The gene pool around here is a bit messy. My husband is the only lefty, so when the progeny started to appear I made sure that I had a watchful eye.
Would they be lefties?
Would they be righties?
I’d done my homework. I knew, some, of the issues that can arise if a natural lefty is forced in a contrary direction. Being the superior parent that I am, I soon noticed that writing implements were not a popular choice. There were many to chose from, always readily available.
I was prepared for children who write on walls and other inappropriate places. That’s just part and parcel for childhood. I was prepared. When no such event occurred, I concluded, obviously, that my children were far more exceptionally good than I had anticipated. Unexpectedly, I found myself yearn for a graffiti artist, one or two, but this development also failed to materialize. I concluded, logically, that my writing materials were just too dull to entice engagement. This inspired me to spend far too much money on vast quantities of far more interesting implements because some people are penny-wise and pound-foolish, especially when the local currency is dollars and cents.
There were other things of course, with hindsight.
I knew that I had American children and that therefore I must attempt to teach ball skills, not one of my strengths but duty called. My daughter was a natural, dog and bone. Throw the ball and the child became attached.
The boys on the other hand, were quite another matter but I had to give them a sporting chance. I can still remember the look when I threw the ball, a large textured creature for ease of grasp, in a gentle upward curve towards the middle of the body, when it dropped like a stone at his feet and rolled away. It’s a cat ‘s disdain when you thrown a stick, “and your point is what exactly?”
So what is my point here, exactly?
My point is, that for me at least that I was so busy fiddling with the minutiae that I completely failed to take in the big picture. I’m still adjusting my lens to this day.