My family had lived in Traverse City, Michigan, for only five months when our 5-year-old daughter, Alicia, started kindergarten.

Having moved from a tiny town in northern Michigan, I was unsure of myself in these new surroundings and felt lonely and isolated. When Alicia began school, I was worried that she wouldn't fit in either, but each day after school, she burst into the house with her blond braids bobbing and her blue eyes shining. It was obvious that she loved school and was doing just fine.

Just when I was starting to relax, Alicia brought home a note that said she would need to make a "secret house" out of a cardboard box, decorated any way she liked. It was an at-home project, and parents were encouraged to participate.

A what? I turned the note over looking for further details but there were none. A secret house? How big did it need to be? Did it need a roof? The children had been studying animal homes. Was this supposed to be a human house or an animal den?

I grilled Alicia with questions, but she just shrugged and said, "Mom, we can do any kind of house we want. It doesn't matter."

Doesn't matter? How could we help her to do this project right if we didn't know what right was? Was this some kind of test by her teacher to see if we were creative? What if our house was all wrong? What if it was different or weird? 

On Deadline

I was too intimidated to call the school. I decided we would figure this out somehow. And since the project wasn't due for another two weeks, I successfully pushed the project to the back of my mind where it didn't bother me.

Then I realized that we had only two days before the secret house was due. And when Alicia casually mentioned that it would be on display for all the parents to see at the school open house, I panicked. I felt that our … I mean, her reputation was on the line.

"What if it's all wrong?" I silently agonized again. "What if the other children laugh at her?"

While I fretted and wrung my hands, my husband calmly helped Alicia find a big, dog-eared moving box, some old white paint and a thick, frayed paintbrush. He spent two hours patiently holding the box while Alicia painted it, carefully and deliberately, inside and out.

I smiled as I watched them work together. The box was a chalky, white-streaked mess, but Alicia was proud of it because she had painted it all by herself. My husband and I agreed that we would just supply her with materials and let her do most of the work by herself. 

New Doubts

I thought that I had finally put the project in perspective until we unexpectedly met one of Alicia's classmates and his mother. Alicia and I had just purchased some markers so she could finish decorating her house. As we left the store, Alicia recognized one of the little boys in her class and pulled me over to meet him. His mother and I immediately started discussing our children's class project.

"I'm not sure what we'll do on the inside of the box," she confessed. "His dad spent so much time on the roof that we didn't get to finish the inside."

"Roof?" I asked, feeling my stomach knotting up. "Are the boxes supposed to have roofs?"

"Oh, I don't know," she said quickly "His dad made a roof with a chimney and it took hours to glue all those little shingles on."

"Shingles?" I echoed, suddenly feeling sick. I glanced down at our bag of markers. We're just keeping ours simple," I said weakly.

"I'm sure it will be fine," she said hastily, with what was supposed to be a reassuring smile.

I was convinced I saw pity.

After we parted, I rushed to our car, panic-stricken. I had been wrong not to help my daughter more. I couldn't let her look foolish in front of the whole class. Maybe we would have to start over.

"Did any kids bring their projects to school, yet?" I asked, trying to keep my voice calm.

"Some of them," she answered cheerfully.

"What did they look like?" I asked carefully. "Are they fancy?"

"Some are and some aren't," she said matter-of-factly. "Amy has curtains on her windows. Can I have curtains?"

"We'll see," I said through clenched teeth.

Shingles and chimneys and curtains! All we had was an old white box. And the project was due tomorrow. 

Last-Minute Effort

When we got home, I began digging through my cupboards in a frenzy, searching desperately for a way to transform the box into something spectacular. I had almost given up when the phone rang. It was my husband, informing me that he would be working late.

"But you can't be," I wailed. "I need your help!"

He listened patiently as I told him about my worries about the project. Finally he spoke, calmly and firmly. "Look, this is supposed to be her project. I don't care what the other parents are doing. We'll let her do it her own way. All by herself."

"But ... " I started to protest.

"Let her do it by herself," he interrupted. "Leave her alone." Then he added a little more gently, "Don't worry. It will be fine."

When I hung up the phone, I slowly sank to the floor, put my head in my hands and stared hopelessly at the box in front of me. Just then my daughter skipped in cheerfully, brand new markers in hand.

"Can I draw on it now?" she asked eagerly.

I smiled sadly. "You go ahead. You do exactly what you want."

I watched in amazement as she confidently selected a color and began to draw. She didn't hesitate or fret or worry or plan. She drew gardens and hills above doorways. Grass and trees above windows. It was chaotic and wonderful.

Slowly, a sense of peace returned, and a huge lump formed in my throat. My daughter was totally unaware of any pressure or worries. She was enjoying this project because she didn't care what the others thought. As I watched, I found myself envying her abandon, her imagination, her freedom. I knew everything would be OK. 

The Big Day

Days later, I found myself at the open house at Alicia's school. The kindergarten room was filled with excited children who pulled their parents around the room. I almost stumbled across the display of secret houses amid the confusion.

"Here's my box," Alicia announced proudly.

Just then, her teacher approached us with a smile. Alicia flew to her and gave her a hug.

"What a sweet daughter you have," her teacher said warmly.

Then her gaze fell on the box we were standing near. "Alicia did a beautiful job on her project," she said sincerely, her kind eyes meeting mine. "She's very creative."

Then the gentle teacher glanced around at the variety of shingled, curtained, painted, crayoned, crude and fancy boxes.

"They're all so different," she exclaimed, her eyes shining. "Isn't it wonderful?"

People may have been surprised to see an old, chalky white box taking up space in my small shed for many months to come. They didn't know that every time I saw it or tripped over it, I smiled and remembered a time when my 5-year-old, my husband and a very special teacher taught me an important lesson.

We are all so different. And it's not only OK; it's wonderful.

 

Mary Beth Frost is a freelance writer in Superior, Wisconsin. This article first appeared in Welcome Home, September 1999.