Wearing my art on my sleeve.

I freely admit that I am an overly-sensitive type. 

That being said, I was standing next to the truck yesterday morning waiting for the gas tank to fill, I casually observed an interaction between a hurried mother and her young child at the pump next to me that left me heartbroken. While the woman was also waiting for her tank to fill up, she was busy tidying the inside of her car. Those of us with toddlers know how quickly the backseat can get out of hand. As the gas pump clicked off signaling a full tank, she was finishing wadding up all the miscellaneous wrappers, papers and what-not she found in her car and made her way to the trash can between our pumps. My own pump clicked off shortly after hers, and I returned the pump to its cradle just as she was depositing her trash in the container. I gave a quick glance at her double-handful and caught a glimpse of a crinkled, construction paper creation at the bottom of the pile just as it went into the bin. Having a vast collection of my own at home, I instantly recognized it as something that was crafted by her daughter most likely at a daycare or preschool. I panicked for the child, hoping that she did not see that her artwork had made it into the pile earmarked for the big red can. Isn’t that silly? Just as I thought the mom was in the clear, I heard the tiny whine….

 

“Momm-my, you threw away my….”

 

Cue my sinking heart.

 

Every day for the last few weeks Barbara has marched through the door and proudly presented me with her artwork of the day when she comes home from school and announces that she: 

a.) made this for me, and 

b.) wants to hang it on her wall. 

Certainly I don’t keep every single composition that comes home with Barbie each day. The vast majority are hung weekly on her wall in her playroom, clipped to a clothesline-like ribbon. There they hang until the ribbon looks like its going to rip the hooks right out of the wall, and at that point, the best of the best are chosen to be archived. Usually anything that involves a hand or footprint, indicating her size at this time in her life, or something that was smeared, slathered, spattered or otherwise scribbled with her own little hands. 

Shapes cut out by teachers and instructed to be glued together in mass production to make a bee, a house, a bunny, etc. usually don’t make the cut. (Or anything involving glued-on bits of candy or food for that matter). But even these not-so-extraordinary pieces of handiwork are never to be seen going into the recycle bin with her impressionable eyes. After all, she's probably already an overly-sensitive type too. It’s a sneaky dance on garbage night sometimes, but its well worth the extra effort.

 

I Wanna Rock With You... (All Night).

As a new parent-to-be, you are often chided with clichés about being up at obscene hours only to be slumped cribside at the mercy of an irrational little being. While very on-the-mark, it often assumes that this is an unfortunate and dreaded part of the package deal. I suppose for many it is. For me, this was my nirvana.

 

One of the very best experiences I have had as a mom thus far has to be the twilights spent (most times comatose myself) rocking Barbara to sleep. Still at two-and-a-half, she requests her send-off to dreamland to start in the black and white gingham rocker in the corner. Its actually quite comical these days, now with her legs hanging over the arms of the chair, sprawled across my lap. Even with limbs dangling and swaying, she manages to get cozy and doesn’t even mind my bad karaoke.

 

During her first year, the default song that for unexplained reasons always ran through my head (and came out of my mouth) as I was rocking her was the Temptations’ “Just My Imagination”. I still wonder where that inspiration came from—why that song? Motown was not exactly on heavy rotation in my house when I was growing up. As she’s grown, we’ve progressed into the first verse of “Yellow” by Coldplay. I say only the first verse, because in my delirium, I can’t manage to remember the lyrics too well. In fact, I’m quite sure that I mangle the first two verses together into one, but I’m certain she doesn’t know the difference (my apologies to Chris Martin). The unforgettable chorus, however, is my loveletter to her:

 

“You’re skin, oh yeah you’re skin and bones

Turned into something beautiful.

D’you know? For you I’d bleed myself dry

For you I’d bleed myself dry.

Its true. Look how they shine for you.

Look at the stars…

Look how they shine for you,

And all the things that you do.”