“I can’t do it!” my four-year-old son cries out in frustration as he suddenly scrunches up his artwork to his chest.
His masterpiece, a brightly colored partially crayoned alphabet, is now a ball of crumpled paper, mashed beyond redemption.
“It’s okay,” I say, trying to calm his tears. “I can help you.”
Slowly I coax the ruined masterpiece from my son’s angry fingers, smooth the jagged creases, place my hand over his to guide the creation of the letters he’d wanted to be just so.
“You are still learning,” I tell him. “It doesn’t have to be perfect.”