I am seven, in the second grade. I am small and dark and pretty. I spend my day discovering the world around me. I get excellent grades – always one hundred percent. I have always been on the honor roll. I get along with just about anybody because I know nothing by love. I only repeat what I think I know that I have heard people say. My mind is eager to understand everything.
My mother and father think I am the world’s most beautiful thing. They seldom tell me “no”. Sometimes I play games on them to make sure I have my way. I cry or scream or make like I don’t know what I have done.
My grandma always looks at me and says, “Remember, I was seven once.” I don’t think I can play with her a lot. I tell her I love her and give her hugs. I know she likes that a lot. It’s hard to tell whether Grandma will smile when I play. I love to play all day long after school. I have a tablet I make my own videos with.
I have three children. Of course they’re make believe, but I carry at least one baby at all times, even to church.
When I play I don’t want to stop. I want to express myself. I love to talk, go places and pretend a lot.
