When One was three, we "tested" him for a pre-pre-school class at the school affiliated with our then-current church. Yes, they tested him: that should have been my first wake up bell (but this was my first child, so I qualified for the mom version of a handicapped sticker - you know how it is). Anyway, everything they asked him to do, he announced proudly "Oh, I can do THAT!", even when it came to things like drawing circles, squares, and triangles: things he had absolutely no idea how to do. They all looked like lopsided circles, but did I care? Of course not: he was three.
Fast-forward to first grade at the same school, and Husband and I are being berated by the elementary school principal about One's terrible printing, being told he might have dysgraphia (impossible to diagnose in a six year old boy, I learn later) and practically ordered to take him to an OT to "fix" his atrocious penmanship. We shrug: he's a six year old boy. We later take the big shrug and pull him out of school altogether, to relax and homeschool for the year.
A year later, One begins to learn cursive as part of his Montessori odyssey. Not surprisingly, his handwriting improved dramatically, and now he has fine cursive that his 4th grade teacher compliments him on.
And he has this:
Who could be prouder?