BUFLO: The Misspelling That Made Me Cry-Laugh in a Kindergarten Chair
Standing by the window of my office, I was captivated by the vibrant energy unfolding before me. A yellow school bus pulled up to the front of the school, its brakes squeaking loudly in protest, as if the bus itself were tired of hauling around twenty bouncing kindergarteners. The doors opened with a hiss, sounding suspiciously like the sigh of a veteran teacher, and out tumbled the children, a whirlwind of energy and unzipped jackets.
Their laughter was contagious, their excitement palpable, and their little legs moved like wind-up toys about two seconds away from tangling together. It was clear that their field trip to the Westward Expansion Museum at the iconic St. Louis Arch had ignited a spark within them—or perhaps it was just the sugar from the snacks consumed on the bus. Either way, they were positively radiant.
About an hour later, I decided to visit the kindergarten classroom to hear about the children’s adventures. The teacher, Mrs. Cotton, looking equal parts proud and slightly wrung out, was guiding them through a reflection on their trip. She encouraged them to capture their memories in their journals, though the results ranged from coherent drawings to what could only be described as abstract modern art. One child had drawn what appeared to be a buffalo, though it looked suspiciously like a dog wearing a toupee.
I spotted Teddy sitting quietly with a crayon and an air of intense concentration. I knelt beside him and asked, “Are you going to draw a picture?” He looked up, furrowing his brow like a tiny philosopher, and said, “I want to write the word, Buffalo.”
“Ah, so you saw the big buffalo at the museum?”
His face lit up as he exclaimed, “Yes! It was HUGE and kind of scary—like my uncle when he eats spaghetti.”
Encouraging him, I said, “Well, go ahead and try writing it.”
Teddy paused, forming the sounds silently with his mouth. Then he began with letter B, glancing at me for reassurance as he constructed the letter in his journal. I nodded, giving my most supportive "you’ve got this" smile. He followed U and F. Sounding it out aloud, "Bu-U-u-u-F," he looked up at me, his tiny face a mix of determination and mild panic, like someone assembling IKEA furniture without the instructions.
“You’re almost there,” I said.
After a moment of intense thought—during which I think he aged three years in wisdom—his little fingers wrote L and O, to create BUFLO with a delightfully backwards F.
He looked at me with glee and proclaimed, “Buffalo!”
Overcome with a sense of accomplishment, he leapt up and hugged me as if I’d just given him the secret to limitless free trips to the local ice-cream stand. It was a profound moment—watching Teddy connect the dots between oral language and the written word. Sure, it wasn’t Webster’s perfect spelling, but in his mind, he had just conquered Everest.
We shared this milestone with his teacher, who was equally thrilled, and I asked Teddy if he’d like to call one of his parents to share the big news. The joy in Teddy’s eyes was unforgettable, though I’m pretty sure his parents were wondering why he led with, “Guess what? I wrote buffalo!”
That moment, so small yet so grand, has stayed with me ever since. It’s a reminder of the magic that happens when a child discovers the power of new learning. And I feel privileged to have been there for Teddy’s “BUFLO” triumph.
🟨 In a world that often rushes past the quiet victories, Teddy’s buffalo reminds me to slow down and honor the messy, beautiful process of becoming. Learning isn’t always linear, and growth rarely arrives with perfect spelling—but when a child dares to try, and someone is there to witness it, that’s where the real magic lives. BUFLO wasn’t just a word. It was a declaration: I am learning, I am brave, and I am seen.