One More Way I've Failed My Children
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.