He ran over excitedly with a piece of paper covered in scribbles. "Mom! I wrote a superhero story!"
It was a chaotic tangle of lines β a stick figure with a cape, a building taller than the person, wavy lines that might be action effects.
He launched into an elaborate tale about an invisible superhero with all sorts of logic problems. But his eyes were shining.
He didn't need me to critique his story. He needed an audience. Someone to witness his creativity and take it seriously.
Parenting is full of these moments. Your kid presents something imperfect β and you have a choice: evaluate or appreciate.
I'm learning to choose appreciate more. To say "Tell me more about that" instead of "Let me show you a better way."
The world will have plenty of editors for him. I want to be the person who believed in his stories before anyone else.