In order to do a fair 11-metre shoot where everyone kicks the football from the exact same spot, someone had a fantastic idea of cutting all the grass off in the garden with a pair of garden scissors so the ball can be placed on the pretty obvious bald patch.
I love the fact that children will do anything for a perfect game, even when they know they might get into trouble afterwards. That they turn their ideas into actions. That they unreservedly exhibit an abnormal amount of courage to materialize their wildest imaginations. That they would gather materials and tools from all sorts of unlikely places and produce their masterpieces. Sometimes, they are so creative I wonder how the creativity comes about.
Unfortunately, most times I wasn't impressed by their creativity, more often than not I would dismiss them as another set of nonsense, or worse, get mad at them for wasting materials, using things they weren't allowed to, taking apart toys just to use a small spare part for a new creation. I am rarely awed by what they make and therefore not able to appreciate their pride and joy when they finally present their work to me. Much less share the same level of high as a result of their work of genius.
I am such a wet blanket to their uninhibited ideas of wonders. I am embarrassed that my learned overly-pragmatic self is endangering what's left of my creativity - that little girl in me. She is screaming to be heard, I hear it but I choose not to listen.
That brown bald patch loudly reminds me to let them be kids, to let them live their childhood the way it ought to be, to give them the freedom as long as it is doesn't hurt themselves or cause harm to others. To embrace them as what and who they are.
I laughed at that bald patch. I smiled and hugged the boy that talked the little girl out of me that day.
Update: Enzian was the boy who shaved off the grass. Who else?
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