoever writes the best essay about why their mom deserves a diamond necklace wins a necklace for their mom for Mother’s Day.”
Much like I do with her, she told me I could read it if I left her alone until she was done writing. (Unlike her, I accepted that as my cue and left the room.)
A while later, she brought me her paper, looking both uncertain and pleased with herself at the same time. I read.
“My Mom deserves a simply beautiful diamond necklace because she is funny, strange, and needs more necklaces. She is the best mom ever! I asked her what she wanted for Mother’s Day and she said she wanted a necklace.
“I love my mom and I hope this wins because I don’t have enough money to buy her a necklace. I need to get her something special because I bought her a Temper-pedic pillow for her birthday and I use it, not her.
“This paragraph is about what my mom sacrificed for me. Two (things) are her skinny stomach and her small butt. She also lets my best friend spend the night almost every time I ask.
“Those are the reasons my mom deserves a simply beautiful diamond necklace. I hope you choose this one to win!
“Celeste Vingle
“P.S. She needs something fashionable for once.
“P.P.S. She needs a lot more than a necklace, but it’s a start.”
I suppose some might be offended by what Celeste wrote, some who might think her disrespectful or coarse. But when I read it, I thought, “That’s <I>my<P> girl!”
She wants badly to win, but that in itself is my gift. She wants that necklace for me, she slaved over that paper for me.
Regardless of whether or not there’s a necklace next Sunday, I have something to cherish. It might not be fashionable, but it’s sure a nice start.
