written December 7, 1939
"It's not easy to be a child, I read in a newspaper the other day. I was amazed for it's not every day you read something in the newspaper that is actually true. It is a revolutionary speaking.
No, it's not easy to be a child! What does it mean then - to be a child? It means that you have to go to bed, get up, get dressed, eat food, brush your teeth and blow your nose when it suits the grown-ups, not when it suits you. It means that you have to eat crisp bread when you'd rather have white bread and that, without batting an eyelid, you have to run down to the milk shop for a gas meter token, just as you've settled down with Edgar T Lawrence. It also means that, without batting an eyelid, you have to listen to each and every grown-up and every grown-up's most personal references to you appearance, state of health, clothing and future plans. I have often wondered what would happen if you started to treat grown-ups in the same way.
Grown-ups have an unpleasant tendency to come with comparisons. They like to talk about their own childhood. From what I understand in the whole history of mankind there has never been such a bunch of well-mannered children as when Mum and Dad grew up. At that time children were really nice. The were never cautioned in school, never got anything other than top marks in all subjects, they always brushed their own shoes and made their beds every day, every morning they washed their ears and neck in cold water, and they liked good and healthy food, especially boiled fish and vegetables. Looking after little brothers and sisters was their utmost desire, and the mere thought of accepting any money for cinema tickets in return was immensely repugnant. In short - their childhood was one long Sunday-school story. It must have been them the poet was thinking of when he wrote that "We picture monarchs in the children we spot, but grown up kings they become not."
My children, if I ever have any, will at least not be told any Sunday-school stories. When they come home on trembling legs with their first cautions, I shall say "Fear ye not! The Swedish record for getting cautioned is held by your father."
The other day I made salad for lunch. I thought it was a particulary delicious salad. Fresh ruccola leaves, baby spinach leaves, intensely smelling herbs, freshly picked, organic cherry tomatoes from Italy, drizzeled with olive oil. It was delicious. Husband ate it, son ate it. Daughter didn't eat it. Daughter decided, as I put the plate in front of her, that she doesn't like tomatoes. I told her to eat them anyways. Half an hour later we were all done but she was still pushing the tomatoes around her plate. I told her she couldn't get up till she was done eating them. I also told her the tomatoes are "good and healthy" (see text on top).
We all left the kitchen being tired of watching her squishing the food but not eating it. When I checked in on her again she sat there, almost done eating, with a mickey - mouse comic in her hand (I guess for distraction) and a pink clothes peg on her nose (I guess to eliminate the taste of the tomatoes). At first I thought her nose had grown to gigantic length and it took me a few seconds to realize what she was doing.
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