In Kindergarten, I learned two things. One, five-year-olds are terrible at sharing. And two, you can’t hit people with a Tinkerbell lunchbox. Morgan McNaulty and I were beefing over the one good blue crayon. Every time I reached for it, she’d scribble even more into her already very blue sky. Mine hadn’t even started. And I had plans. With birds. I asked. She smirked. I reached. She clutched. I cracked. Next thing I knew, I was in time-out and sent home with a teacher’s note and a skyless, birdless drawing that didn’t even make it to the fridge. Mrs. Mayo called it “concerning.” My mom called it “embarrassing.” I call it my origin story. Since then, I’ve traded the lunchbox for language and started using my words. Anyway, if you need help finding the right ones, I’m around.