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For those of you who have never had children or never been around children or never even been a child, this blog might not resonate with you. But for everyone else, let me start by saying, I’m no PhD in Child Psychology, but I’m pretty sure my child is better than yours.
Don’t get pissy with me, it wasn’t my gene pool that created this sheer brilliance. And I assure you this magical gift has been cleverly disguised as an annoying inability for some time now, but thanks to this zombie apocalypse, I recently had a revelation about my youngest child’s arts and crafts.
COVID-19 brings out the worst in all of us.
So here we are, like billions of other families across the globe, cooped up with our children trying to bide our time until we can all come out, like moles into the sunlight, and play again. Now before I go any further, I want everyone to know I’m a good daddy–well, good enough. I encourage my children to believe in themselves and march to the beat of their own drum and unfold at their own pace. And I love my kids as much as the next guy locked away for days at a time without even as much as a hint of stimulating adult language, but for the love of Pablo Picasso, how many art projects does one fella have to endure?
Really. How many pink unicorns or mer-pups or whatever-the-shit can two children duplicate over and over and over in a matter of weeks? I’m just a dude, not a saint.
And what one of the girls does, the other one copies. When one girl gets a special treat, the other one gives a complete history lesson on treat rations over the past 24 hours. And when one child gets a complement, the other one is ready to throw her under the bus. Oh yeah Daddy? Well, she had two bags of chips, a “full” piece of gum and a donut for breakfast.
Can we be honest?
When I was a kid, we respected our parents’ sanity. We didn’t put this kind of strain on our poor, overworked parents. We did the right thing, like played with matches down by the railroad tracks until the streetlights came on… with zero parental supervision. You know, like good children.
And my wife who is, in fact, a saint, not so long ago was on the verge of some kind of artwork intervention plan to rid the house of these stupid (yeah, I said it) pictures with the glue and the glitter and the markers in shuffled stacks on every flat surface in every room of our house. So don’t judge me because I had the urge to speak freely to my youngest.
“What’s that? Hell no, McKenna, we’re not putting Sparkles up on the fridge. Why? Because it sucks that’s why. You don’t even stay within the lines. But I love you. I just don’t love Sapphire or Diamond or whatever stripper name y’all give these characters.”
Going down with the ship.
But I would never say that. Instead I did what I always do. I talked to them in some patronizing, child-like tone, the same way I talk to the dog–you know, good job, such a big girl, horseshit like that–and then smiled and muttered some noble lie. But in my mind, I thought, Great. Another pink f*@king pony that apparently farts glitter. How original.
And so, Sparkles goes on display–attached to some frameless, scotch-taped piece of printing paper. And I worry myself to death about how it might dumb down my sophisticated image as it flaps in the breeze every time I swing the fridge door open to double up on mayonnaise for my fried bologna sandwich.
Sophisticated image, indeed.
And then it hits me.
I have this all wrong? Our child–my child–is clearly a savant. I mean, what the hell do I know anyway? Coloring in the lines? This is real art, Kyle, you uncultured sack of ass holes. And suddenly my baby girl is a messenger of the divine.
And my wife and I try to remember where it was that we read that Albert Einstein once colored outside the lines with his pink ponies. Probably right after he flunked out of 3rd grade. Geniuses blaze their own trail and follow their dreams because they don’t color in the lines. Scratch that–they refuse to color inside the lines. How brilliant. How special. How gifted is my wee angel?
What you call lazy and disinterested, I see as the second coming of Christ or at least Jackson Pollack. WWJD–what would Jackson do? And we are sure the next step is Julliard. And we are sure the world just doesn’t understand. And we are sure that we were chosen by God to usher this important child into the world because we are special too. Obvi.
Oh, how incredible it is to know that I, Kyle Houston, have been gifted the honor of ushering in the new messiah, and it all starts with this glorious art.
Let the revolution begin.
I’m sorry I thought of calling them pink f*@king ponies. Because I see them for what they are now as I use new phrases like “birthed into the world” because I am here to start nothing short of a revolution with my child’s sacred craft, thank you very much.
And I will paint the world with McKenna’s perfect, albeit hard to see, art. Not just all over the walls of the house but all over the sidewalks and street signs and tree branches like toilet paper on Halloween night. Because who ever said we were supposed to color in the lines anyway? My baby girl is on a mission.
That’s right, McKenna. Make it pink. Make it ponies.
It might just be what changes the world.