A couple Sundays ago, my daughter had a friend over to play.
They were sitting on the floor near me, chatting and laughing and putting together rubber-band bracelets or bead necklaces or whatever it is schoolkids are excited about these days. I had a football game on and I was trying to bang out some words on the new manuscript.
And then I overheard my daughter drop this bombshell:
“People call me slowpoke, but I like to take my time.”
She might as well have ripped my still-beating heart out of my chest and showed it to me. It was the cutest and most devastating thing I have ever heard her say and probably will ever hear her say.
I have called her a slowpoke. My wife has. I’m sure her brother has.
But she doesn’t care. SHE DOES NOT SUFFER FOOLS AND OUR PESKY HUMAN IMPATIENCE.
She won’t be rushed. Whether it’s her homework sheets or a craft project or simple coloring, she does take her time to make sure it is done right.
She’s the baby of the family. She hits a lot of the stereotypical checkboxes for adorable little girls. When she gets tired, she grabs whatever’s in reach and sucks her thumb. And so sometimes I admit that it’s easy to forget what she’s becoming.
I know one thing. I won’t ever call her a slowpoke again.
LEST I INCUR HER SLOW, METHODICAL WRATH.