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How he will grow!

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They saw the bigger picture that I couldn't

Then

The tiny human I took home from the hospital five and a half years ago is no longer tiny.

He’s now tall enough to ride the California Screamin’ coaster at Disney California Adventure. Only twenty inches tall when I first held him, he currently rises to a full four feet.

He once spoke in single syllable words, graduating to babbling and then speaking in short sentences. Now he narrates his way through most minutes of every day, as if he’s preparing to begin his own blog someday.

He learned to say one letter of the alphabet. Then he learned another one. Soon enough he could say the full alphabet, and before long name one or two written letters. Before long, he could write his name. Now he can write short sentences with sloppy but legible words and read much, much longer ones.

Most days are a flurry of hurry and hustle around here. I tell my little boy I love him, and savor snuggles as we read together, but don’t spend too much time thinking about how much he’s grown in our five and a half years together.

Boots almost as big as mine

Now: Boots almost as big as mine

And then, there’s a moment. A revelation: This little man is the same tiny human that couldn’t even lift his neck when I met him.

Sometimes I find this awe organically. I’m overwhelmed witnessing him sharing food with his brother, or expressing his feelings with nuance, or using a phrase that makes me bust out laughing.

Yesterday it came from a parenting first-for-me: a parent-teacher conference with his teacher, Miss A.

His teacher and I reviewed Li’l D’s progress this year. We concluded we see the same strengths and weaknessesopportunities for growth. We see a soft-hearted lover of reading, language and communication; one who greets numbers somewhat grudgingly but is still more than ready to dive into first grade.

First grade.

But didn’t I just bring him home from the hospital?

Part of me is nervous. I remember how terribly Li’l D faltered last year at the hands of a teacher who disdained him. In three and a half weeks with that teacher, his confidence and vibrance were reduced to shadows of what they’d been before. He’d sobbed for me to take him home the week before I withdrew him, but I’d written it off as adjustment pains. “You’ll get used to this new school,” I told him days before talking to his teacher and hearing with horror how casually she dismissed him in front of me, his parent and her equal. If she was that comfortable dismissing him to me, I could only imagine her quiet but unmistakable hostility when I wasn’t there.

I’m also excited. I know better now how to listen to my son. I know better what questions to ask teachers and school administrators. I know what to listen and to look for, both bright and bitter. I will see and assess it all, with an openness to revisiting daily, weekly or monthly as needed.

My husband and I will work with Li’l D to choose what seems best for him. If we need to choose again soon after, so be it. The rest of his life will unlikely be determined by his first weeks of first grade.

Our “best for him” won’t be gauged by how many “outstanding” marks he gets on his report cards, which tell us very little about our little boy.

We’ll measure bestness in smiles. In happy chatter. In enthusiastic recountings of everything he learned during the day, with occasional grumbling asides about how so-and-so said his lunch was stupid or his socks were mismatched.

We’ll measure it in how his teacher talks to him, with him and about him. How she expresses willingness to partner with us, understanding we will also partner with her. We will not be adversaries but coconspirators in creating the brightest, most enthusiastic learner we possibly can, with each of us understanding some days are better than others for everyone.

We’ll measure it not in how quickly he masters each and every new challenge, but how willingly he tries free from fear of blistering repercussion.

One year ago, we returned Li’l D to Miss A with aching hearts and crossed fingers.

Miss A built him up through the remainder of the school year, and then did the same when she transferred to the kindergarten classroom this year.

We'll always have Mexico!

We’ll always have Mexico!

We’ll all be sad to say farewell to Miss A as Li’l D’s teacher, though we’ll take comfort knowing she’ll be eternally a part of our son’s educational foundation and our lives.

Far more than sad, we’ll be grateful. Miss A’s combination of wisdom, patience, and compassion blended with book and heart smarts was exactly what Li’l D needed to learn not only facts but something far more important: love of learning. With that foundation laid, we believe the rest will follow.

Miss A has taught me even as she’s taught my son. Watching her, I have seen there’s both art and science to teaching. The science can be taught, but the art springs truly from the heart. From a teacher’s passion for seeing her pupils grow as people and future scholars.

It’s been amazing watching my little boy grow from newborn seed to tiny alphabet-singing tendril to flower unfurling itself. Reflecting on Li’l D’s last year with Miss A especially fills me with wonder.

A plant can grow some with even a little damp soil and a hint of light, but oh! How much better it grows with just the right mix of water, shade and sunshine.

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