Listen to Children
佚名 / Anonymous
We hope that you can see in this story how children teach us， so simply， to be better people.
My day began on a decidedly sour note when I saw my six-year-old wrestling with a limb of my azalea bush. By the time I got outside， he’d broken it. “Can I take this to school today？” he asked. With a wave to my hand， I sent him off. I turned my back so he wouldn’t see the tears gathering in my eyes. I loved that azalea bush. I touched the broken limb as if to say silently， “I’m sorry.”
I wished I could have said that to my husband earlier， but I’d been angry. The washing machine had leaked on my brand-new linoleum. If he’d just taken the time to fix it the night before when I asked him instead of playing checkers with Jonathan. What are his priorities anyway？ I wondered. I was still mopping up the mess when Jonathan walked into the kitchen. “What’s for breakfast， Mom？” I opened the empty refrigerator. “Not cereal，” I said， watching the sides old his mouth drop. “How about toast and jelly？” I smeared the toast with jelly and set it in front of him. Why was I so angry？ I tossed my husband’s dishes into the sudsy water.
It was days like this that made me want to quit. I just wanted to drive up to the mountains， hide in a cave， and never come out. Somehow I managed to lug the wet clothes to the laundromat. I spent most of the day washing and drying clothes and thinking how love had disappeared from my life. Staring at the graffiti on the walls， I felt as wrung-out as the clothes left in the washers. As I finished hanging up the last of my husband’s shirts， I looked at the clock. 2：30. I was late. Jonathan’s class let out at 2：15. I dumped the clothes in the back seat and hurriedly drove to the school. I was out of breath by the time I knocked on the teacher’s door and peered through the glass. With one finger， she motioned for me to wait. She said something to Jonathan and handed him and two other children crayons and a sheet of paper.
What now？ I thought， as she rustled through the door and took me aside. “I want to talk to you about Jonathan，” she said. I prepared myself for the worst. Nothing would have surprised me. “Did you know Jonathan brought flowers to school today？” she asked.
I nodded， thinking about my favorite bush and trying to hide the hurt in my eyes. I glanced at my son busily coloring a picture. His wavy hail was too long and flopped just beneath his brow. He brushed it away with the back of his hand. His eyes burst with blue as he admired his handiwork.
“Let me tell you about yesterday，” the teacher insisted. “See that little girl？”
I watched the bright-eyed child laugh and point to a colorful picture taped to the wall. I nodded.
“Well， yesterday she was almost hysterical. Her mother and father are going through a nasty divorce. She told me she didn’t want to live， she wished she could die. I watched that little girl bury her face in her hands and say loud enough for the class to hear， ‘Nobody loves me.’ I did all I could to consol her， but it only seemed to make matters worse.”
“I thought you wanted to talk to me about Jonathan.” I said.
“I do，” she said， touching the sleeve of my blouse. “Today your son walked straight over to that child. I watched him hand her some pretty pink flowers and whisper， ‘I love you.’”