Everything You Never Knew You Wanted to Know About Berlin
My eldest son goes to school. He only started in August but his enthusiasm is not waning. He doesn´t complain, he looooves homework and doesn´t feel forced or pressured to do anything (I give him 1 more year tops and that will sooo change)
And he is definitely learning new things: that styling your hair is part of being a modern 6-year-old; that there are kids who are nothing but bullies so you either hit or run; that one cannot turn somersaults in the middle of the lesson just because one feels like it (otherwise, outside the classroom, you will recognise my son immediately – that´s the one doing a break dance head-spin in the middle of the pavement…). And that being able to read and write might have certain advantages.
It suddenly began to dawn on him that he might have found the answer to the question he has been asking me for a long while: “Mummy, why are you always reading something? And why are you sitting in front of your computer all the time?”
“Because it´s fantastic and it is fun,” I ´d say. “And it makes me happy.”
But that answer failed to convince him. Turning multiple somersaults is fun. Running across our flat at top speed and with the largest possible crowd of people timing you and gasping in deep admiration every time you manage to beat your own record is fun. Doing 40 push-ups at one go (no, that´s not a figure of speech – that´s a mathematical fact) is fun and makes everybody happy. But reading and writing? Not so.
Among the precious things that my son has learnt at school so far – some of those I have already enumerated above – he has also learnt the letters of the alphabet and how to string them together to make words out of them. Today in the morning, for instance, he picked up his football players´ cards and read several of the names on them. He was so shocked at his own achievement he did not notice that I was on the verge of shedding some big fat tears of maternal pride.
That would be already the third time within two weeks. First, my son wrote his first book. “The Monster Crocodile” he called it. It has a cover, several bound pages and enough suspense in it to have made Mr Hitchcock seriously jealous. All illustrations in the book are also the work of the author. I think Boris Pasternak, Margaret Atwood and Charles Dickens will see some big competition coming.
But after the book came something even better. My son loves Seeed, the group I´ve presented here before. This is the very first time that he is really into one band and their songs. So into them he is that four days ago he sat down in the living room with a piece of paper and a marker and while listening to the favourite song from their new album, Molotov, all by himself he wrote and drew this.
For non-German speaking readers: it´s a phonetic version of the text which works only when you read it aloud.
For everyone reading this: it´s a bloody Eighth Wonder of The World as far as I´m concerned. Here come the big fat tears.