[I try to start my day writing 250 words on anything. I’ll post one every Monday until I run out of good ones.]
I love kids and kids love me. I don’t know why, but if I’m in a room with a hundred adults and one kid, that kid’s eyes will lock onto mine like a magnet. If there’s a kid in a restaurant looking over the back of their chair, they’re looking at me.
Maybe because I look back.
I like to think kids, like dogs, are good judges of character and their attention reflects well on me, but I don’t know that.
You might say it’s because I approach the world with childlike openness and wonder, but I don’t think I particularly do and, even if I did, they wouldn’t know that.
I do acutely remember what it felt like to be a kid, which is why I never tease or patronize them. I know they can feel deep embarrassment and perceive condescension because when I was their age I could. Of course I adjust my vocabulary, but I know kids can have interesting conversations about sophisticated ideas because I did.
Kids aren’t stupid, they’re just inexperienced and uninformed. Both conditions will be remedied in time.
I also try to get down to their level. My mother told a story about being a young girl visiting a sheep ranch. The sheep terrified her and the adults laughed, until her grandfather kneeled to her height and said, “Geez, from down here they look like monsters!” She never forgot his empathy and compassion.
Perhaps the trick is treating kids like people. I remember.
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