Perspective

One time my mom didn't kill me (and probably wished she could have) was the first time I remember my creativity getting the best of me. I was probably four or five years old, and decided to cut the grass. 

I went outside, sitting somewhere near our big old willow tree in the front yard, and was amazed at the beauty of the area I was trimming. The grass was lush and soft beneath my small fingers. I carefully held each clump straight up while I trimmed little bunches carefully with Mom's expensive Gingher pinking shears. 

I was very confused when she ran out screaming at me. Why wouldn't she look at the beautiful design in the tops of the little blades of grass? They were all patterned on top, and it looked wonderful—much better than Daddy could do with the mower.

Mom grabbed the scissors from my hand, than picked me up. I held her face in my hands, trying to make her look at what I had done. I pointed at the patch of grass I had finished. As we looked down together, I was shocked to see that from the height she was holding me, it didn't look any different from the rest. Maybe shorter, but that's all. I couldn't get her to kneel down and really look. 

I was crying. She was crying. I'm sure her expensive pinking shears were never the same. I know my day was shot. I had been so proud of myself. My days as a gardener were over before they'd hardly begun. 

I think Mom and I have both learned quite a bit about perspective in the last half century. Although I never left my pinking shears out where the boys could get to them, I tried really hard to get down and see things from their perspective. I also realize that as I grew up, Mom got a lot better with that as well.