and as I trimmed it to fit into a square black frame, I said, "I feel like there's a metaphor here somewhere" but she laughed and ran off to play, already forgetting the many hours of messy and frustrating work it had taken, me by her side, to produce this valentine for her teacher.
In the spirit of a holiday that's supposedly all about love with a capital L, I love that she dreamed this project up herself and that she saw it through to completion. I love that - for the first time ever - she loves math, and that she loves the teacher who taught her to love it. I love that she could hardly wait to bring it to him on Valentine's Day. I love that her excitement stemmed from giving something she had made, something she was proud of, rather than from getting chocolate or treats (though she did, and she loved that too). If I'm being honest, I love that the project is finally done, for I could hardly step away for a stitch or two before she was calling my name. But mostly I love the way the beautiful finished product belies the messy backside full of ugly knots and missed stitches, the metaphor for life made piece by piece by my eight-year-old on a series of February days.
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