My nine-year old has joined a “secret” club. When I asked her what it was about, she wouldn’t reveal because then it “wouldn’t be secret.” More importantly, she told me that you had to “believe” to be part of the club. I asked, “In what?” Changing the subject, she asked if I had belonged to any club as a kid. Racking my brain, I vaguely remembered belonging to a “no boys allowed” club, and shared this. “No, I mean did you ever belong to a club where you had to believe in something?” At this point, I became confused. “Like what?” I replied. “Like dragons, fairies anything!” Now she was a little frustrated with me. “Well, not a club but I did believe that my toys came to life after I fell asleep.” I felt a little relieved that I remembered something. “So why did you stop?” she asked. I started to stumble. “I, I… guess I just grew up.”
“Why does growing up make you stop believing? she asked. At that moment, I felt as though I had never heard a better question. I had no answer. After some silence she asked again, “Why don’t you just believe that they come alive?” I replied, “I don’t know.” I felt so lame. She’d asked the question as if I had a choice to believe. “Well!” She said, emphatically. “That’s why you can’t know about the club. You have to believe in what we believe or it doesn’t work. You should believe. It makes life interesting. Adults are very boring.”
I have retold this story with no embellishment. For those who know my daughter, Gabi, the story will indeed ring true! I love kids.