Loops and Tails

Much like I did long, long ago when I was in second grade, Princess Pinky has begun mastering cursive writing.

Tonight I sat working with her on a cooperative homework assignment (where I learned that the average human head has 100,000 hairs) and hooted out loud when I saw her make a true editor's delete mark through a misspelled word.*

I see words in my girl's future.

The assignment itself was a combination of spelling and research skills; as she and I came up with ideas for the possible places** to research information, she decided to write all of her answers in cursive.

And she did, very neatly so.

I sat and watched her patiently swoop and curl her pencil strokes and found myself marveling at how fast she's growing up.

When she was four and in preschool, her little hands couldn't quite keep up with the quick-firing neurons in her brain. She knew her letters and numbers backwards and forwards and was already reading simple sight words.

But writing?

Well that didn't come easily.

She could write all of her uppercase letters, oh yes; it was her desire to write the lowercase ones, too, and write them neatly {like mom} that nearly did us both in.

I'd sit at the table, hugely preggers with Screamsy, while she and Tater colored during those long winter days. What would start off as a fun time for creativity and play would quickly deteriorate into a meltdown fueled by her frustration and filled with tears.

Hers and mine.

I'd try to explain to her that I had many, many more years of writing practice than she did and that with time her handwriting would look just as good or better than mine.

My words fell on tiny ears deafened by rage and sadness. Before long, papers were crumpled and thrown; pencils and crayons were shoved aside and tossed to the floor.

She would retreat to the corner of the couch, sobbing at what she perceived as her shortcomings.

And I would follow after a bit, delicately, whispering gently to her once her emotional storm blew over.

Those moments usually ended with a hug but there were times when she brooded, her desire to do all that lay just outside of the grasp of her little hands so great that it overshadowed any treat or fun distraction that I had to offer.

To see her now, so capable, so confident in her strength is bittersweet.

I miss the little girl she once was, a head full of curls tucked into the crook of my arm as we snuggled in bed reading silly stories on chilly nights.

And I worry, too, about the years ahead of her, the tween and teen times coming soon where Girl Wars lurk in the shadows.

So often I look at her {and at her brothers} and find myself wanting to save this version of themselves in time where they seem so purely themselves at their best. I wish I could hold those moments then give them back to them as a gift when life pummels them and fills them with doubt and uncertainty.

Here, I would say. This is you.

Not what they say you are or what you may have come to believe that you are, but this.

This is you.

And you are perfect.

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*They teach it old-school up at our Catholic school.

**Because I thought having her write "Google" as every answer might be overkill.