My four year old daughter, N., though, can tell a good story.

As proof, I present to you her latest tale as dictated to me on Sunday night right before dinner.

Accompanied by compelling literary analysis and commentary in un-emphasized parenthetical italics by … me.  Because those who can’t do, critique.

Once upon a time, there was a pretty angel named Meera. And she flew.

But before she tried and tried, but it didn’t work and she knew why it wasn’t working.

Because she didn’t have wings even though she was an angel.

(But, why? Why doesn’t she have wings? We will never know. Sadly.)

And when she looked up she saw something swish in the sky.

When she saw something swish, she jumped high and it grabbed her hand.

It was a fairy.

(Of course it was. The mixture of religion and fantasy here clearly indicates a level of genius that is unfathomable to the naked eye.)

The angel was riding on the fairy, like a witch riding a broom. Like Captain Hook. And then the angel went into her house to have breakfast.

(Like. Captain. Hook?)

And then when she finished, her mother found her wings for her. She put them on her, and then she put sparkles on her wings and ever her dress.

(I have to note here that the word “ever” in this last sentence was highly emphasized. As in, “write EVER her dress, Mama. EVER.” And also? Of course, the angel doesn’t dress herself. OF COURSE.)

Then, she saw her dress and it had heart sparkles, pumpkin sparkles and a beautiful ruffle on the bottom just like my nightgown.

(So, she was going to Vegas to open for Celine Dion? Let it also be known that no such nightgown has ever been worn or brought into this home).

And then she jumped and flew with the angel and the fairy and the hawks and birds. And the crows.

And then she grew up like the angel and then she went and swinged on a pole.

(She?  Who’s she?  I thought we were talking about the angel, so who are we talking about now?  And swinging on a pole?  IS YOUR NAANI LETTING YOU WATCH MTV WHEN YOU STAY AT HER PLACE?!!)

And then she saw a spike plant and she cut all the spiky thorns off and she went on the plant bridge and she walked on the plant bridge. And she jumped and got tired.

(I’m sorry, but if I were an editor, the above part would be cut because it totally ruins the flow. Do not doubt that it took every ounce of self control I had not to say this to my child.)

She built a house inside a ceiling fan and she went inside. And she picked a flower from her garden and she smelled it.

(So the house in the ceiling fan has a garden.   Are you sure that’s not just mold, honey…)

Then, she got married and she went to the hospital and a baby came out and the angel named her Era.

(Long live patriarchy and gender stereotypes.)

The end.

Anyway.

Back in January, we went to Savannah, which many of you may know is a very “artsy” place.  While we were there, we took the kids (yes, even the infant) to the Jepson Center.  In our defense, they have a great little kid’s section that does a wonderful job of illustrating not only the mechanics of art, but its relevance in our every day lives.

N. and I have great conversations on these little museum trips.  Like, the following:

“Hey, N., look at this one, this is by an artist from France.”

“What’s France?”

“A country.”

“What’s a country?”

“A place where people who speak the same language, eat the same kinds of food and wear the same kinds of clothes live together.”

“So.  America is not a country.”

“No, America is a country.  Actually, it’s the United States of…”

“But people dress different from each other here.  And they eat different foods.  And they look different,”

“Yeah, well, America is kind of special like that.”

“Oh, we’re better because we’re special.”

This is the point in the conversation where I flash forward twenty years and see my daughter holding up a poster with the words, “If you don’t love America, get the hell out” MINUS the sense of irony.

“Um, no…”

“Oh, we’re worse than France…”

“NO WAY… we’re just…”

“Where is France, Mama?”

“In Europe.”

“What’s Europe?”

“A continent.”

“What’s a continent?”

This is the point in the conversation where other patrons of the museum start staring at me.

“A continent is a big piece of land that different countries are a part of… like, we live in North America.”

“Oh, they named the continent after us.”

“Um.  Yes.  No.  Wait… I don’t know…”

“DID THEY NAME THE CONTINENT AFTER US OR NOT?”

“I DON’T KNOW.”

This is the point in the conversation where the other patrons of the museum start laughing at me.

“Who made continents?”

“Well, Allah made continents.”

“Why?”

“Because, you know, he could… and, I guess, so people could live on them, so, um, we would have a place to live.”

This is a place in the conversation where I foolishly assume that I have (a) dodged a major bullet and (b) ended the conversation.

“Why did he want people to live on them?”

“So, we could follow his plan, you know, so we could do things like take care of each other and …”

“What did he make the continents out of?”

“Rocks…”

“How did he make the rocks stick together?”

This is the point in the conversation where the other patrons start pitying me.

“I…uh, that’s a great question… we should ask….”

“He used Play-Doh.”

“No, I don’t think…”

“Yes… YES!  He used Play-Doh.  Brown play-doh, so we couldn’t see it.”

“N., I don’t think God used Play-Doh to stick rocks together to make continents.”

“Yes, he did.  I was there.”

“Oh, you were there?  Really?”  I say this with way more sarcasm than is appropriate when addressing a four year old.

“Yes, it was before you were born,”

“I was born before you.”

“It was when I was up in heaven, you weren’t there, I saw him use Play Doh to stick the rocks together…”

“Come on, honey, you didn’t…”

“I WAS THERE, IT WAS BEFORE YOU WERE BORN, I SAW HIM DO IT.”

This is the point in the conversation where the other patrons begin handing me cards with the names of psychiatrists on them.  Or affirming their belief that those people from over there are just born extremists, aren’t they…

“Okay, fine.  Look this painting is of a flower.”

“What’s a flower…”

This is the point in the conversation where I wish I had just taken her to the Magic Kingdom instead.

In the meantime, though, I found something for your viewing pleasure.

Some thoughts regarding what you’re about to see:

1. The kid is Japanese.  He’s four or five.  He can’t speak English. Don’t you dare make fun of him for that. Unless you spoke English AND Japanese fluently by the time you were five. Then, you know, have at it.

2. I need therapy.  Because when I saw this, I thought to myself, “Whatever, what’s the big deal, anyway?”  And, then, I sat around contemplating over whether I knew anyone who could teach my kid to play the ukelele.

3. If you’re reading this post through Facebook, you have to go to my original post to see the video. Sigh. I’m getting tired of saying that.

(P.S. Thanks to K.F. for bringing this to my attention on Facebook.)

If one of us brought home an A, that wasn’t good enough.  It had to be the highest A.  The best.  Some of us coped with this by graduating Summa Cum Laude from grad school, becoming a cardiologist or by dropping out of Theater school and never holding a “real” job (ahem).

Anyway, I want my kids to know that I don’t expect perfect.  I just expect their personal best.  And, yeah, sure, I understand that it’ll take us all time to gauge what their best really is.

This is firmly resolved, however: I will not be like my parents.

No way.  I love my parents, but I’m going to give my kids room to breathe, to grow… and in the end, they will love me for it.  Or else.

So, I have this song that I sing with my daughter, N., every night while she’s brushing her teeth.  It goes like this (and FYI, I didn’t make it up):

I’m not perfect

No, I’m not.

I’m not perfect

But I’ve got what I’ve got

And I do my very best

I do my very best

I do my very best each daaay

But I’m not perfect

And I hope you like me that way

I know, I know.  I am the most wonderful parent ever.  I mean, already teaching my four year old that she doesn’t have to be perfect and that her best is good enough?

That is evolved, people.

Last night, however, a hiccup occurred in my great plan to lead my child down the glowing path of enlightenment.

“Mommy, I’m not perfect?”

“No, honey, nobody is perfect.”

“But you told me I’m the perfect daughter.”

Damn.  I did say that a few days ago.  Think… think…

“You are the perfect daughter.  For me.  Plus, the perfect daughter can make mistakes, you know.”

Ha! I.  Am.  A.  Genius.

But, wait, I still blow it by saying…

“After all, do you think I’m perfect?”

OK.  Call me an idiot, but I really thought she was going to say “Yes, Mommy, I do.” And then I was going to get all evolved and say, “But, no, I’m not.” And then I’d proceed to point out all the MINOR mistakes I’d recently made thereby showing her how self aware her mother is.  Double letter score!

But no.  No, sadly she did not say what I thought she was going to say.

“No, Mommy, I don’t think you’re the perfect mom.”

And that’s just how she said it.  With emphasis on “you’re”.  She said it like… well, like, somewhere in her little four year old brain she knows of a perfect mom and that I am not it.

My mind races.  Who could this person be?!  What kind of permissive, irresponsible person could she possibly be talking about?!

Be real, if a four year old thinks you’re the perfect mom, you’ve got problems, right?  RIGHT? I’m over here making the tough decisions and someone else is messing it up for me by letting their kid stay up all night and call in sick to school so they can watch TV all day and THEY get to be the perfect mom?!  FOUL!! MAJOR FOUL!

I had to know.  I needed to know.  So, I sucked in a deep calming breath and asked, “OK.  Well, who do you think the perfect mom is?”

So I can put a hit out on them.

She looked right into my eyes and stated matter of factly, “Naani.”

Naani, ladies and gentlemen, is my mother.

And don’t you dare tell her about this.

This peculiar little daisy, whose name was Upsy, lived in a bed of roses.

The flowers to her right and to the left and even behind her had dark, tough stalks and velvety petals.  Petals of red, pink, yellow and even some pretty oranges enveloped Upsy’s life.

These were the kind of colors that made you think of love, passion, and heartache.

Upsy, on the other hand, had a soft stem and bright white cottony petals that would bend and shiver when the wind blew too hard.  If you were to look at Upsy, you would only feel what most people feel when they look at a daisy: very happy.

And because she was a daisy, Upsy was very happy.  Mostly.

You see, since most daisies live in fields or gardens surrounded by other daisies, they are always thinking happy daisy thoughts and living happy daisy lives.  And because of this, most daisies never think the thoughts that Upsy thought.  But Upsy was special because she was a lone daisy in a bed of roses.

Sometimes, when the day waned, and the pinks, reds and oranges of the roses blended with the colors of the evening sun, Upsy would notice the white of her petals, the brightness of her face and the green of her stem.

She would wonder why she was different than all the flowers she had ever known.

She would wonder why the sky was blue and why the grass was green.

She would look at the House where The People lived and wonder what was inside.

She wondered quite a bit while the roses slept and since the roses never seemed to care about any of these things, Upsy would feel a little lonely when she wondered.  Yet wonder she did.

Still, Upsy was loved.

The roses around Upsy would whisper softly to her, We love you Upsy, you are our special daisy, we are so happy to have you here. This made Upsy feel happy and special.  In fact, she felt happier than most daisies ever feel because feeling special can make you very happy.

But many of you know that even feeling special will not make a daisy stop wondering when roses are asleep.

One day, Upsy heard a voice, “Since it’s my tea party,” a tinkling voice said, “I want to make the flower arrangement.”

Upsy was excited.  She knew this pretty dark eyed girl, she was one of The People.  If this girl took her into the House, Upsy might find out about what was inside, what made the grass green, or even why the sky was blue.

With all the might that any daisy has ever mustered, Upsy leaned forward eagerly, towards what she hoped would be answers and to what she knew was sure to be an adventure.

What are you doing, some of the roses whispered excitedly.  Don’t lean forward so much, she’ll pick you.

I want her to pick me.  I want to go, Upsy chirped.

Some of the roses were angry and thought Upsy was being silly.  Others thought that this must be some strange thing that daisies do and just watched.

Ignoring them all, Upsy leaned as much as she could.  And it worked.  The little girl’s dark eyes fell right on her.

“This one.  Only this one”  She said gently.

“Are you sure you want just the daisy,” the older woman asked, “it doesn’t really match the table setting, and I’m not sure it will fill the vase…”

“Yes, I’m sure,” her voice stated resolutely as she clasped Upsy’s stem and tugged gently.

Then, Upsy felt the most curious thing happen.

Some of the roses who were angry with Upsy for wanting to leave clawed with their thorns in an attempt to keep her with them, Why aren’t you staying, they said, why don’t you like us?

But the ones who really loved her, the ones who wanted her to be happy more than anything, pushed her some more and they whispered, We never wondered about those things because maybe they are simply the things that daisies wonder about, but go and find your answers … we trust you… we love you…

Those words made Upsy feel brave, so she pushed away from the ground as hard as she could.

Upsy quickly told the angry roses that she did like them, more than that she loved them, but she wanted to know, she needed to know why the sky was blue, why the grass was green and what exactly was inside that house.

Some of the angry roses stopped pulling and said they understood, others just gave up and a stubborn few continued to  pull.

But by that time, any pulling was simply too late, for even if Upsy had wanted to stay, she had already leaned forward towards the girl and the girl had already chosen her.

So, Upsy, clasped tightly in the hands of a pretty little dark eyed girl bounced away from her bed of roses towards new adventures and maybe even some answers.  And while she felt a little sad for the home she left behind, she knew that this felt right, too.

She felt happy and proud.

Proud because when her chance came, she had leaned forward.

Eagerly.