By Leslie Lindsay
I love books. Reading them, thinking about them, sniffing them (yes, really), and writing them. (Or thinking about writing them). Not that I am a bestseller, or anything. I am not. I am just working on my first non-fiction book and I do have a novel-in-progress, but I still don’t really identify with being an author just yet.
So, just moments ago my very precocious 4-year old just yelled down to my office, “Hey mom! I got your books for you from the mail!” A smirk grew across my face. I had just ordered a couple of titles last week from Amazon. Had they arrived already? I hopped out of my seat and ran to greet my little cherub, proud as could be at the bottom of the stairs.
“Mom the mail lady came to our door and gave me a box. I opened it up with kid scissors. Here are your books,” as she proudly presented me with the brand-spanking-new books, their spines not even creased.
I hugged her and asked a little more about it, concerned she was opening the door for a stranger, etc. “I think the boy delivery person had the day off. She seemed nice,” she shrugged. (Okay, we need to have a looong talk about that later).
Then I looked around for the workbook I had ordered by 1st grader, “Oh, it’s in here. I already put it away,” she chirpped as she pointed to the cabinet.
So, I guess what I am trying to say is, #1 this kid is precocious with a capital P, #2 I love books, #2 1/2 she knows I love books–and that is not such a bad thing. Hugs to to the 4-year old today!
Now for writing that book….hummmm….better get to it!
