Good Like a Medicine

Lydia concentrates at the table so hard. She is trying with all of her might to connect the bottom “leg” of the letter “R” to the middle point. She keeps missing it. She kicks her chair and starts crying.

“Mommy, I just can’t make it!’” she exclaims in frustration.

Of course she can. She just needs some encouragement, and after a few more attempts there is a great celebration. Steven giggles and says, “Good, good, Lydia!” He is giggling in his chair, and he has been giggling all morning.

Have I so easily forgotten how difficult it is to learn to use a pencil and a pair of scissors? This jogs my memory. I remember one of my closest grade school friends, Judson. In 2007 he is a dentist, but right now he is sitting in the chair beside me, and I am holding a pair of purple scissors. He looks up at me — way up because I am standing. It is funny to me for years that I have to stand up to cut with scissors.

“Kristi, are you done yet? Hurry up!”

I remember the sweat and discomfort of awkward, cramped fingers. My nose smells the stale aroma of construction paper. I remember how uncomfortable it is to be standing with someone rushing me to cut, and I want to cry. That is the only memory I have about first grade. Second grade is another story. There is the girl who throws up during the pledge of allegiance and the other girl who pees on the cement floor during P.E. But this is first grade, and the only thing I know is frustration with purple scissors.

This is one aspect of homeschooling I forsee with such excitement. I can look at my child’s semblance and see beyond the tension. My heart swells with empathy because I see a little girl standing, trying to get the purple scissors to work.

Oh, dear child, I love you, and we are going to learn so much together.