David frowned but picked up his red crayon. He pretended the tip was a tiny race car. Slowly, he drove it across the bridge. This time, the line was less wobbly. Still shaky, but better.
But David’s hand wasn’t cooperating. Every time he tried to trace the straight line from the smiling sun to the watering can, his crayon wobbled like a sleepy worm. The line looked more like a mountain range than a smooth path. grafomotorika radni listovi
Miss Lana noticed. She knelt beside him and said, “Do you know why we practice these sheets? Not because we want perfect lines. We want your hand to learn the secret language of your thoughts. Every curve, every loop — it’s preparing you to write your name, to draw your dreams.” David frowned but picked up his red crayon