Wednesday, February 17, 2010

Things we forgot from our childhood

I don't remember learning to write.
I remember doing it, per se, but not really.
To me, it seemed as though the teacher showed me and I was off and running.
Logically, I know it took more time than that. But that is how the fog of age recalls it.
My oldest boy is having a tough time writing. His name is illegible. I discovered this when we were addressing Valentine's for his classmates.
I mean, I knew it wasn't pretty before, but I couldn't read one blessed letter.
So I sat for an hour tonight and worked with Bug to improve his handwriting.
Only to realize I couldn't figure out how to teach a child to hold a pencil.
I stared at my hand, amazed. How hard could it be? I write every day. I know how to hold a pen. Why wouldn't that information magically jump for me into my child?
I became frustrated, with myself and a bit with him. I'm human. I admit it.
And so, after an hour with minimal success, I went looking online.
And came across a strange goldmine.
A wadded up tissue.
Hopefully unused.
I had Bug hold the wadded tissue with his pinky and ring finger, then the pen with the other three and it made a huge difference.
I don't know why. I don't know how.
But a snot rag in the hand is worth two confused parents any day.

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