Empathy

My daughter has a friend at school. Her name is Rose Marie. She has long, bright carrot-colored hair. I met her once, at Albertsons. She's gorgeous. She smiled shyly and I instantly liked the girl. My daughter likes her too. She comes home with stories of Rose Marie and tells me how nice and how beautiful she is, both inside and out. 

One day my daughter told me that she feels so sad for Rose Marie for one reason. It seems that she goes to speech therapy. 

Lots of kids do. I tell her. Not to worry. She'll learn to say whatever sounds she's struggling with. Just give her time.

Oh, I know, Mom, my daughter tells me. It's just that the only sound she has a hard time with is the "R" sound. She makes it more like a "W." My daughter is disgusted when I look at her blankly. "Mom, her name STARTS with an R." Oh. Yes, it does. "Mom. I just want her to be able to say her own name, the way it's supposed to sound."

And that's my girl. Always waiting for the day when a good thing will happen. Even if it happens to someone else.