I know that some day my five-year-old son Ax will write.  Just like I knew he would learn to walk, use the potty, and dress himself.  Still, some days I look at his preschool colleagues with their upper and lower case swagger, their confident sounding-out bravado, and then him, stacking blocks and knocking them down in the corner while squealing with delight, and I wonder if perhaps I should be doing something different.  Something more.
            Kindergarten is coming and Ax still holds a pencil in a fist by default.  One of the “kindergarten-readiness” signs is an ability to write one’s own name.  He does that proudly beside his friends Isabella, Jackson, Germaine, and Pomegranate.  Fist-holding that pencil, he announces, “A-X,” as he makes five wobbly lines to get the job done.  I tell him how proud I am of him in some attempt to inoculate him against the harrowing self-doubt, self-loathing, and general insecurity that plagues me. 

            He will learn to write.  I will learn to feel good about myself and my choices.  We are both growing up.