When I was a small child, I loved to play quietly, all alone in my bedroom. Sometimes I’d play there contentedly for hours. My mother used to say that’s when she would worry about me most. Evidently, sometimes I was “up to no good” all alone in that pink room at the end of the hall.
On one such occasion, I was up to no good with my crayons, happily drawing pictures and letters on my bedroom wall. I thought I was decorating it beautifully. But when Mama found me, she spoke in quite an irritated tone, with her hands perched squarely on her hips and her jaw set back in an under-bite. “What do you think you are doing? Why are you writing on the wall?”