The Paper Dart
An ode to creativity and distraction

What My Kids Are Reading: The Paper Flower Tree

The summer before sixth grade, I was still pretty hopeful that my letter to Hogwarts was coming in the mail. I knew that my older brother probably wasn’t a wizard, or he would’ve been able to “magic” himself out of all the trouble he got into. My little brother might have been a wizard, but only because he had glasses, and a neighborhood kid had once told him he looked like Harry Potter. If anyone in the family really deserved to be a witch—really had the potential for magic—it was me.

When the first day of sixth grade arrived and I had not, in fact, received a visit from Hagrid, or an owl from Dumbledore, I wouldn’t say I was crushed. In my heart of hearts, I knew that none of it was real. In fact, at that point in time, I had already met J.K. Rowling herself (and yes, I am no longer the fan of hers I once was), and I knew for a fact that she was a mere mortal like myself. I knew that she had created the fantasy land where lonely, forgotten children were suddenly transported into a world of adventure, danger, and heroism, out of the depths of her very human, albeit extraordinary, imagination, and that I was going to have to continue to muddle through muggle school for another 7 years.

Yet in spite of this fact, I had still held on to a shred of hope—even up to that last look back at our mailbox as I hopped in the car. I refused to stop believing because even when we know that something is fake, or a fantasy, or a figment of your own, or someone else’s imagination, the idea of it can still liven up our lives a little bit, and infuse whimsy, wonder and magic into the sometimes mundane business of the everyday.

As I grew up, I didn’t always allow myself to suspend disbelief in this way. By the time I reached high school, I still loved to escape into books, but I also started learning how to mask my sensitivity and insecurity with sarcasm and cynicism. By the time I was an adult, I had practiced myself into a pretty negative outlook on life—always more certain that the worst would happen, than hopeful for the best.

Becoming a parent made me reflect on a lot of things, the most significant of which was my own perspective on the world, and the way I express that to others—both intentionally, and not. When I think of the character traits I want to gift my daughter, cynicism and negativity definitely don’t make list. Instead, I would love to show her that even grown-ups can be happy, hopeful, dreamers, who still believe that their wildest dreams are possible. I would love for my daughter to hold on to her sense of wonder and imagination, and to always see the world as a magical place, even when it tries to prove itself otherwise.  

The Paper Flower Tree by Jacqueline Ayer is a story about a girl named Miss Moon who refuses to see the world through anything other than rose-colored glasses. When a travelling caravan of artists, magicians and musicians comes to town, Miss Moon is enthralled by one old man’s “paper flower tree.” The old man offers to sell her a paper flower, but she can’t afford it, so he ends up gifting her one of the smallest flowers—one with a “seed” (or bead) inside that he tells her she can plant. “Plant it,” he says. “and perhaps it will grow. I make no promises. Perhaps it will grow. Perhaps it will not.”

Miss Moon plants the flower and waits all year for it to grow. Her friends and neighbors tell her she is wasting her time—that she was swindled and lied to. But Miss Moon can’t forget how beautiful the paper flower tree was, and she continues to believe. Eventually, the old man returns with his caravan of travelling entertainers, and Miss Moon confronts him about her tree (or lack thereof).

The old man repeats what he had told her before, and Miss Moon heads off, seemingly undeterred, to enjoy the festivities. In the morning, lo and behold, a paper flower tree has grown in her backyard. When Miss Moon’s neighbors once again attempt to convince her that she’s been tricked, Miss Moon continues to ignore them. “The didn’t think her tree was real. She knew it was. She was as happy as a little girl could be.”

Honestly, this book (written for children, of course) blew my mind. So many of us (myself included) ARE those cynical neighbors. When people share their wildest hopes and dreams, and we find them too wild, or weird, or unrealistic, we cut them down, tell them it’s impossible, and perhaps even laugh and their “ignorance” of the way the world really works.

While I may be “right” in taking such a position, reading this book made me wonder: what’s the point in refusing to believe?

Why dwell on the fact that people sometimes want to trick and manipulate us? Or the reality that life tends to be composed of more moments of suffering than sunshine? Or the truth that magic, most likely isn’t real, and we’ll be stuck adhering to the oh-so limiting laws of nature for the rest of our tragically short lives? NO POINT AT ALL, that’s what.

In this story, Miss Moon refuses to give in to the negativity of those around her, or to stop believing in the possibility of magic. The travelling salesman, no doubt, sees this most enviable quality in her, and the strength of her belief inspires him to play into it—to make it “real” for her.

When my daughter was almost three years old, we saw Santa at the mall. She gleefully sat on his lap, asked for an Elsa doll, and told him that yes, Rudolf was her favorite reindeer. When we left, I held her hand, and asked if she enjoyed meeting Santa.

“Yes,” she said, somewhat matter-of-factly, “but he’s just pretend.”

Needless to say, I was shocked. When I reflected on it later, I remembered that we had visited Disneyland about a month prior to meeting Santa, and had spent the day talking about how the “scarier” characters (like Chewbacca and the Queen of Hearts) were “just pretend,” so her application of that truth to the Santa scenario wasn’t too surprising. But it definitely crushed me a little. I remember not really knowing what to say, and definitely not wanting to lie, so I told her the truth: yes, Santa was pretend.

But I also told her that, sometimes, we like to pretend that pretend things are real, because it makes life a little more fun, and exciting and magical. She nodded, and seemed to understand, and asked if I was going to buy her the Elsa doll for Christmas.

This year, Margot seems to be pretty excited for Santa to come. And, if she had any inkling that the woman who played Elsa at her birthday party wasn’t the real Elsa, she never let on. I’m not sure if she remembers our experience at the mall, or if she’s just becoming less literal in her middle-toddlerhood, but either way, I’m happy about it.

Whether we know in our hearts that the magic is real or not doesn’t really matter. It’s when we allow ourselves to believe—even when it’s crazy, or stupid, or a little bit weird—that we can create a more magical world for ourselves, and start really living again, in the possibility-filled reality so many of us left behind in childhood.

So, in short, keep dreaming, and imagining, and stop worrying about what your neighbors think. You’ll be the one with a paper flower tree in the end.

The Book: Click to Purchase

What My Kids Are Reading: You Are Special

I don’t think I will ever forget being picked last for kickball in the fifth grade. I remember exactly where I was standing on the blacktop, and who got picked before me (Becky, also not good at kickball), and how hot my face felt when I realized I was the only one left. I even remember the kid who was forced to accept me onto his team: his name was Alex, and despite his niceness, he still rolled his eyes as I walked over.

I know that most people don’t make it to adulthood without experiencing this kind of childhood humiliation, and that, ultimately, it is good for us (builds grit, and resilience, etc.) But in the moment, it was truly crushing.

In the fifth grade, being good at kickball was everything. The cute boys were good at kickball, and the cool girls were good at kickball, and even the nerdy kid who got picked on for being super into Mancala was good at kickball.

I, however, was not. And we played it every. darn. day.

I would have given my teacher the entirety of my $20 life savings for her to secretly pop all of the kickballs on campus so that I could go at least a week without having to think about it. Alas, this never happened, and we continued to play kickball each recess, and sometimes before school, well into the winter months. (I grew up in Chicago, so unless the field was buried in 5 feet of fresh snow, it was still kickball weather.)

As a kid, my fixation on being bad at kickball seemed totally logical. The other kids valued kickball skills; therefore, those skills must be inherently valuable. And, because I didn’t have those skills, I must be less worthy (not just of being picked for the team, but in general).

This brings me to Max Lucado’s book, You Are Special, which is the best type of children’s book, in that its lessons are applicable to both kids and adults.

You Are Special is about a city of dolls (called “Wemmicks”) who are each a little bit different, but all equally judgmental of one another. When one Wemmick approves of something about another Wemmick, the latter is awarded a star. When a Wemmick disproves of another (because his nose is too big, or his clothes too ugly), a dot is given. Both stars and dots remain stuck on the Wemmick’s bodies as they go about their days, judging and being judged.

Does this sound familiar yet? If you found my blog through Instagram, it should.

In the book, Punchinello (a Wemmick who receives only dots), is feeling pretty crappy about all this judgment he’s getting from his neighbors. As he’s sulking along, he runs into a Wemmick with nothing on her. No spots, no stars. He is shocked and confused and decides to visit the almighty doll-maker (yes, there’s something allegorical happening here), to figure out what the heck is going on. After a brief chat, the doll-maker reminds Punchinello of how special he is, and reveals to him that the stickers are meaningless. In fact, he says, “the stickers only stick if they matter to you.”

When I was in fifth grade, the label “bad at kickball” mattered to me a lot. So did other labels, like “cool,” or “pretty,” or “smart.” I envied my friends who were “good at kickball,” or “outgoing,” or “funny.” My own brother was “smart,” “funny,” “popular,” AND “good at kickball” — in Wemmick land, he would have been covered in stars.

I don’t mean to say that labels aren’t important. I think that they can serve a purpose in helping kids reflect on their actions, or find friends with similar interests. I think that owning labels like “resilient,” or “hard-working,” or “friend” can help kids start creating a positive self concept that will drive them to live purposeful lives as adults. (Which is why we should all remember to tell our kids (and students) that they already are what we want them to be.)

I think that trying to teach kids not to label one another is unproductive. It is, after all, a natural and normal process, and something that kids need to do to understand their place in the world.

However, I think we do need to teach kids to understand that the labels we place on others have more to do with us than they do with them. Mark Manson wrote an interesting article, in which he said that “the yardstick we use for ourselves is the yardstick we use for the world.”

In the Wemmick’s world, the dolls who gave Punchello “dots” were doing so because they saw in him things they had been told to hate in themselves. During my own childhood, the criticism I gave myself for being “bad at kickball” was based more on the importance I placed on kickball than any inherent worth the game, or athleticism in general, held.

At the end of Lucado’s book, Punchinello leaves his maker’s house and smiles as several, but not all, of the dots fall off of his body. I particularly love this detail because it reminds us that growth doesn’t happen all at once, just as releasing the power others’ judgments have over you takes time–at least 32 years, in my case.

Right now, I don’t think my daughter has any idea that people judge her. The ignorance of three is blissful and beautiful. However, as she gets older, and especially when she goes back to school, judgment and shame are unavoidable. The best I can hope to do is teach her to think carefully about the judgments others try to make of her, and help her take control over which ones she lets stick.

The Book! (Click to Buy – or visit my page at bookshop.org)

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