Arthur

Arthur is not a child who is often featured in this blog. I love him dearly, sweet little boy. He is an old soul: quiet and battle-crazed in turn. He is what one would imagine a stoic Native American warrior to be; capable of remaining quiet and silent until action is required. His sense of humor belies his French and Irish heritage. His jokes are surprising for the sense of humor and cleverness of them. He is kind and thoughtful, offering the second half of his candy bar, the last chip in the bag, helping when no one else offers.

We are working on first grade in the Waldorf way this year. He is bright and eager for his lessons.
Once he is wrangled up and convinced to have a seat, he listens thoughtfully to his story of the day,  Grimm's fairy tales at the moment. Then he works on his drawing and letter sounds, whips through pages of math, then needs to get up and play his storm song on the piano or get back outside to whatever project is occupying the rest of his mind. He can concentrate on an activity for hours, but mostly when the activity is composed of lots of movement. 

He has incredible strength for his age and size. This little 7-year-old can beat the pants off of much older teens at things like finger-tip push-ups. Accept a challenge from him at your own risk. The other day the kids told me of a 16-year-old who managed 6 finger-tip push-ups, while Arthur did 23, on only 3 fingers, without breaking a sweat. Having not much inclination towards athletics myself, I am not quite sure what I should do with this information, except to keep him enrolled in kung-fu and to put those fingers to use knitting! Someday he will make a great chopper of wood, like his older siblings, cook like his parents or maybe painter like his great-aunt. 

For now, he is my little boy, he runs, he plays, he listens to my stories and plays a mean game of Mille Bournes.