It is our second week of school, and we start the morning with the typical routine: brush hair, brush teeth, eat breakfast, get dressed, make beds (mine, woefully, lies all twisted, as my room is the last room of the house to get it's necessary deep cleaning since my hospitalization). Then we say the pledge of allegiance, and sing the national anthem (Rosy's favorite part of the school day.)
Caleb draws a picture of Amy, and I marvel at what a three year old boy can do. He sits with us for 20 minutes - as long as Amy does - drawing and writing "letters" on his new dry erase board.
Katy's fingers are still dimpled, even at age eight. She starts her workbook with vigor, but stops mid-sheet to teach Caleb something, or help Amy find the right color crayon. Already she is a little teacher, a little mama. I wonder what life holds, career-wise, family-wise for this astute little subject of mine.
Amy has her own pre-K workbook this year, and she learns to color in the lines, outlines the letters of the color names with her crayon, held a different way each time. She still struggles for consistency, writing the same way each time, or grasping her crayon in a habitual way. But she is here - hat, Nuk and all! - at the school table with us, and I find myself invigorated and challenged to be the very best special ed teacher ever for this little one.
Rosy dresses up for school, and reads without really realizing she's reading, and learns our address and phone number.
A month ago, this proximity to my children would have sent me into panic and anxiety. God is so sweet to be lifting the burden of my anxiety just as school starts again. I bask in the half hour with Rosy, working on math and reading comprehension. I am a born teacher, and once again feel confirmed that I am doing just the right thing for these four. They are already waist-deep into concepts they'd be missing if I sent them elsewhere. God is gracious to provide me the strength to do it again this year.
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