Some seasons feel dramatic. This one didn’t!

There were no big announcements, no sudden transformations, no cinematic turning points. And yet, when I look back at the past few months, I realise just how much has shifted! Not in leaps, but in layers.

Somewhere between school mornings, beam practice, and a fifteen-day family takeover at Christmas, Lavinia moved forward again. Slightly taller, slightly steadier, and slightly more herself 🙂

Sailing in school

Year One has settled into something that feels solid now. She walks into school without that half-second hesitation she used to have, the tiny glance back to check we were still there.

She knows the routine: she knows which days require trainers and which require the sacred Homework Notebook. She has opinions about spellings, and very specific views about maths strategies. She has begun correcting us.

Reading has become smoother, more automatic. Writing feels less like an effort and more like an extension of her thoughts. The concentration on her face when she works through something tricky is intense: brows slightly furrowed, lips pressed together, fully committed to getting it right.

The social side is perhaps the most fascinating to observe. There are shifting friendships, alliances that form and dissolve within a week, playground politics explained at the dinner table (or worse, at bedtime) with surprising analytical detail. She narrates her school days like a small journalist embedded in Year One.

Year One is busy, layered, and not always straightforward. But she seems anchored in it now.

Christmas (and “Nonni’s House”)

Christmas this year came with a logistical twist: extended family here in Reading for fifteen days.

Nonni rented a flat next door, which had immediately and unanimously renamed “Nonni’s House.” It became less of a rental and more of an annex to our lives. We drifted between the two homes as if we’d always lived in a semi-detached Italian experiment.

There was a constant undercurrent of espresso and conversation. And food. Doors opened and closed all day long. Lavinia moved freely between spaces, sometimes here for breakfast, there for a story, back again for dinner. It felt less like hosting and more like living inside a shared rhythm.

Fifteen days is long enough to forget what your usual level of quiet sounds like. But it’s also long enough to see something deeper happening. She spoke Italian even better, without hesitation. She absorbed family stories. She played for hours with Nonni, Zio and Zia (especially Zia). She watched how generations interact and, in her own small way, placed herself within that chain.

Christmas Day itself was exactly as it should be: slightly chaotic, overfed, slightly sleep-deprived. There were early mornings and complicated assembly instructions and the familiar moment when wrapping paper seems to multiply on its own. It wasn’t curated or particularly aesthetic. It was loud and full and very much ours.

When everyone finally left, the silence felt almost theatrical.

The gymnastics ups and bumps

Gymnastics has grown with her; not in a dramatic way, though. There hasn’t been a single day where she suddenly looked like a different athlete. Instead, there has been repetition, and more repetition, and more cartwheels and round off… and some handsprings.

Her shapes are a bit tighter now. She holds her handstands longer. When she lands, there’s more control and less wobble. She listens when corrected and, increasingly, understands what the correction actually means. It’s no longer just “straight legs” as a phrase; she can feel when they aren’t straight.

At the end of last year, she had her first competition. There is something surreal about watching your six-year-old stand in a leotard under bright lights, hair tightly secured, waiting for her name to be called. She looked small. She also looked determined.

On floor, she performed with laser focus: controlled landings, clear shapes, no hesitation. When the results were announced and she was awarded gold, there was a flicker of disbelief on her face before it turned into a contained, almost shy smile.

On vault, she powered down the runway with that slightly chaotic bravery that defines six-year-olds attempting something technical at speed. Bronze this time. A podium twice in one day!

It would have been easy to let that moment define the season; instead, it quietly opened the next door.

Soon after, she was invited to trial for the squad. The invitation felt significant: recognition that her coaches saw potential worth investing in, ten months after she started with the sport.

She took it so seriously. She was focused in a way that made her look older than six. She wanted to do it properly, to show what she could do. She never complained about the volume, or the fact that the other girls in the squad look so much better than her (because they are). She never missed a chance to praise them and be supportive with them when things didn’t go well for them.

And in the end, she wasn’t selected. Her coach was heartbroken, but honest.
Lavinia was disappointed, of course. There were questions, and also there was that brave composure children gather when they’re trying to process something that doesn’t match what they hoped for.

But what stayed with me most was what happened next. The following Saturday, she went back to her usual session. Same leotard. Same beam. Same drills. No theatrics. No dramatic declarations about quitting. Just back to work, at the gym and at home.

“Athletes don’t give up, and I won’t give up”, she said to her coach and to us. She’s right, because she’s not there for the squad just yet.

I think that mattered more than the trial itself.

The teeth: the gift that keeps on giving

And then there are the teeth.

She has now lost another couple, each one preceded by days of wobbling, discussion, cautious chewing, and complains, soreness, and repeated requests for me to “just check.” Losing a tooth, in her world, is both an achievement and a minor medical emergency.

The last one fell out overnight. After so much build-up, negotiations, and emotional crescendo… and ended up with a small tooth resting quietly on the pillow in the morning, as if it had decided the timing for itself.

Her smile is in transition now, small gaps giving way to adult teeth that seem to appear overnight. It’s a subtle but unmistakable sign that childhood is moving forward whether I’m ready or not.

Everything else falls in between

If I had to describe this season, I wouldn’t call it extraordinary, but rather accumulative, if you will.

She is more independent at school, stronger and more resilient at gymnastics, more connected to her extended family, and steadily (sometimes inconveniently) less small.

There hasn’t been one defining moment. There have been dozens of small ones; nothing dramatic on its own, but together, they tell the story.

She isn’t transforming overnight, but simply growing: steadily, imperfectly, beautifully. And we’re watching it happen in real time.