We have a door in our house that is so important to me.  Inside are dozens of tiny lines marking how our kids have grown. Alan started when Matthew was two and every few months they line up to see ‘how big” they are.  We used the inside of the door (rather than the door frame) so I can take it with us if one day we sell this house.  It’s precious.

A couple of weeks ago, Helen came running to me.

Mama, come see what I drew! 

And she showed me this:


Our door.  Covered in her scribbles.  But I couldn’t be angry.  She had no idea she wasn’t supposed to draw on a door.  We never told her. Do you know why?  Until recently, she couldn’t hold a pencil…or much of anything else.  Not for long, anyway.  And never for fun.

Mama, come see what I drew!

What. She. Drew.  With a pencil.  Month after month of folding her little hand in mine to hold a crayon or a spoon, to fasten her shoes or pull up a zipper.

This way Helen.  Now you try.  Try hard, you can do it.

Over and over again.

Day after day of messy shaving cream, sand, paint, anything that gave her fingers practice on understanding what her brain was trying to say.

For this.

Mama, come see what I drew.

I did go see.  And what I saw was beautiful.


One thought on “Perspective

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