At the end of our first grade year, my teacher, Mrs. Finch, held a ceremony of some sort where she recognized all of us kids for something or other. Parents were invited. Lots of cameras and clapping. The details are fuzzy - I was only 6 after all - but I won the "award" for being the most compassionate child in the class. Apparently other kids would cry or get hurt and I would be the first to come running to check on their well-being. A regular Mother Teresa.
Or, maybe all the other kids in my class were just jerks and I looked angelic in comparison. I'll take it.
Either way, I wish I still had that certificate. Proof that I am the paragon of compassion. The embodiment of all things good and lovely. I would hang it on the wall in the office, next to my college diplomas. Of course, that's assuming I ever bother to hang my diplomas. I should get on that. Or have Henry get on that. Or Little Henry. He's probably the best with a hammer.
There's a picture somewhere of this event. I look pretty much the same as I do now, just mini. Pocket-sized perfection. Long, blond hair, awkward gait, shoulders hunched as I nervously walked to the front of the room. If I ever find this picture I'll post it. So you can be awed by cuteness and marvel at the fact that I haven't significantly changed since 1990. You're welcome.
So anyway, my point is that though at times I may seem to you to be belligerent, unreasonable or overly sarcastic, you're wrong.
Mrs. Finch knows the truth. I'm nice! I won a niceness AWARD for goodness sakes. They don't just give those things away ya know.
P.S. Mom, you were there. If my recollection of this award is incorrect, don't bother correcting me. I'm sticking to this story.
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