Nine years ago I walked into my sweet Noah’s 1st grade classroom for the Mother’s Day festivities. He had been telling me about this “poem” he had written for me all week. “I can’t wait to read it to you in class mom,” he said at least 65 times a day for a week.
The big day finally came and as I walked into the classroom both the teacher and the room mom separately came over and said, “I can’t wait for Noah to read you his poem.” Now, being a writer and a slightly narcissistic one at that, I couldn’t help but think how proud I was that my son clearly got my writing gene. There was something special in the room moms smile I had never seen directed my way before. I’m not one of those moms the room moms tend to smile at. I was beaming with pride from ear to ear as I patiently listened to all of the other kids and their blah blah blah poems. Clearly their moms weren’t writers. Then it was Noah’s turn. He approached the front of the classroom, cleared his throat like a pro, and as he sweetly read his poem to me while shifting back and forth from leg to leg, it became quickly clear why the room mom and teacher couldn’t wait for his poem to be read.
The fourth line is the money spot.