MyThreeDaughters

So, I was feeling pretty, pretty good. Fontaine, before she hit Heartbreak Hill around milemark 20 of kindergarten, she got picked to be one of a small group of kids who made a book from scratch. She named it, drew the pictures, wrote the story. The whole bit. So now when she’s a famous writer, her bio can read: “I wrote my first book at the age of five.”
It’s about a unicorn named Isabelle, which is cool, but here’s the point. In the “About the author” section, she dedicated it to “her daddy because he is always very nice to her.”
Is that fantastic or what? (I’m not always, by the way, sometimes I go totally Dadalistic and my face turns red and I turn into a, a, a guy who would never have a book dedicated to him. So I appreciate the look-away).
But a few of us at my job worked this metaphor for a while, that we were on a Ferris Wheel, so if you are getting a lot of praise (at the top of the ferris wheel), just hang on, you’ll soon be swinging back down to the bottom.
And it was, an hour or so ago, putting Elizabeth to bed.
“Want to know why I got so upset?” she asked.
(It wasn’t at the top of my list of queries…there’s upset-ness around here all the time and my main question is usually: When’s this going to end?)
“Yes, I do,” I said, instead of all that parenthesized stuff.
“Well,” she said, “I want <i>Mommy</i> to read me a book…and I always get youuuu.”
(Hey, that’s cool, I get that, but you don’t have to rhyme it with ewwwww.)
And down came the Ferris wheel.