I forget how little they are.  Elementary school age kids.  They are babies.  Tiny.  Maybe it is because my crew…well they are grown.  Big, large, grown adult humans. At almost 19 and 21 they tower over me.  You would think I would remember how little these guys are given how  frequently I speak to elementary school students. And it is not always their size…yet different “things” that remind me of how small they are.   This week it was the tiny bathroom mirror.  The one that, at 5’1, I had to bend over to see into. It was the little first graders at recess playing the “parachute game”.  Their little bodies struggling to get the parachute up together, then struggling again to bring it down trapping air to make a little “mountain”.  Many of them standing while others were sitting.  Laughing.  Wiggling.  Bodies constantly in motion.  Just trying to figure it all out.  As they should be.  And while I largely do not speak to first and second grade, even my third graders always seem little.  Because…they are.

Let them be bored. They can be bored outside in the heat or they can be bored inside in the air conditioning but boundaries and guidelines will state that they cannot bother you. They also cannot consistently bother you, hoping you will find something for them to do. Explain that you have your own day to navigate, and that you are not their activities director.

And therein lies the quiet, pensive truth. That childhood ritual of marking your presence with a signature, while imperfect and sometimes rebellious, was a form of human connection. It was a tactile, shared experience—one that fostered a sense of belonging. You could see it, touch it, and know that it was real. When you wrote “Kristi was here” on a bathroom stall, you hoped someone might see it someday, smile, or even respond. When you carved your initials into a tree, it meant you had left a part of yourself behind, forever, in a place you loved.

Today’s digital signatures lack that physical intimacy. They are often disconnected from the tangible interactions that make us human. The post, comment, or emoji is quick, transient, and often stripped of the messy, beautiful imperfections of real life. It’s hard to feel the weight of a moment when your marker is a tap on a screen. The sense of permanence is blurred by the endless scroll, the temporary nature of a trending meme, or the viral wave of an impulsive comment.