Writing at the Kitchen Table

I enjoy writing because of my mom. As a continuation high school English Teacher, she took home schoolwork almost every night, labouring at the kitchen table grading papers. I was probably a typical boy when it came to writing; more interested in anything but writing. Writing ranked on the opposite end of the spectrum when compared to going out for a bike ride.

The first time I remember actually enjoying writing was when I described a summer camping experience. My mom sat with me, her papers pushed aside, and prompted me to describe the shooting stars, the sand in between my toes and the cool water of the lake. I earned an "A" and developed some confidence that I may actually be able to connect things that I really like to something as tedious as writing.


Maybe she was the one who actually earned the grade; but my report card gave me credit. She had to prompt me quite a bit, with the dictionary and thesaurus close at hand to supply assistance. Even during my first term in college, I sent a few papers home requesting her editorial advice. I'm thankful to my mom for helping me care about expressing myself in writing. "That sounded good, mom, would you say it again slowly?"

My mom has always been so sweet and patient. She pushed aside her papers and prompted me to get my ideas written down. That's not an easy task when working with a kid who just wants to play. (Mom, I'm sorry that I don't write to you more these days.)