Monday morning begins with the reluctant walk to school. My daughter drags her feet, complaining that she is ‘not feeling well’ and has a ‘cough’. This from an individual who 5 minutes previously was jumping off the couch and making airplane noises. I try to cajole her along, half commiserating, half nudging, assuring her that I, too, would rather be back in bed than on my way to work.
So I prod and cajole, and we slowly go past the house with the stone lions, up the hill with the cement wall, and then over the wooden train bridge.
Once she rounds the last corner and sees the other children gathering in the school yard, some deeply-seated social gene in her begins pumping adrenaline. She scans the crowd, spots a few friends, hollers some barked hellos, and is ready to head into the fray. She can barely take the time to say goodbye to me, planting a wet kiss before running off to her turf, her life, her friends.
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