She wanted a set of Dr. Seuss reward charts and stickers. They cost $4.99 and she had $3, but I decided to spot her the rest, surprised she would spend three weeks of allowance on something that seemed like work.

At home, she demanded a list, so I dutifully wrote one out, forgetting about half the things I wanted her to do every day.

Yesterday morning, I walked into her room. Her perfectly clean room. The 8,400 books that perpetually line each side of her bed were in her bookcases. Her bed made, Ski Bear and his posse carefully balanced on the edge. They were even wearing tiaras. Her snowglobe collection perfectly lined up, her desk clear. She was dressed. Her teeth were brushed.

I stared at this child in shock. Academically I realize she's almost seven. In my head, she's still two, just an extremely literate and verbal two.

Suddenly in my head she was 15, asking me to drive her to her part-time summer job at the ice cream shop.

All day, she lived to serve. She set the table, cleared the dishes, cleaned up the living room, rearranged all the magnets on the refrigerator, fed the cat. Her hands in constant motion, her eyes searching for another task to complete -- and I started to get a little nervous. She earned 24 stickers in one day, which will pan out in either 50 cents or a small shake, not to be earned more than twice in one week.

I went to bed wondering if we had created a monster.

This morning, I walked past her bedroom. The bed's not made. The breakfast dishes are still sitting on the table. The girl's on spring break, Beloved's out jogging, and I'm in my home office listening to the sound of her sacked out on the couch watching television.

Phew. She started to scare me there for a minute. I'm all for motivation, but child, you are SIX YEARS OLD.