A Little Artist
I've told this story a few times now, but I think it deserves retelling. It's the story of the first week of our completely recent move from the CITY of San Francisco to the WOODS of Leggett, California.
After almost two years of living on Haight Street, next door to Amoeba Records, across the street from a club, and above a bar and a coffee shop (the combination of which pretty much guarantees that we will be bombarded by noise at all times), my family has moved under the trees to become small tree dwellers in a rundown cabin farther North in California. To make a long story short, it's a bit of an adjustment. A much needed adjustment, in many ways. But still, an adjustment.
But I am not the star of this story, and neither is my superstar husband, Chinua, despite all our heroism in refraining from breaking or killing anything during our move. No, the hero of this story is our son, who will soon be 3, in cuteness equivalent to Puss in Boots in Shrek 2.
He has reached new levels of creativity. He is adorable. The sweetest little kissy-faced boy with gigantic eyes that you have ever seen. Kid A is right on the line between baby and boy, with an impressive vocabulary, and like I said, new levels of creativity.
If you came to our new cabin, close to the Eel River in a Christian community in the Redwoods, you would first see the boxes that are yet unpacked stacked outside on our porch. Ignore them, they are not the point, and yes, I would rather have them stacked outside where I don't have to worry about them crowding the small space inside. That is, until it starts raining. If you opened the door on a given day, though, you may just be lucky enough to see one of Kid A's new creations.
Like. His younger sister, sixteen months old, sitting in her crib covered in talcum powder so thick that she has been obliterated, and only her little brown eyes are visible.
Or. The same younger sister, covered in brown marker, as he is, as their sheets and blankets are. Where did this marker come from? It is a mystery that will never be solved.
Or maybe: a larger piece, involving a whole box of Life Cereal, a whole jug of apple juice, and a large container of cream top yogurt, lovingly smushed together and spread across the newly vacuumed carpet. This piece also involved several washcloths soaking in the toilet, the results of Kai trying to "clean up" his masterpiece.
Now, I am a Philistine, I have to confess. I don't have a lot of appreciation for these works of art, the results of my getting back to the cabin after their nap just a little too late. I'm sorry, Kid A, I hope my reactions to your creations have not tainted your future in art. I mean, I am an artist as well, although in the more traditional mediums of oil and canvas. Humdrum, I know.
All I can say is that adjusting to a new place is one thing. But when there are little people involved, who are just the slightest bit, shall we say, unreasonable, it is a whole other thing. And it doesn't help to throw a big fit before you clean it all up. All you can do is have the important talk, employ whatever discipline you deem fit, and then forgive and forget. And thank God that kids are so cute, because they sure need the advantage at times.
After almost two years of living on Haight Street, next door to Amoeba Records, across the street from a club, and above a bar and a coffee shop (the combination of which pretty much guarantees that we will be bombarded by noise at all times), my family has moved under the trees to become small tree dwellers in a rundown cabin farther North in California. To make a long story short, it's a bit of an adjustment. A much needed adjustment, in many ways. But still, an adjustment.
But I am not the star of this story, and neither is my superstar husband, Chinua, despite all our heroism in refraining from breaking or killing anything during our move. No, the hero of this story is our son, who will soon be 3, in cuteness equivalent to Puss in Boots in Shrek 2.
He has reached new levels of creativity. He is adorable. The sweetest little kissy-faced boy with gigantic eyes that you have ever seen. Kid A is right on the line between baby and boy, with an impressive vocabulary, and like I said, new levels of creativity.
If you came to our new cabin, close to the Eel River in a Christian community in the Redwoods, you would first see the boxes that are yet unpacked stacked outside on our porch. Ignore them, they are not the point, and yes, I would rather have them stacked outside where I don't have to worry about them crowding the small space inside. That is, until it starts raining. If you opened the door on a given day, though, you may just be lucky enough to see one of Kid A's new creations.
Like. His younger sister, sixteen months old, sitting in her crib covered in talcum powder so thick that she has been obliterated, and only her little brown eyes are visible.
Or. The same younger sister, covered in brown marker, as he is, as their sheets and blankets are. Where did this marker come from? It is a mystery that will never be solved.
Or maybe: a larger piece, involving a whole box of Life Cereal, a whole jug of apple juice, and a large container of cream top yogurt, lovingly smushed together and spread across the newly vacuumed carpet. This piece also involved several washcloths soaking in the toilet, the results of Kai trying to "clean up" his masterpiece.
Now, I am a Philistine, I have to confess. I don't have a lot of appreciation for these works of art, the results of my getting back to the cabin after their nap just a little too late. I'm sorry, Kid A, I hope my reactions to your creations have not tainted your future in art. I mean, I am an artist as well, although in the more traditional mediums of oil and canvas. Humdrum, I know.
All I can say is that adjusting to a new place is one thing. But when there are little people involved, who are just the slightest bit, shall we say, unreasonable, it is a whole other thing. And it doesn't help to throw a big fit before you clean it all up. All you can do is have the important talk, employ whatever discipline you deem fit, and then forgive and forget. And thank God that kids are so cute, because they sure need the advantage at times.