Dear MUSTN'T Teacher,
Nearly every night, my seven-year-old son, Jeremiah, crawls into bed with me, and we read poems from “Where the Sidewalk Ends.” His favorite is “Ickle Me, Pickle Me, Tickle Me, Too.”
Two weeks ago, the book went missing. We both almost cried, so much so I asked him if we should try our hand at writing a poem bemoaning the tragedy.
“Where is that book, that darn’d ol’ book? We’ve given a look in every nook.”
That was my contribution.
Then, he wanted to add something about “Putting it in reverse, Terry,” but obviously the only thing that rhymes with terry is berry and very but neither is very funny.
And who really wants to read a Shel Silverstein poem that isn’t funny?
Except for this one maybe…
Listen to the MUSTN’TS child,
Listen to the DON’TS
Listen to the SHOULDN’TS
The IMPOSSIBLES, the WON’TS
Listen to the NEVER HAVES
Then listen close to me—
Anything can happen, child.
Anything can be.
It’s the poem I think maybe every teacher is reading while simultaneously praying over each child this school year.
I know it’s the one I prayed over my own son when I turned out the light, pushed back his shaggy, sweaty bangs and whispered I love you, even though he was already fast asleep.
I have no idea where the sidewalk ends, but for my sake and his, I hope it’s not for a very, very long time.
For every parent and teacher who knows just how quickly time slips by without our consent, I can only tell you what I know to be true.
Don’t be too busy to read “Ickle Me, Pickle Me, Tickle Me, Too.”
Don’t forget to pray over them while they sleep.
And for the love of God, don’t ever refuse a blue raspberry popsicle.
I am convinced the sidewalk ends where popsicles melt like vanishing childhoods, and it can happen before you know it.
For the record, we found the book this evening. I guess it really is true that anything can be.
Who can guess what we’ll be doing in roughly thirty minutes?
-CDB
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