Despite our best efforts, we often disappoint the people we love the most. It's hard to know what will make others happy, and so we take a stab in the dark and sometimes it's right on the money, and other times it's way off the mark. Most of the time it doesn't matter, or I don't care if it does. Other times it may have unimaginable and possibly dire results.
When my son, now an adult, was in the second grade, he was given an assignment to write a biography of someone close to him. He chose me, to my delight. He interviewed me carefully, asking pointed questions about my past, and then diligently wrote it up. The final article was special and quite articulate, and he stuck to the facts. All but one. Zack's final question for me had been, "What's your favorite color?" I had answered easily, without skipping a beat, "Grey." Back then, almost my entire wardrobe was that color:
Zack's final essay got an A from the teacher, but she didn't know that it contained one bit of fake news: His last sentence was,
"Her favorite color is yellow."I'll never know for sure how that whole thing impacted my son. Had he found it depressing to have a mom whose favorite color was grey? What did it mean to him? What is grey, anyway? Death, cobwebs, thunderclouds. Dust bunnies underneath the furniture. Mold. Dirty snow. Mommy's clothes? Or, even worse, Mommy?
Ironically, over the years my favorite color changed and became yellow. Yellow is definitely my favorite color now. I just wish it had been then.
