These little typewriters travel all over - both inside the house, and these days - outside too. I hear the click-clack-click-clack-ding! of the keys, as my boys rapidly work their one finger to say just what they want. Sometimes they sit side-by-side to compose their words, and other times, I find them like this...tucked away in a quiet corner, dreaming up something.
In their wake, are the piles (and piles) of paper I find behind them. "My Favorite Songs," "Why My Brother Stinks," "The Arawak's and Christopher Columbus," "Music for Mama and Papa to Preview," "Another Boxcar Children Adventure," song lyrics, secret codes, complete stories, partially-complete stories, and future plans. They're passionate about their typing, and their in-progress work, but after that, these little pieces of paper are paid no attention. That's okay - I'll take that as my job, as documenter of our homeschooled lives, as keeper of the everyday treasures. Deciphering what they might want to keep working on, what might be recycled, and what treasures I might just want to tuck away for later. When you're eight, or ten, or thirty four for that matter, time passes and things change so quickly. Though we never think it possible, it may only be two months from now that I've forgotten who might have been the latest obsession - the musician/historymaker/poet/baseball player that the conversation always steers back to, all day long. I love these little documents for the momentary reminders that they are of all of that. Sometimes they make me cry, feel proud...or, in the following case, just plain make me giggle.
Ezra said I could share this one I found yesterday.
When I Grow Up!
by Ezra S. Soule
state: new york
city: new york city
apartment: yes.
people i'd like to live with: lil' wayne, simon {his best friend}, my girlfriend
top baby names: boy - nichole, girl - courtney
occupation: rapper/actor
bodyguard (if I'll need one): simon
instrument: my microphone
motorcycle? yes.
what kind? harley davidson
eat organic? yes.
phone: ipod touch.
Everyday daydreams from my eight-year old, from under the pine tree, at the edge of the pasture, on a warm summer's afternoon.
