Dear Elli,
You totally freak me out sometimes.
As I was starting the water for your shower tonight, you went on quite a tirade. You didn't want to read a book tonight, even though we agreed that reading is our most important goal this summer.
Reading is tough for you. You can do it, but it's difficult. It doesn't come easy. I get it. But practice makes perfect, and you'll get it eventually.
So back to your tirade.
You were crying. Sobbing, actually, as you stated the following:
"I can't concentrate on reading, Mom. You don't understand what's going on in my brain. How can I focus on reading better when I have so many questions about the world? What's out there? Who am I? Who are you? What are we made of and who made us? Is God alive? I feel like I'm in a book sometimes. Like what if we're all aliens, sleeping in the belly of a monster, and this world is all just a dream? A dream that we can't wake up from so it just goes on and on and on. How can I believe this world is real when I can't test it? I can't prove it."
Well, shit. I am pretty sure I wasn't contemplating the universe when I was six. Although your tirade was most definitely a ruse to get you out of reading a book tonight, it is also indicative of the fact that you do contemplate some pretty deep shit on a pretty regular basis.
I've always known that you are a big thinker, but I will admit that this particular example freaked me out a little. I'm lying. I was totally freaked out. You're six. But you have the imagination of a stoned college student. That's freaky, dude.
After you calmed down and I convinced myself not to take you to therapy, we agreed to start simple. First, you have to learn to read really well. Next, you can study all of the greatest philosophers and astrophysicists the world has ever seen. And then you'll be ready to write your own book on the meaning of life.
You agreed. And Goodnight Moon is on your nightstand, waiting patiently for your great big imagination.
I love you.
Mom
Comments