Last night Ella spent 10 minutes trying to convince me to let her quit piano. At the end of it she left the room and said, "I'm writing poetry! That's what I do when I'm upset."
Today I found a piece of paper in her room that reads:
What kind of mom is mine
If she doesn't let me choose what I do with my time.
I might be as sour as a lime.
So leave me alone.
And let me go home.
Whatever helps her feel better for tonight's practice is fine with me!
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