I’ve never been the most artsy of people. In grade school when every art teacher can find something nice to say about a kid’s efforts, my teacher told me I’d make a good lawyer.
Even when my mom commented on my artwork, she’d say things like “nice effort on that turkey, honey.”
“Uh, mom. That’s an Indian at the first Thanksgiving.”
“Sure, honey. Now I see it. Did I show you these brochures I picked up for you for law school?”
For me, one of the best parts of having children is that I can blame all artistic misadventures on them. The sponge painting project in the basement that just didn’t look quite right? Uh, yeah the kids got a hold of the paint brushes. The Fall theme display I tried to make on the front porch out of corn husks which fell apart and scatted so much debris in front of the door that the postman asked for hazard pay? Uh, yeah the boys put that up. Isn’t it cute?
How about the garland on the Christmas tree that looks like it was slung up there by a blind, drunken sailor? Uh, Lauren did it. Didn’t she try hard?
The crooked star on the top? Uh, the kids knocked into the tree. Yeah, that’s it.
Before you start feeling too bad for my children, may I point out that they’ll be using these same tricks someday? After all, I’ve been gifted with my fair share of “turkey/indian/what the heck is that?” kind of art work by these children. Someday when they tell me the grandkids attempted to sponge paint the foyer, I’ll just smile and say, “how cute.”