Both Sadie and Georgia have lovely penmanship. You'll have to take my word for it, since, no doubt, you've never received a thank you note from them. My own handwriting can be nice but depends on how inspired I am by the writing instrument. I love gel pens and fine, fluid ballpoints. The style of it changes so often, I don't recognize my own signature from one week to the next. Yet I pride myself on its looking cool.
Jack and Lola have the penmanship of a donkey.
Christy Brown had better handwriting. But I've never worried about this or nagged them about it, because I figure cursive is going the way of the
filmstrip. I'm all for evolution, not one to lament the lost art of cave drawings. As the person who spent an hour a day in fifth grade coaching Pam Crawford to shape her script from monkey scratch into strokes worthy of an
Illuminated Manuscript, I've come to the conclusion that there are better things to do with your time. Pulling out your eyelashes, for instance.
Jack types faster than I can. Lola can translate both English and Pig Latin through facial expressions alone. Who cares if their signatures look like hoof prints? Greg gets on to them occasionally, telling them to slow down on their homework, to write neatly. I make faces behind his back and remind Lo that if she hurries with her spelling worksheet, she can go practice Chess. After all, they don't give trophies for handwriting.
But I have to admit, the conversation I had on the phone with Jack this morning makes clear my message has been sent, giving me pause for concern:
TR: Hey, Go into the kitchen... Do you see that peach-colored slip of paper on the counter?
Jack: The litte square one?
TR: Yeah. Now, look on the back, where it says re-deliver, and check that, and then sign my name on the line and put it in the mailbox.
Jack: How do I sign it?
TR: Just put T---
Jack: I don't know how to write a cursive T.
Luckily, one of our neighbor's has a tree removal biz and was able to clear it away by noon. No major damage. This is the second Bradford Pear to split on us in two weeks. It's bad enough they make your yard smell like morning at the Chicken Ranch.
Finally, we were able to drive to Ellijay to ride Bear Creek trail. Seven miles up a mountain with wet socks and shoes from falling into Bear Creek is a lot easier when there's scenery like this at the top:
Lola napping. She has a little case of Strep.
Jack waking from a nap. He has a little case of Teen.
Pepa hunting crickets.
Roxy admiring himself in the mirror.
Rusty snacking. Blocking Tebow from snacking.
Laverne checking to see if I gave the guinea pigs snacks.
Fay and Daisy guarding the stairs until Biggy gets back from riding his bike.
Stella guarding the couch.
Timmy guarding his rock. 
Me, just back from the Y, guarding my bra fat.
