The difference between our math and language arts blocks was striking. Here we sat, in first grade, laughing and relaxed, as gnomes cartwheeled and crystals were sorted into even piles. Numbers were savored in individual lessons, and she felt proud of herself for noticing that not only was "8" for a spider, but that it also looked like a spider! As we refreshed our minds in second grade, and dusted off our computational skills, math was play.
But the language arts blocks. Oh.
She loved the fairy tales of first grade, and the sages and trickster stories of second grade. She recalled them in vivid physical and emotional details, sometimes down to the exact phrasing. She so obviously had a clear picture in her head.
And then we move to the academic portion. Oh.
In first grade, writing a few words could take an hour. Handwriting, something I pride myself on, was careless. I would fret and pressure more writing. At the beginning of second grade, I was surprised at how much progress she'd made from a summer of doing "nothing." She could write and copy several sentences, with much improved penmanship, and sometimes even construct the sentences from her own head. She no longer was paralyzed by spelling mistakes. Her writing was complex and creative and spontaneous.
Her ability to read, something I hadn't yet taught overtly, had jumped over the summer, too. But I certainly couldn't credit my incessant quizzing. She was reading in spite of me. And she was reading fine - comprehending, processing - but she didn't LOVE reading.
Somehow, the fact that my 7 1/2 year old wasn't reading more than reader books and Dr. Seuss, and was certainly not reading for pleasure and relaxation like I do, I translated as "my child isn't a reader". And it worried me that she hadn't shown an interest in picking up The Hobbit or Harry Potter from my nightstand.
My child, who sings, harmonizes, and naturally finds chords on the piano.
My child, who knows birds by song, sight and flight pattern.
My child, who rides a skateboard and has been on two-wheels since age 4.
My child, who climbs trees like a squirrel.
My child, who sews independently on the machine, and creates her own patterns and templates.
My child, who just this morning was walking through the grocery store with me and knitting.
My child, who helps her sisters.
My child, who cooks scrambled eggs by herself.
My child, who feels concerned that she cannot invite all her friends to her birthday party, because their feelings may be hurt.
My child, who has been crafting and knitting and drawing pictures for her yet-unborn twin cousins.
My child, who I can trust to not cross the street without permission.
My child, who dances around the kitchen to Tchaikovsky or Grateful Dead.
So this is the child I'm concerned about?
Because she's not reading long chapter books?
Even though she loves looking at books and listening to me read?
And even though I've heard her read to her sisters?
(I won't even go into how I feel when I hear about friends' younger children reading.)
Today I'm gently laughing at myself, at my insecurities.
Today I'm enjoying my completely normal, average child.
