They fuck you up, your mum and dad.

Dutch is doing the library's Summer Reading program again. As you mark off reading accomplishments (determined by the parents), you get little prizes. They actually have some pretty good prizes to pick from, because there are a lot of coupons for local businesses. Dutch, however, always rejects the good options (a ticket to a kids' play! she would have loved that!) and picks a cheap plastic toy. (The volunteer manning the table today told me that the kids overwhelmingly pick the cheap plastic toys over the much more valuable coupons - instant gratification and whatnot.) Cook and I disapprove of this strongly, and she knows this. Today she picked a cheap plastic jump rope, and Cook and I were all disapproving about it. When she stepped on it and the handle detached from the rope about a block away from the library, she burst into tears. I fixed it for her, but after we'd subsequently browbeaten her for half a block about how you have to expect cheap plastic junk to break immediately, she said "I feel sick." I felt a little sick, too, because I realized that we, in our disapproval and our desire to teach her about making wise choices etc. had just totally sucked the joy out of her prize, and made her feel really crappy. We couldn't even let her have some pleasure in her cheap plastic.

I then demonstrated my own scintillating jump roping skills, and Cook pretended to be a monster and tried to eat her, and by the time we made our way home, she was cheerful again. But I expect we killed a tiny spark inside her. Sometimes we feed the sparks, but I think we probably kill more than we kindle. It deepens like a coastal shelf.