Everything is harder for this little one.
Her body doesn’t quite know how to calm itself. Her hands don’t always know the extent of their reach. She trips. She falls. She bumps into. She upsets the cup, the plate, the markers on the desk. It takes her longer to climb up a flight of stairs. She needs help tackling them going down. Her mouth doesn’t quite make sounds as easily as others’ can: words come out jumbled, not always the right sounds or meaning, often in a mismatched grammar and word order. Food gets messy. Swallowing’s tricky. She gags. She coughs.
But she tries.
Oh, boy, she tries.
She’s a perfectionist, too.
Everything requires repetition. Still she tries again. Again. Again. She shakes her head at any suggestion she accept the unperfected.
“I do more time,” she insists, sometimes in tears but with no less conviction.
And she does. ‘More time’ and time again and then again and then some.
And slowly, sometimes out of the mist of helpless frustration and gritted teeth and hugs and endless patience — she succeeds.
A circle that closes. A list of items in a category. An idea expressed. A multisyllabic word with no sounds missing. A full sentence with all words in attendance. A coat pulled on without assistance. A triangle traced. A tower of blocks. A pattern of beads. A banana that peels without the insides getting mashed. A sip of apple juice from an unaided cup, no spill, no cough.
“I tried and I tried,” she beams. Each time anew. Sometimes with tears still glistening from the last attempt that didn’t quite get up to her own standards. Each time there’s fire in her eyes.
“I told you I can!”
Indeed you had.
Indeed you can.
Hats off, little one.
Every. Single. Time.
For The Daily Post