"Don't talk with your mouth full," my dad says at suppertime. I wanted to tell him about the Browns' new puppy. I forgot to wait until I had swallowed my macaroni and cheese.

"Sit still, Mary Alice," my mom whispers in church. I tried. But my arms and legs would not be still any longer.

"Pick up your puzzle," my big sister says at bedtime. But it's not finished. If I put it away, I'll have to start all over again tomorrow.

"Don't walk in front of the TV," my brother says in his grumpy voice. I was only going to get a drink of water.

"Start your numbers from the top, Mary Alice," my preschool teacher says. Even when I start at the bottom, my numbers turn out all right.

"Brush your hair, Mary Alice," my mother tells me on Saturday morning. I am not going to school or to church. Who cares what I look like? Besides, my hair needs a rest.

"Fasten your seat belt," my dad says when we get in the car. I was going to do it after I put my doll in my lap. After all, I want her to be safe, too.

It's hard being five years old. Everyone wants you to be perfect. From morning until night, people tell you what to do, how to act, and when to talk.

Then I go to Grandma's house. She gives me warm hugs. She plays checkers with me. She lets me bake oatmeal cookies. She reads to me. She lets me play "dress-up" in her fancy hats and shiny shoes. She swings with me in her porch swing. She shows me the pet squirrel high up in the elm tree. She smooths my hair when the wind blows it, and she says, "I'm so lucky to have you for a granddaughter, Mary Alice. I guess you're just about PERFECT!”