I’m astounded at the level of learning my second grader is experiencing. I don’t remember reading chapter books in second grade. I barely remember knowing my ABC’s. I certainly didn’t know how to calculate complicated word problems with the inexplicable American coin system, and I sure as hell wasn’t doing multiplication. So I’m impressed. As my second grader grows every more independent (read: irascibly defiant), I constantly think, “Was I this way in second grade at age seven?” And then I remember: I have very little recollection of second grade, because for me, second grade was dealing with a father who was at death’s door from his long-suffering cancer and a mother who was loving but tremendously distracted, as well. And after my father’s death in November of second grade, the rest of the year was dealing with being “Gavin, the kid whose dad died, this year.” That’s quite a realization I’m trying to absorb. Every single time I say the two words, “second grade” I’m transported to a year of sickness, accidents, falling, crying, …