If you were to sneak a peek into my living room this morning, you would probably see the wide, dimpled grin of the sweetest 13-month-old in the world as she swoops in and snags my pen from where it is sitting on top of my grocery list (Which was prepared last night for the inevitable shopping trip that MUST occur this morning if we wish to eat something other than peanutbutter and tuna for dinner).
She clenches it between her chubby fingers with the determination of an ant pulling a boulder, and talks seriously to the room in general while she attempts to scribble over my painstakingly neat grocery list.
She loves pens. Pens, pencils, crayons, chalk–if she can hold it in her hand and draw on something she is perfectly happy. Of course, I know where this is leading. Part of me is already suspiciously watching the walls for the inevitable crayon marks. The other part of my brain, however, is secretly tickled to watch her learn, and entertaining the conceited wonderings of every parent ever–who knows, maybe my daughter WILL write the next great American novel.