She’s poised, pen held above, staring at the white paper intently. She eyes the blue, then the yellow, before finally settling on a lighter blue. Pen is put to paper, the outline drawn ever-so-carefully. I look away for a second, and turn back to see her scrunching the paper up, crushing it into the tightest ball. She catches my confused look, “I didn’t get the line right Mummy” she explains, very matter-of-fact. And with that, she’s back to square one. And if it happens again and again (as it does) often there’s a quiet “I’m no good at this” muttered under the breath.
This scenario happens round these parts. A lot. Not just with drawings. There’s seat positions in cars, colours, toys needing to be a certain way. Refusing to climb under her bedsheets after making her bed. You know when you wish your cherubs wouldn’t get your worst traits and then BAM! There they are? That. Well, I can’t take full credit. 50/50 gene pool and all.
I have a perfectionist on my hands.