Have you ever watched children play outside? They explore every small rock, dig with their fingers through grass and dirt, run without a worry about time or purpose or direction.
Have you ever listened to children talk? They tell stories in animated tones, ask questions with wonder and curiosity, offer up fresh descriptions and details no adult would notice.
Writing from a child’s perspective pushes you to view the world differently and allows you to write freely—without doubt, without self-editing along the way. Although we have all been children earlier in our lives, it’s often difficult to capture that mindset again. Here’s how to tap into your inner child:
Photo by Vince Alongi
Child’s Play
Abandon the need to self-edit as you write. Resist hitting the backspace key. Let your inner child tell the story without interference from your adult judgments.
Play with your words. Make up new words, or use old ones in unique ways. Get creative with punctuation. Use humor—don’t be afraid to be silly.
Write with honesty. Yes, children learn to tell lies, but they are often brutally honest. They see a person or situation and speak without a filter. They are opinionated and ask questions.
Nurture an innocent spirit. Look at the world through new eyes, as if you’ve never seen your surroundings before. Just as children explore through touching and tasting, consider all the senses.
Find the complexity. Don’t be fooled—children are both simple and complex. While they don’t always understand the reason behind something or the consequences of their actions, they do sense conflict and tension. They pick up on emotions, tones, and moods.
What does your inner child sound like? What story does he or she want to tell?
PRACTICE
Write for fifteen minutes from a child’s perspective.
Feel free to use first or third-person point of view. What’s important is that you write freely, like a child—with humor, honesty, innocence, complexity.
When you’re finished, please share your practice in the comments section.
The rain taps on my window like it’s trying to tell me something. I’m the only person who’s listening though. James is building the tallest building in the whole entire world. Mom is too busy making biscuits and looking in her super mom book and putting on loud music because it’s A Rainy Day and she’s scared that we’re going to act like monkeys. The last time we acted like monkeys she needed to call Aunty Dorothy and sat in her room for an hour and it got so quiet and boring that we stopped eating our fake banana’s and jumping from the couches and making monkey yells and just sat by her bedroom door instead. But today she’s not going to call Aunt Dorothy, I can see that.
She only calls Aunt Dorothy when she starts walking into the bathroom and back and she checks that there’s toilet paper there and she calls me by my middle name as well as my first name, Jessica Jamie. That’s when I know she’ll call Aunt Dorothy and then afterwards we’ll get a smack from Dad when he gets back. He puts on that angry face, but I know that he’s not really angry but if I ask him about it then he’ll get angry, because that happened one time, so I just say nothing and let him smack me. It’s not really sore, but I don’t say anything to Dad because then he’ll get really angry and it will be sore and then I won’t like him anymore. So I just pretend to cry and then he hugs me and tells me that I’m his Beautiful Princess who is Better Than Everyone (even Hannah Montanna and more pretty) and then he gives me ice-cream.
But today we won’t eat ice-cream because Mom has got five gazillion trillion things for us to do, and she’s using that super duper happy voice. I want to go dancing in the rain, but that’s not part of her plan. I put my hands on the glass and breathe against it really hard, and there’s mist and I draw a monkey.
‘Look!’ I say.
‘Whatever,’ James says, but he comes to the window too and makes a even bigger mist bubble than me. He always has to do what I’m doing but try and do it better.
‘Mom!’
She’s got the music on loud, that happy music that she plays when she really really isn’t happy but has to make herself happy anyway, and she’s got her funky giraffe apron on and those are two signs that she doesn’t want to be bothered. She looks at us and nods her head like we’re doing something amazing and wonderful and we’re some kind of superheros.
‘You guys are amazing,’ she says. James gets all squiggly when he hears that and blows out even bigger.
So that’s what we spend our whole afternoon doing, making mist bubble and drawing things in them. Not as cool as dancing in the rain, but you need to work on moms real slowly.
I love the last line. It especially made me smile. Great work, Zoe.
🙂 Thanks Katie!
Well done! I love the fact you know when Mum is going to call Aunt Dorothy when she uses the middle name as well as first name – and I love the way you capture children’s play with the imaginary bananas and the mist bubbles.
Thanks June! I love writing about playing, because then I’m doing it too!! 😉
Great job. I love that you show how children pick up on different things that happen and then try to relate them together (ie. if Mom does this, then this happens). And the imaginary play feels spot on.
Thanks Melissa! It was a very refreshing prompt to play around with.
I love this. I just wanted to ask, were you going for a Mum with OCD here? That’s how I read it, and since I had relatives with mild OCD as a child and a brother who is severely OCD, I just wanted to mention that the portrayal rings very true, as does the children’s thoughts and reactions.
It’s a beautiful piece, and I especially love the idea at the end—that the girl is trying to work on the Mom.
Wow, when I read it again, it definitely smacks of that! I was actually just trying to get the feel of a mom completely out of control, with a little wierd quirk that shows her meltdown. Thanks so much for the feedback, Sayyada!
Uncle Bob, why did you touch me where I go to wee wee? Why did you do it again and again and again? It hurt. I wanted to cry, but you said that if I didn’t cry then I would get a lolly pop. I wanted to tell mum but you told me that if I did then I would get into a lot of trouble. Why did you do it? Why couldn’t I tell mum? You said to me that I was a very good girl and I deserved lollies and popcorn. I don’t know why you hurt me and then gave me lollies and popcorn.
One day I told mum that you touched me where I go to the toilet. She listened. She came up to you but you said that you didn’t. She came back to me and told me not to make up big stories ever again. I’m sorry if I got you into trouble. You helped me because you gave me popcorn and lolly pops.
Wow. What a complex issue to take on from a child’s perspective. Well done.
That makes me sad. I appreciated hearing that from a child’s perspective. Scary and real, and sad.
Heartbreaking… Thanks for sharing.
Thank you so much for the feedback! I wasn’t expecting any feedback since the subject of the piece was quite disturbing. It’s nice to see your reactions… and I’m glad I captured the right reaction to the situation.
Hi! This is based on a play that I explored in a drama lesson about a girl who has multiple personalities (I thought it might be a bit confusing)
My mummy hates me. She never ever says so but
I know it’s true because she always is nicer to my tiny little brother Nicky.
Nicky’s always so happy all the time like when we went to the park and camped
with mummy and daddy. Daddy said we could help put the tent up and we were both
really really excited. Mummy didn’t care. She just sat on her own reading one
of those books what she reads when she wants us to ignore her. I always ignore
her anyway. Except when we went camping, because daddy left to go get a fire
and me and Nicky was putting the things out for the tent but I went really angry and
I started throwing things and Nicky started crying and mummy shouted at me and
I told her to go away and I pushed her over but then daddy came back and it was
all okay again because daddy loves me and I had to apologise to Nicky but that
was okay too because I love Nicky and I didn’t mean to hurt him. Then daddy put
the tent up and Nicky got all excited because he thought it was like a house
but you can move it which was funny so I laughed a bit even though I was still
upset because I wanted to make Nicky and daddy happy. Then daddy started to
make the fire go crackly. He went to talk to mummy for a bit and I heard him
saying that he didn’t want me to help him make the fire go crackly. I went
angry again and I shouted at him and kicked the crackly fire at my mummy. I
think I might have really hurt her but I was really really angry, more angry
than anyone in the world. My daddy says it’s because I’m special but my mummy
says it’s all her fault. I think she thinks that there is something wrong with
me and that’s not fair because she thinks Nicky is perfect and she loves Nicky
but she doesn’t love me and that makes me angry but not more angry than anyone
in the world because that just happens when I’m angry and I don’t know what to
do and then I end up like that guy in that comic book who goes green, except I don’t
go green or get biggerer or anything I just go more angrier and my mummy shouts
at me and daddy is really nice to me which is good because it means he loves me
and he understands. Mummy wants me to go to the doctor but I don’t like doctors
because they stick those pointy things in you and pretend to be nice and
helpful when really they just enjoy making you be hurt and miserable and make
you cry which is mean like my mummy is, even though daddy says mummy isn’t mean
and that she doesn’t understand like he does but I don’t think that’s true
because if she just didn’t understand then she would ask daddy like I always do
and like Nicky always does.
See. My mummy doesn’t love me. She hates me
and she doesn’t understand and mummies are supposed to love you but mine doesn’t
so there. That’s what makes me angrier than anyone in the world.
This is very powerful! Gave me chills, as I’ve know kiddos like this. I like the stream of consciousness feel to it, and you maintain the child’s perspective very well.
So interesting to see how this character defines love and happiness and how she sees the dynamics in her family life.
Thankyou everyone!
When I asked Mommy where the cows go,
she said they go to New Egypt. I don’t know where that is, but I
think it might be heaven because they never come back. Not even
Georgine. She was just gone one day while I was at school, and they
said New Egypt. Georgine was orange and white, and she had babies
named George and Georgette. Once I looked down the ladder hole in
the barn, and I saw the man in the white coat put his arm inside
Georgine, and then way later there was George born. I tried to watch
again, when I saw the man come, but Daddy sent me to the house to
play with my Barbies. They acted like I did something wrong, but
nobody said what. I’m allowed to watch when they get the cows’
hooves clipped and when they brush the cows, so I don’t know what the
big deal is.
I miss our pig, Mr. Fudd, too. He
didn’t go to New Egypt. My big brothers made him into bacon one day,
and when I got home from school, they had Mr. Fudd’s head on top of
the wood pile. Just his head. His pen was empty and all muddy where
he used to walk and poop and eat. Mommy got real mad at them, but
they’re too big to really be in trouble. I liked how he oinked and I
fed him apple peels when Mommy made a pie. But she didn’t want me to
scratch his ears and give him a name.
She kept saying, “Don’t get too
attached.”
Now there are more white packages in
the big freezer, and when Mommy sends me to get one for dinner, it’s
marked with a “G” or an “F.”
Once we had a lamb named Sam, and I was
allowed to name him and take care of him so I could get sponsibility.
But then Mommy and Daddy said he was too much work, and I was
playing with him too much, and he had to go away, but he didn’t go to
New Egypt either. I miss him too, but I wouldn’t like to see his
head on a wood pile either.
classic – you really got in touch with your inner child there, love how thing disappear to Egypt.
The white packages in the freezer, the head on the wood pile… wow, those images hit me. Funny how the mother says not to get attached, and yet it seems that she labels the packages in the freezer by the animals’ names 🙂
Yes, I should have clarified why the packages were labeled. For instance, George was more tender than Georgette. When I was old enough to figure it out, they just gave up and used the full names. Did I mention I was a vegetarian for a long time?
I want to be a cowboy when I grow up. I can see Dad from the top of my castle and I want to be like him. He’s super cool. My horse, Woody, he’s Dad’s horse too and some times I get to ride him. I can’t right now, because Dad is riding him. Dad gets to do all the cool stuff.
Some times when Brian is at school and I don’t have anyone to play tag with, I climb the fig tree in the backyard and pretend that I’m a cowboy on the open range. I’ve been tree’d by coyotes and the only way to get out alive? Dad! I call to him from the fig tree, “The coyotes are back! There’s a whole pack of ’em!”
He’s taking the saddle off Woody and shakes his head. Just like Woody does when flies are bugging him.
“Oh no! They’re climbing the tree! It’s all over!” I kick at the coyotes, but they’re stubborn. This is definitely the end.
Dad leaves the saddle on the fence and Woody trots away. He and Snickers run around the back field before they forget about each other and start to eat grass. Dad walks up to the tree, pretending to push through the coyote pack.
“It’s lunch time, kid. Let’s go,” he says as he extends his arms up to me.
I stare at him, all big-eyes. “The coyotes…they’re eating your legs!”
Dad looks down and makes some kicking motions. He shakes a leg like Boo does after he pees in the yard. It’s no use, though, ’cause the coyote on his leg is stuck there for good. He’s gonna have to chop it. I tell him so and Dad frowns.
“Chop it? How am I gonna carry you inside with one leg?” His hands are still held out to me. A real “come on let’s go” look in his eyes.
“Hop!” I say and jump down into his arms.
We both fall onto the ground and the pack circles us. “Oh no! Go! Go!” I yell.
Dad rolls over and I crawl onto his back. He shimmies through the grass like a worm. I tuck my head between his shoulder blades. This isn’t looking good. We’re definitely done for. Unless I save the day!
I pull my pistols from their holsters. Pew! Pew! The coyotes run away scared. I did it! I saved us both!
“What? You had your pistols this whole time? You let them eat my leg!” Dad rolls over and wrestles with me.
I crawl out from under him and run for the sliding glass door. “The tree was afraid of guns!” I shout.
Dad’s bigger than me and he catches me quick, scooping me up into his arms. I swing around onto his shoulders and he cups his hands under me like a seat. Mom looks at us and sighs.
“You two are a mess,” she says.
“Coyotes again,” I say.
She shakes her head. “Damn mongrels…” she says.
love it, great use of dialogue and what a great Dad!
Thanks for the kind words June!
You’re welcome and thanks for the blog visit too.
I really like the willingness of the Dad to buy into the imaginative play. You make it easy to picture the scene and the relationship between father and son.
Thanks Plumjoppa!
I love this – it’s cute without becoming too sentimental. I think it’s because you as the reader can see the dad’s reluctance at first, even if the child can’t (for example, “shakes his head.. just like Woody does when flies are bugging him”). The dialogue, especially at the end, worked really well.
Thanks Melissa, that’s exactly what I was going for! 🙂
First Day – August, 1975
I can go to school now!!
I turned five in March, but the people said I can’t start yet because I was four when school started.
It isn’t fair.
I kept asking “Mommy can I go today?”
She kept saying not yet.
My mommy teaches at my school.
I get on the “No. 7” bus with my Grandma.
I ride the bus with her a lot.
This time, we go downtown and have to ride a different bus.
We have to wait outside the Scotty’s Drug Store with the pointy triangles on window edge so you can’t sit on it.
I like the “No. 7” bus stop at May Cohens.
You can sit on the windows there.
The pigeons poop on the sidewalk and people drop chewing gum.
I don’t like standing on poop and gum.
We wait a long time, so I tell my Grandma what the signs say.
People tell me I’m smart.
I can read a lot of things.
I still don’t know what “keep off the pig” means, nobody will tell me, but somebody painted it on the wall behind the grocery store, I see it on the way home with my Grandma.
The “No. 3” bus is here, so we get on.
It smells different.
It smells kinda sweet but stinky.
Kinda like oatmeal, but I don’t see any oatmeal.
It also smells like the bread store.
The “No. 3” bus doesn’t get close to my school so we have to walk the rest of the way.
My Grandma says there is a Skinner’s Dairy up the road, and she will get me a popsicle if I’m good.
I’m good and I get a red one.
I like red. I don’t like grape. I don’t like orange.
I only like red ones.
I walk into the room at school and meet my new kindergarten teacher and the other kids.
The teacher puts masking tape on our shirts and writes numbers on them: [1-2-3-4-5].
She won’t tell us why, and says we have to keep them on our shirts all day.
My mom brought me with her to school when no kids were there, just teachers.
This time I get to see how school is with other kids!
We count with counter chips, play Candyland, and color with crayons.
Miss Mulligan gives us blue worksheets like my mom brings home to me.
My mom and my teacher have a machine that makes worksheets.
I’ve watched my mom writing on the blue paper I’m not allowed to touch because it’s messy.
The paper goes in the roller and then it goes round and round and smells like kerosine.
The worksheets come out the side.
I made a friend, Katie.
We play with the play kitchen.
I never had a play kitchen before.
The teacher said to the class to sit down, but Katie doesn’t move, so I stay with my friend.
Miss Mulligan walks over and says to sit down and then puts marker X’s on the numbers 1 and 2 on the tape.
I think she is mad at me and not Katie, then she marks Katie’s numbers out too.
We have milk and cookies for lunch.
They are peanut butter cookies and we all get white milk except for Aaron, he gets chocolate milk.
I ask Miss Mulligan why, and she says Aaron is allergic to white milk.
That doesn’t make sense to me, because my Grandma makes chocolate milk from white milk and chocolate syrup.
We don’t get to play again.
The other kids’ parents come.
I have to wait in class until the third bell because my mom teaches the third graders and they don’t get out for two more bells.
My mom comes in to get me and she sees the tape with my numbers marked out.
She says that she wants me to be better tomorrow and to see all five numbers on my shirt.
I start to cry because I didn’t do good my first day. Miss Mulligan says I was good, but I need to follow her, not another student.
I understand.
Follow the teacher, not the leader.
Nice original details in this, especially the smell on the number 3 bus. You paint a clear picture of being “schooled.”
Ageism starts young… I love the fact that we can understand what the signs mean when your inner young child might not, always an interesting way to deal with a story and creates good dramatic irony. My son is hanging out to join a cricket team and keeps having to wait because of the age thing.
The process of making worksheets, the description of the bus stops, the numbers on the shirt, the chocolate milk – great job showing these details through a child’s perspective. These parts would probably be described very differently through an adult’s eyes.
I really liked this! It was fun to read it with the same enthusiasm and outburst that a child would provide with all these thoughts, that’s a lot to keep so organized! Well done, great descriptions and observations. Most definately a fun read!
It’s a fun afternoon out on the East Devonport Streets.
We have all been taking turns to pretend we are in Doctor Who’s Tardis, actually it’s an old cupboard we have found on the street, but we have imagined it new. Everyone pops in and out and all seems safe and fun. I love watching Doctor Who, being terrified by it, and hiding behind the couch when the monsters become too much. Butterflies in my tummy are what makes life so interesting. I’d rather that than be bored.
When people come out we pretend to be monsters chasing the Doctor and sometimes his companions. Some of us are great actors.
We see how many people fit into the old cupboard.
We play chases.
But now on my turn to be the Doctor someone has decided to lock the door. My assistant has not followed me. It’s dark in here. I am banging on the door. I am afraid I won’t be able to breathe. All I can hear are giggles and whispers. It is all too real.
‘Let me out, Let me out,’ my desperation is making them laugh even more. I begin to sob. I bang on the doors. Their noise dies down and lots of them sound like they are running away.
One brave, break away kid, opens it up, and then he too runs away. I don’t see his face.
I jump out of the cupboard. I have moved forward in time. Now there are no neighbourhood friends, only hot tears streaming down my face and a breath of fresh air to bask in.
http://pearlz.wordpress.com/2012/10/08/tardis-trap/
I love the comparison of time travel in the imaginary Doctor Who scenario with the change in how the narrator perceives their friends.
Thanks Jeff – I appreciate the feedback, writing tapping into the inner child without editing brings up some interesting ideas. Glad to be back at it again.
My favorite lines: “Butterflies in my tummy are what makes life interesting.” and “It is all too real.” Nice transition between fun and not-so-fun, between play and reality.
Thanks Melissa it’s always good to find some memorable lines especially in a non edited free form write.
I keep hearing that it’s a good practice to not edit as we go…but I don’t understand the reasoning behind this. Can someone help me understand the benefits of this? I feel like continuing to write with tons of errors in my wake is like trying to concentrate in a cluttered room–I can’t do it. I have to resolve problems as I go or nothing else feels free to escape. Help?
Hi Jenna. That’s a great question. It’s certainly a personal preference, but the main reason not to edit is that editing actually uses a different part of your brain than writing. To get the most unique, creative ideas, you don’t want to censure yourself. You want to let things flow. To let the words surprise you.
That being said, I edit quite a bit as I write and still find myself surprised by what comes out of it. I do think I would be a faster writer if I didn’t self-edit as I went, though.
Thanks so much for explaining that. Knowing that creating and editing are functions that access different parts of the brain really helps clear it up for me. I see what you mean, too, about wanting to be a faster writer…and yet, I would much rather sacrifice speed for the sake of allowing my readers to see fewer errors. Personal preference, like you said : ). Something to think about though, to help improve my creativity! Thanks!
Nice explanation, Joe. I also edit a lot as I write, so it’s a challenge for me to let go and not self-edit along the way. I don’t really see anything wrong with proofreading–or even editing–afterwards. The important thing, at least in my opinion, is that initial idea or draft. Get it all down on paper and THEN put on your “editing” hat 🙂
Same here. I tried, I did type without checking or correcting, but I HAD to proofread. I use an iPad, and touch screens and arthritic fingers tend to produce some gobbely-gook that I have a hard time deciphering (and I wrote it), even now, using a bluetooth keyboard. It’s easier, but I can barely see the type (font size too small), but I do clearly see red error lines underneath many words.
I must check, I must proofread.
Doesn’t it drive you nuts when you purchase an ebook with errors?!?
Me too.
It seemed like a good idea when we all crawled into the laundry shoot to spill out at the unsuspecting college students as they arrived for lunch.
But then I watched my baby cousin tumble to the floor with underwear on his his. The students screamed. My big sister followed to the floor wrapped in Papa’s work shirt. Yet I’m still here buried beneath Papa’s undershirts and Mama’s pants. The college students await my arrival. I hear them wondering about my hidden location. I stick out my feet, further wedging myself in here.
No, I’m not tumbling to their feet to be greeted by their laughter, screams, and cheers. I’d rather disappear here in the dirty laundry. When they all sit down to eat, I’ll crawl back out the top. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. I don’t give in to the peer pressure to make an entrance. Whose idea was this anyway?
Doesn’t it always “seem like a good idea” at the time? 🙂 I was curious about the students’ reaction to the big sister. And one small question – is it shoot or chute? I like how you end with the question – relates well to the start and brings the piece full circle.
Chute, I guess. I never thought about that before.
Based on the real event, the students (aka me and two friends) were already counting children by the time the big sister came out. We kept waiting for the third but he never came 😉
-“Are we
there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet?”
-“No, five
minutes”.
-“Mom! Mom,
listen! GOBBLE, GOBBLE, GOBBLE!” was the intention in my impression of a
turkey, done by pinching the loose skin on my neck, shaking it to distort the
attempt of words being partially giggled
out of my mouth.
On our way
to Thanksgiving dinner, we got to stop at the playground on the way to my
Grandparents house. My mom said it was to help “kill some energy”. I was a bit
confused of this because she looked pretty tired but still, I was happy to go.
The car ride from the park was a short one to my Grandparents house with more
than enough time to remind my mom about my excitement in the conquering of
planets and how no one could fly faster in the Universe ever. She made a
comment about how I was supposed to kill energy, not bank it as we pulled into
the driveway. She turned around to give me that soft smile she does so well. It
strives after a long deep breath, almost a yawn but intentionally interrupted
with a grin. I was reminded of where we were and how I was hoped to behave. We
hopped out of the car, marched up the driveway and pressed the doorbell now
that I could reach it more than well. During the brief wait, I yanked and
pulled at my vest, tugging at the tag tickling my neck that was protruding from
the scratchy wool vest purchased earlier this week for dinner. Mom promised she
would help me take off the tag inside if I stopped.
The door
opened and from there I would proceed as promised to remove my muddy shoes and
rain soaked coat on the tiled area. I managed to do this with making only one
footprint on the very edge of the carpet. From there, I found the food faster
than my uncle found the booze cabinet. How anybody could expect chocolate, pie
and cookies to be the objection of my patience was beyond me, but still, I
tucked my hands into my pockets and with self control I managed to only allow
myself two cookies instead of ten. ‘Cat-burglar out’ I thought to myself and
snuck my way along the hall to a safe place to enjoy my temptations. Yum!
After the
big dinner, I was lured into the kitchen with the promise of even more sugar by
a witch of a lady known as my great aunt. She was an unproportional old timer with
a large hunch on her back, a cricket caught in her throat and a hunger for
children like me- which was confirmed by her pinching of my cheeks and eventual
confessing of how she could “just gobble me up”. She kept to her sweet promise
though and I was released with no harm then but large serving of pie that could
be considered anything but humble. After long enough to grow bored and now stuffed
even fuller than the turkey served earlier, mom noticed my tired eyes from
across the living room. She took a stand and took my hand. One hand through the
sleeve before the next, my zipper got zipped and my laces tied. The door opened
up and my mom picked me up. Cat-burglar out I thought, time for a cat nap. I was told I didn’t even make it to the
car, best Thanksgiving so far.
It’s humorous how the child pushes the boundaries – only one footprint, only two cookies instead of ten. Seeing this Thanksgiving from the mother’s perspective would likely be a very different story! Thanks for sharing.
Thank you Melissa, it was my first post and I thought the topic was a good one to give it a go! This was fun practice.
Thank you Melissa, it was my first post and I thought the topic was a good one to give it a go! This was fun practice.
Not as young as the others here, but still a child…
Boiled chicken. My
favorite food- not. And yet, every
Friday night this is what I have to eat.
Yuck! Don’t get me wrong, my mom
is a really good cook. All week long I
enjoy her meals, well, except for the dinosaur legs, but she doesn’t prepare
them too often. Even Fridays, the rest
of the meal is fine: I love my mom’s gefilte
fish, I love her chicken soup, I love the potato side, I can take or leave
(usually leave) my father’s old-country- style cucumber salad but the boiled
chicken? No way.
I’ve tried, honest.
The problem is, one look at its pale white skin is enough to do me
in. I’ve tried smothering it with
ketchup, mustard- you name it, and yet I can always feel it sticking in my
throat. I’ve tried washing it down with
water, orange juice, coke, that doesn’t help either.
Every Friday night, we go through the same routine:
My mom serves me. I
eat the potatoes, I eat the vegetables, I play around with my drumstick, moving
it from side to side on my plate.
“Eat your chicken!” my mom insists.
“Mommeeee, why do I have to eat boiled chicken? I hate it!” I whine.
“Riki, you say “I don’t like, you don’t say hate
about food,” my mom replies.
“You’re right,” I mutter. “I don’t like it AND I hate it!”
“Riki!” My father sounds his warning voice.
“What’s not to like?” my mom tries to reason with
me. “You liked the soup I made from
it.”
“Maybe I just don’t like re-used chicken.”
“Riki, chicken is chicken is chicken.” I can hear my mom getting exasperated, but
that awful, pale chicken is still staring at me. I have to get the last word in.
“Except when it’s boiled, then it’s awful boiled
chicken.”
My mother’s voice softens, her eyes cloud over. “If you
only knew how lucky you were that you always have good food on the table for
you to eat.”
I hear the whisper, it shouts in my ears as it echoes louder
and louder before it stills. Now I get
to feel guilty as well. That line has
been clear to me and full of meaning since I was a baby, as clear as the seltzer
on the table, each bursting bubble bringing with it another blast of guilt. I hear my father’s voice in my head, my
great-aunt’s voice, ‘How can you talk that way to your mother? Don’t you know she’s been through
enough? Don’t you know she’s been
through The Camps? Don’t you know she’s
been through Auschwitz?’ They never say
that in front of my mother, but their eyes staring at me sadly at the table are
enough. I know I’ll hear it again
later.
I shut my mouth grimly and attack
my chicken, sneaking a glance at my brother who’s quietly smirking, glad that I’m
once again in the hot seat. I turn my
head and stick my tongue out at him just a little so my parents won’t see. I turn back to glare at my mom, whom I love the
rest of the week, and I cut my chicken into small, itsy-bitsy pieces. Maybe if it’s small enough, I won’t really
taste it. Then I chew and chew and chew
and swallow it down with a cup of Coke, trying to drown every last piece. Eventually, my drumstick is finished.
If I’m lucky, the main is followed by fruit of some
sort. If I’m unlucky, out comes the jell-o,
vibrating on its plate. I wonder if my
mom serves the slimy thing after boiled chicken to help whatever chicken that is
still stuck in the gullet slide further down into the intestines. But luckily, I’m allowed to skip dessert.
Thank you, God, another Friday night meal, over! I make my escape from the table, grab the
book that I took out of the library that afternoon and escape to another world, a world without boiled chicken.
This routine continues until my baby brother arrives and
turns two.
I really like how you blend the humorous and serious tones in this.
Thanks! At the time it was always dramatic, but looking back I can definitely see the humor. And after my little brother was born the story got even funnier. We laugh about it a lot. And I NEVER serve boiled chicken.
it’s library time again. Mrs. Donnell is standing by the window with her arms crossed. She always crosses her arms over her breasts. Mum says I shouldn’t say that word, but I can’t see why I shouldn’t *think* it. It’s the right word—it’s what they use in all the books. And, of course, books are always right.
I don’t think Mrs. Donnell knows that. Yesterday she marked a word wrong in my Writing Book. I think it was ‘memorability’. It was a new word—I had just read it. I showed her the book, but she still said it was wrong. But Kim says not to listen to Mrs. Donnell.
Kim knows everything. She’s almost as right as books are. I wish she were at this school, but she’s too old (Kim says ‘too big’ is wrong grammar) to be in primary school. I still see her, though, every Thursday and Friday when Mum has to stay extra over at work. It’s to help pay the bills, you see, since Dad is pretty far away and not exactly on good terms with us any more and won’t pay them. I don’t mind. Kim is much nicer than Dad was. She won’t make me go outside and play football; she lets me sit in my room and we read together, and on the days when she’s happy she tells me how the actors declaim Shakespeare at the Theatre Club, and even on the days that she’s sad she doesn’t get mad, she just sits and reads and we share Oreos, and she wishes that her Mum was like the one in stories.
Kim’s Mum is downright horrible. My Mum’s told me that when I’m as old and as responsible as Kim is, she won’t tell me off abut little things ’cause I’ll be able to tell what’s right and wrong myself. She says I’ll have built my character by then. That’s what my Mum’s parenting books say—my Mum believes in books too, not in running around with a ball, like Dad did. Kim’s Mum apparently doesn’t think that. She doesn’t think Kim is good enough, or smart enough, or pretty enough, or *anything* enough. Her Mum’s a doctor. If you ask me, she must be an awful one if she’s so terrible to her own daughter. Kim doesn’t tell me anything, but on the day I asked her about bras and she showed me the back of hers and told me that I’ll get one when I’m old enough, I saw the marks. Kim doesn’t play sports, and nobody falls down enough to get so many marks left on them.
I used to think I had it bad, with Dad and his running and shouting and telling me to be a sportswoman, and some of the people at school thought it was really sad for me when Dad left. It wasn’t. It was good. It wasn’t pleasant while he was around, but I was little then. I don’t remember that much.
Kim has it worse. But even on the days when she’s still crying when she comes, she still smiles when she starts reading. She loves the books as much as I do, and even if there are stupid people like Mrs. Donnell, who thinks ‘perfectest’ isn’t a word even though Shakespeare uses it, and horrid people like Kim’s Mum who don’t read the parenting books, it’s still okay for us ’cause we believe in the books.
But I still wish Kim and I could live in them. Then we could talk about the perfectest memorability for ever and ever, and nobody would stop us.
Tap Into Your Inner Child!
http://youtu.be/GQ1XKr8xNhc