“What do you want to be when you grow up?”
My hand shot up but the boy two rows down shouted first.
“A robber! I’ll be RICH!”
My seatmate and I snorted as my pretty teacher blanched.
“You can’t be a robber, Mark!” she exclaimed. “Robbers are bad! And they go to jail.”
“Oh.” Mark shrugged his shoulders. “So I’ll be a policeman.”
I abruptly stopped giggling as Teacher turned to me.
“How about you, Daisy?” I scrunched my face in thought.
“I want to be a secretary, Teacher,” I lisped. “Like my mom.”
To my five-year-old mind, my Mom’s desk buried in papers looked like a secretary’s job anyway.
Why do I remember this random episode?
Aside from the discovery of that lisp sending me to remedial speech classes, it stuck in my mind as the first time I wondered about my dream job.