When she was a preschooler, the top ten tunes boomed in the car. She was bopping along in the back. When she figured out the words, they were flowing off her tongue, adult lyrics, not intended for baby ears. But she had the rhythm and the spunk.
As a baby, she’d sit for hours on daddy’s lap perusing political analysis sites pre-American presidential election. He thought she was interested in a political career. She was just happy as a lark being with daddy. Little birdy just wants to be fed attention, no special form of worms, just attention.
She’d rather not sit down to do anything. She likes to read, but don’t tell her when. She likes chess, Stratego and logic games, but make it a study subject and she doesn’t want to have anything to do with it. Ask her to paint a picture, she’ll make abstract lines and geometrical shapes, with happy colours, but no painted rainbows for her.
When I asked her to go coordinate her outfit: it was a an orange shirt and fuschia skirt, she cocked her head: do you mean make them the same colour? She declared that that approach wasn’t fashionable, and she wanted to be her own person, her own style. Who knew I was doing it wrong all these years! Free-spirited, that’s who she is.