My twelve year old daughter casually handed me her latest drawing last night. I nearly jumped out of my skin. I know I screamed. First out of sheer excited awe followed by bubbling doubt then gnawing tenacity to get to the bottom of it. She then hands me what she drew it from. Being that I’m the worst mom on the planet I may have asked her if she stole it from a peer. Because it’s that much of a miracle.

She went from her small comfy public elementary school where she had been given the same crayolas since kindergarten, to swim in the deep end of her new public middle/high school where she was given seven different types of pencils and six different types of erasers and tools with names I have yet to learn. As an explanation for how she went from zero to hero (bad mom speak again but I’m trying to draw you a picture in my Picasso way explaining to you the universe sized stretch of mastering a line from one month to another) she simply said these words: “I have a really good teacher.” I nearly cried. I never had a teacher like that. A teacher to look up to, to gain from, to learn aside and be alike.

I now know my child has a world in front of her that shall unfold with brighter lights and richer colors, vaster horizons to fill her sky high dreams, deeper connections to fill her soul, a hand that breathes life into stone and an eye that captures beauty in all shades. Last night was the first night this mother felt she could rest easy.