Blog Archives

No Wonder Those Bugs Look So Happy

Jan is a kindergarten teacher. She sees lots of great stuff kids write.

But Jan’s own 5-year-old son brought this one home from school. In her words:

“Glad to see phonics is working. I’m a proud mom.”

You should be, Jan.

In this case, Ii is for Impressive.


If you see an impressive example of stuff a kid wrote, snap a pic with your smartphone and share it with the followers of SKW! Please email to either or

Thanks, and happy Isexing to all!

Chase and Leanne

A Poem for My Sister, circa 1981

When I was ten years old, I decided to write a poem for my sister, Patti, who was six years older than me.

Patti loved playing tennis against the garage door of our giant machine shed and would spend hours doing this instead of playing with her little sister who followed her around when we weren’t doomed to cut acres of grass or pick the evil weed portulaca from our garden for two weeks.

My poem showcases my tennis-loving sister.

It also showcases

  • political incorrectness
  • why I should never be allowed to rhyme
  • my horrific signature.
It does not showcase my adoration of Patti, whose birthday was this past weekend.


The crossed-out line reads: “Until she thinks of Brad.” I suspect I edited this because I knew Patti would smash a tennis ball at my face if I read it to her.

Happy Birthday, dear sister. Next time, I’ll tell the prostitute/hooker story or the lawn mower joy ride story or how you snuck me into bars when I was 14…and 15…


Do you have any funny writing from when you were young?
Please send it to us at StuffKidsWrite(at)gmail(dot).com.

Fighting: An Ageless Poem

Six-year-old E.R. wrote this poem as part of a school project:


It’s my turn on the slide.

My sister fights with me.

I get somewhere first.

My sister fights with me.

I climb up the slide.

My sister fights with me.

I climb up the ladder.

My sister fights with me.

The end.

E.R.’s mom Elizabeth, who blogs at Confessions of a Mediocre Mom, submitted this piece along with this commentary:

I am an only child, and everyone tells me this is completely normal sibling stuff. I still can’t help but think that if her only inspiration is the animosity in her home life, perhaps I should put that college fund on hold and start saving for therapy instead.

We say keep the college fund going, Elizabeth, because anyone with a sibling or who has more than one child will agree:

    • Poems such as this are perfectly normal.

    • Poems such as this could have a hundred verses.

    • Poems such as this could fill a thousand volumes.

    • Poems such as this were undoubtedly etched into the walls of caves during prehistoric times.

    • Poems such as this will be written a thousand years from now on whatever people write on at that time.

Siblings. Fighting. Yes.


So, any memorable “fighting” episodes wtih a sibling that you’re willing to share in the comments section below? How about your own kids? What do they fight about? (It may be quicker to discuss what they don’t fight about.)

Ding! Ding! Let’s drop the gloves and talk sibling scraps!

It’s Chuck Norris’s Fault

This past spring, when I. H. was in Year 2* at school, she wrote a story in her journal.

She is clearly attuned to pop culture and Chuck Norris facts, as you can see by this:

"The driver crashed into the house because Chuck Norris pushed him."

This is a brilliant illustration of cause and effect.

And I’m not surprised that Chuck Norris did that.

To read more of I.H.’s adventures, check out her mom Kirsty’s blog, Tantrums and Tears.

What has Chuck Norris made you do?

*Year 2 is the British equivalent of first grade.


Mom Is Not Your Boss

Last month, Tamara and her husband decided to go against their bacon-loving ways and forgo meat. For a month. They have five kids who were also subjected to their 30 Days to Beat the Meat challenge .

Their third child, at age 7, decided to write a persuasive note to her dad.

She wrote:

Nothing like a daughter who can recognize her father’s duress.

But for those of you who may think a husband does not need to answer to his wife, I refer you to My Big Fat Greek Wedding, an opus on relationships.

Now please go to Tamara’s blog, Tamara Out Loud. She is a fab woman and a fab writer who blogs about sex and faith and pole dancing, not always at the same time, but sometimes.

Playing the Guilt Card

This morning, I found this note behind a dresser. I’m not sure when it was written or under what circumstances, but it pretty much cuts to the chase:


I’m about 82% positive my wife didn’t actually say “I don’t love you” to our 7-year-old son. He came to that conclusion after-the-fact based on some sort of traumatic interaction or event involving his mom. Three possible scenarios:

  1. A remnant of crust remained on a butter-and-jelly sandwich she had prepared for him.
  2. At bedtime, she laid in bed with his brother for 15 seconds longer than she did with him.
  3. She suggested that Yoda’s lightsaber skills are overrated.

Oh no she didn’t!

No, she probably didn’t.


If your children have ever played the guilt card on you, or you have any other funny writing they or other kids have composed, please share it with us by sending to stuffkidswrite (at) gmail (dot) com!

Bunny Masks, George Orwell, and Summer Camp

This is the phone conversation I had with my older brother last night regarding his middle daughter, Alice (age 8), and a number of other topics.

“I have something for you for that things-kids-write blog,” my brother says.

“You mean, Stuff Kids Write?” I ask. “What do you have?”

“Alice was at Sci Fi camp and needed her rabbit mask, so she wrote a note.”

My brain is processing too many things at once. I focus on his first five words. “Sci Fi camp? Like Science Fiction?”

My brother laughs. “No, Sci-Fi as in Science First.”

“Oh,” I say, “I thought she might be writing some Asimov or dressing up as her favourite Star Trek character.”

“You know,” my brother says, “I knew a guy who went to George Orwell Camp in 1984.”

George Orwell Camp, 1984

“You’re serious?” I’m only slightly weirded out by the fact I’m talking to my big brother.

“Ya, and my friend said that’s where he met the the first girl he ever made out with.”

I laugh. I’m pretty sure I’m spitting into the receiver.

“He’s from Wisconsin,” my brother adds. “But I think the camp was in Iowa.” This is not providing the clarity I need.

“Wow,” I say. Conversations between my brother and me are an exercise in Non-Sequiturs. I circle back to the original point. “About that Sci-Fi camp. Why did Alice need a rabbit mask?”

He says, “Each day is a different dress up day. It’s really smart. You can have kids bang rocks together all day and if they get to dress up, they think it’s fun.”

Can’t argue with logic like that.

“Alice needed her rabbit mask,” he explains. “So she put a note on the fridge to remind everyone. She even drew a picture.”

“But they weren’t dissecting bunnies?” Images of rabbit stew a la Fatal Attraction play through my mind.

“No,” he says, “just banging rocks together and dressing like animals.”

We cover 25 more topics in 3 minutes.

But no more bunnies or 1984…

Photo credit: Pawpaw67 (cc)

Boys, Bathrooms, and School Confessionals

A couple of years ago, my cousin’s son…let’s call him Jared…got into some trouble at school. It started at recess. (Doesn’t everything?). Jared had been climbing on a play structure, then fell and injured his penis. Not surprisingly, he was crying. Jared and a pair of his Grade 2 buddies went to the bathroom. Mischief ensued.

Jared began by examining himself to ensure, well, whatever he needed to ensure. Soon, the other two boys started dancing and singing, while Jared simultaneously continued his inspection and joined in the dance party.

In walked two other Grade 2 boys. They saw (a) Jared, (b) Jared’s penis through the zipper, and (c) three boys laughing.

The two new boys hightailed it out of there and told a teacher. Jared and his buddies were sent to the office.

They had to fill out a version of a student confessional.

Jared’s note has since been lost, but thankfully his mom had typed it verbatim into a word document.

Here is Jared’s confessional (pines = penis):

I’m pretty sure Jared learned some sort of lesson that day. It might be that laughter and dancing make everything better. Or that doing up zippers is a tricky business.


If your child has written something humorous, please consider sending it to us as a jpeg file at stuffkidswrite (at) gmail (dot) com.

A Man Purse: Deal Maker or Breaker?

When I was young, I swore I’d never marry a farmer. Hearing my parents talk about “$10,000 rains” and having to “wait and see if we have a good crop” before I could get the hand-held Space Invaders game was too much for me. Plus, I didn’t want someone who knew the entire history of my family and our pets before he met me. I mean, what would we talk about on Date 6? Of course, I ended up dating a farmer, and a nice one at that, but I never married him. I had, after all, made a childhood pledge.

When M.E. was eight years old, she too made a promise about who she wouldn’t marry.

I’ll let her mom, Jennifer, tell the story.

In January, 2009 our family was in the throes of preparing for a move from Kingston, Ontario to the Netherlands. The kids had plenty of questions: Will we make new friends? Will you lose us in the move?  Every piece of my rock collection will be packed, right? “Will I have to wear wooden shoes?” wailed our youngest. (Yes; No; Good Lord, I hope not; Only when Mummy is particularly grumpy with you.)

At one point some friends worked themselves into hysterics imagining the fashion affectations my husband (your basic khakis kind of guy) would be sporting the next time they saw him. Italian leather shoes! Over-gelled, highly tousled hair! A speedo! A man purse!

It was only days later when M.E.’s mom found this page from her eldest daughter’s diary on her desk. If you read nothing else, read the first six lines:

The man purse is a deal breaker. Part of me agrees. Does a woman want a man who spends more on accessories than she does? If her husband has his own purse, would he still offer to carry hers when she’s toting their baby around?

I also love M.E.’s exhortations about French near the end of her entry. She writes:

Oh, how I absolutely hate French. My, My French is absolutely boring. All you have to do is say French words and write them down. It is impossible to write them down if you don’t know how to write them.

M.E. is going places. She knows what she wants in a man, she can spot circular reasoning, and she can write.

And she’s 8.

Ode to clever kids with fashion sense.