When looking through your child's end-of-school-year papers and yearbooks you wouldn't be surprised to find that her contribution to the "Poetry Jam" project was titled "The End". Ah... so poetic, so romantic, so 13 years old. Then you read the poem and it involves black smoke... and a knife... and blood.
Um.
You double check that the name on the paper is indeed your child's and not the brooding boy that talks of bombs and death on every field trip. Yes. It's your child's name.
This was so-o-o-o not on my radar. Where's the poem about missing her teachers and growing up, passing on to the next grade? Where's the poem regarding the pain and devastation of not being able to see her secret crush every day through peek-holes in her binder?
Black smoke? Knife? Blood?!?
I miss days of Dora the Explorer.
Um.
You double check that the name on the paper is indeed your child's and not the brooding boy that talks of bombs and death on every field trip. Yes. It's your child's name.
This was so-o-o-o not on my radar. Where's the poem about missing her teachers and growing up, passing on to the next grade? Where's the poem regarding the pain and devastation of not being able to see her secret crush every day through peek-holes in her binder?
Black smoke? Knife? Blood?!?
I miss days of Dora the Explorer.