Not even a certificate of merit

Before going to bed, the child suddenly sighed and said: Alas, I have never even received a certificate. . .

I asked: What certificate?

She said: A certificate is a piece of paper, rectangular, with the word "Certificate" written in the middle, and below it is written what award a certain classmate of a certain class won. . .

Me. . . Have I never seen the certificate?

I asked in a different way: Who sent it? Do you want me to send it to you?

She said: The school issued it. What you posted doesn’t count.

I asked again: Why did they get the certificate?

She said: There are many reasons. That so-and-so won the Technology Production Award, and so-and-so won the Photography Award. . . Also, 9 people in our class have won certificates for rolling hoops, but unfortunately I have not.

I told her a story, saying: Everyone has strengths and weaknesses. If you participate in a competition for something you are good at, you may win an award. If you don’t have a certificate, does that mean you don’t have a single strong point?

I thought she would sting a bit, but she didn’t mind at all and said: I have strengths, rolling hoops!

Her natural look choked me up. I said: But you didn’t get the award, right? It’s not strong enough!

She felt a little melancholy and said: It is obvious that I will be next, but in the end, there is no certificate. . .

I suddenly thought of Chibi Maruko-chan. Xiao Wanzi doesn't seem to have many strong points, but she is surprisingly good at marathons and can usually finish in the top ten. But that time, it seemed that because the school said it wanted to save paper, it only gave the certificates to the top eight, but she failed to get it. That's called chest tightness. . .

Looking back, I feel that feeling melancholy is a small improvement. At least start to have the will to do better.

I have always felt that she has no sense of honor and disgrace, especially in academic matters, and has no competitive spirit at all.

Yesterday, she wrote a piece of very ugly calligraphy, and her father hung it on the wall in an attempt to encourage her to write better next time. I said: What's the use? She's not sad. She looked matter-of-factly beside her: Yes, yes! Dad asked disbelievingly: "Don't you feel uncomfortable looking at it?" She blinked innocently: It's not uncomfortable! Dad:. . .

Once, I saw a message from the teacher on the small blackboard saying that there were only two people who made mistakes this time, No. 5 and No. 22. Number 5 belongs to my family, and number 22 is the worst student in the class that she always says when she comes home.

Just the juxtaposition of two student numbers was enough to drive me crazy. She didn't care at all and asked strangely: What's wrong? Isn’t it normal to make mistakes?

Now that I have begun to envy others for receiving awards, does this indicate the possibility of progress?