Hu's fault.

The Dictator engages in coloring fun with Grandma.
Here, she demonstrates hideous crayon-grip technique.

In an earlier post, I discussed the rigorous training of kindergarten children that will doubtless put them ahead of all those Chinese five and six year-olds that think they're so darned smart.  The bulk of this training consists of a handwriting regimen that would make a 1950's Catholic school nun proud.  Since that time, many handwriting-related developments have/have not taken place.


Update:

• We still haven't even touched our handwriting packet that is due in a week--I say "our," because obviously, there's no way she's going to do it without me, and that's the point.  I'm supposed to be in on the whole plan.  They learn better that way.  Also, it's much easier for your kids to know whether or not they should report you to the proper authorities for disloyalty based upon your willingness to help Mother America in her campaign for world domination via handwriting...or not.  

• After volunteering in the Dictator's class last week, I was much relieved to discover that, despite numerous pleas that the Bureaucrat and I work with the Dictator on her apparently sub-par handwriting technique, by no means does she have the worst handwriting in her class.  Her "5"s don't look like "2"s...or "S"s, for that matter.  I'd say that's something...especially after observing some of those other munchkins struggling with writing numbers on math worksheets--and understandably so...let me reiterate: they're FIVE!  In fact, in my inexpert opinion, her handwriting is actually quite nice for that of a five year old.  It's at least as nice as Pretty Headband Girl's handwriting, and Pretty Headband Girl is Pretty Headband Girl, for pete's sake!

• This morning, I was devastated and, quite frankly, horrified to discover a note in the Dictator's backpack that revived all my old fears about my daughter's handwriting-related inadequacy.  "We are working on the Dictator's pencil grip.  Please help her practice at home holding a cotton ball in her palm as she writes...or ELSE!"*  Okay, so that last part wasn't actually explicitly written, but it was strongly implied.  I panicked.  If my daughter can't correctly grip a pencil, how will she ever succeed in life/topple the Communistic regime that is China/establish economic world dominance for her nation?  Frantically, I searched through her bag for clues...anything to help me understand what had gone so terribly wrong. I soon discovered a plastic bag, neatly tucked behind the note (okay, so all my frantic searching was really rather ludicrous and mostly for show. I like drama).  In the bag was a stubby pencil, a wadded up piece of cotton or tissue or something, a broken crayon, and a severed finger.  Okay, so the last object wasn't actually there, but it was strongly implied.  I know now what I have to do.

• For the next nine days, while other families are splashing around in Florida, or whatever it is people with money do on midwinter break, the Dictator and I will be jamming wadded up paper into her palm and concerning ourselves with pencil grip as we complete her handwriting packet with the dedication of two patriots who love their country, hate Communism, love handwriting, and hate Hu. 
  
  To be fair, I don't actually hate Mr. Hu Jintao.  I don't even hate Communism.  I don't love it (don't blacklist me, don't blacklist me), but I don't hate it.  I mostly hate handwriting packets and I'm projecting this hatred onto a safe scapegoat.  Because I'd rather face the wrath of an entire nation with the potential to muster enough economic strength to compete globally or what-have-you, than let on to the Dictator that there might be something about her school's curriculum I'm less than excited about.  Because the good lord knows that child would find a way to use my negativity to conquer me, her school, and the rest of the world.  And she would really give Hu a run for his money...unless he engaged her in a pencil-gripping contest.

* For those who are unaware, I tend toward exaggeration.  I actually adore the Dictator's teacher, disagreements about the importance of early handwriting perfection notwithstanding.  She's funny, energetic, patient, creative, fun and lovely.  And the Dictator has fun in her class...that is, as much fun as a dictator can have when she is not the one in charge.  Both the Dictator and the Anarchist are extremely lucky to have the teachers that they do this year.  I don't know how teachers do it.  And I'm afraid to ask.  Because then they might tell me...and I'd have no excuses left for being a mediocre parent.