Just back from an exciting night – an event called “Grown-ups Read Stuff They Wrote as Kids.” Apparently, this is the 11th such night, in which several hundred people gather to laugh at their own young selves and each other. I’d heard about them but had been unable to attend because they were always on Mondays, when I teach. But my Monday class ended last week, so a few months ago, when I heard about this date, I signed up immediately. It is what it says – adults reading their childhood writings, from sentience to age 18.
“I love him, I love him, I love him,” my heart sang as I washed the dishes, polished the floor and made the beds.
“He is the sweetest man on earth,” I repeated as I folded his clothes, washed his socks and tidied his papers.
Work goes fast that way, when one’s whole person is singing with love.