Gluesticks and Construction Paper, A Return to My Roots

Okay, so the above picture is not an illustration. But it does illustrate what I have been busying myself with the past two days. My dear neighbor and friend, N, got roped into decorating for our children's school's Spooky Chicken BBQ on Friday night. The “Spooky” was added after someone finally realized that the 29^th fell on Halloween weekend and wouldn’t that make a fun theme? A theme that required decorations. Knowing that I am one of those "creative types,” N approached me to see if I had any ideas. I haven't designed anything tangible in a very long time. It sets me into a bit of performance panic when I am asked to fashion something that someone can actually hold in her hands or hang on a wall. As much as I am completely infatuated with digital art, it can tether any form of creativity beyond my Wacom Tablet and Photoshop. I always want to get back to basics- paints and brushes, my Prismacolor and graphite pencils- but I haven’t had the luxury or the allowance to return to the more palpable experience of illustrating that those implements provide. I, also, haven't had many opportunities, since The Baby came to fruition, to volunteer or contribute to my children's schools. I have been feeling guilty about that. Taking on this assignment, was a way to very temporarily ease my regret and to also let me return to my roots as an artist- all the way back to that time in second grade when my construction paper and glue mural of a clown was honored at the city wide elementary school art show at the Buffalo Convention Center.

My mother, the newly retired 1st grade teacher who has been reincarnated as a substitute teacher, has been so benevolent over the years with her left over craft supplies that we could have dedicated one of the children's rooms as a storage locker for craft sticks, construction paper, foam balls, googly eyes, paints, etc. It has come in handy when Princess Commando has company and they've exhausted all roads leading away from boredom. As I never take inventory, I was unaware that all of the “Halloween” colors were missing. N was going to pick up orange paper so that our kids could decorate cut out pumpkins. In the meantime, I needed to make sure that I could crank out something else that could fill in a Halloween tableau on the cafeteria walls. I started the first of the cutouts, very simplistic bats, before Princess Commando arrived home on the big cheese. She was puzzled when she saw the torn up pieces of paper and oddly shaped silhouettes scattered about the dining room table. "Mom, what are you doing?" I had gotten carried away. I was in a kindergarten, paper crafting, muddledness. The Baby was occupied under the dining room table, ripping my scraps into even more minuscule bits. And, because she was quiet, I kept going- cutting out free-form monsters with bulging eyes and bubbly appendages.


I had forgotten how comforting the tactile sensation of holding construction paper between your fingertips is. As is the feel of scissors (I don’t even have grown up scissors, so I used the rounded tip kid cutters) opening and closing along the path of your outline. And the untidiness of it all, the fuzzy fibers of colored paper stuck to your fingertips by the sticky glue, the paper refuse besprinkled about your feet, the crayons and markers littered upon the table, gave me a feeling of abandon I don’t usually enjoy (as I am the one normally cleaning up after someone else’s creative fling). My products were far from noteworthy. But, the experience was cathartic- crawling back into the artistic womb. It’s too bad my mother is retired. I could really use some more construction paper.

Old Musings #2 The Taste Assignment

Your food is killing me.

This entry is from an old notebook I found from 2002-2009. First Born Son has always been a super taster which makes mealtimes unenjoyable for all. The following is early evidence of his inability to handle new textures. He was 5 years old and in kindergarten. He is referred to as "M" in this reflection.

April 30, 2002


Last night Mrs. T sent home a very fitting assignment for M. The children were to draw a picture of themselves eating that evening's dinner. They were to pay careful attention to their sense of taste. I laughed when I read it because M has the most delicate palate. Everything makes him gag except for marshmallow cereals and fast food burgers (without condiments or cheese, of course). We have been struggling since he was two years old to entice him to sit at the table and at least try a bite of everything on his plate. The fights and dramatics that ensue would seem to warrant a call to Child Protective Services from those listening from the outside. It sounds like the kid is being tortured; and, for him, it feels that way. His repertoire of dinner fare is limited to those foodstuffs that are white (boiled chicken breasts, plain pasta with butter, an occasional piece of mozzarella cheese, and apple slices).


Last night, we grilled homemade turkey burgers on our new charcoal grill. I warned M when he came home from school about what was on the menu. He seemed fine with it until his father brought in the thick burgers nestled warmly in toasted buns. M began to panic. Those burgers did not look like fast food burgers and the bun was too hard. The meat was too spicy and it didn't stick to the bun properly. "Can I have something else?" He pleaded. We have tried to stand firm in our rule that he must eat what is placed before him before he can ask for something else.


"I'm going to throw up!" He kept threatening. 

"You're not going to throw up," We insisted. And then he gagged hysterically on his food.

"I can't eat this!" He protested. "You don't love me!"


This behavior is something we should be used to by now, but the frustration never wanes. And, the energy of fighting against him is more easily sapped now that he has discovered other battles to wage against us. If it was not for H's agreeable dinnertime presence, I might give up on constructing a meal. H takes his time to eat, savoring each morsel, purring with contentment at mealtime, and trying new foods at least twice. Last night, I even made brownies for dessert- a reward if M ate his dinner. But this meal would have consequences for M. He kept spitting out the food and letting it drop to the floor like an infant starting solids. We sent him to his room to settle down. He kept shouting," Nobody loves me! I want to move out of this house!"


I went in to calm him down, "Where do you want to move?"

 "With Grandpa."

 "Call him and ask him if you can live with him. But, if you go, we will miss you very much." I retrieved the phone for him and let him call my father. He wasn't home. M was falling deeper into despair. " You can't live with Nana because she will make you eat spaghetti with sauce, and pork chops, and broccoli, and steak."

 " Where can I live then?" 


"I think you are stuck with us."


He slumped in the hallway and begged with puppy dog eyes to be accepted at our table where the three of us were enjoying our brownies.  I made him sit at his place and complete his "Taste" homework. I suggested that he draw a picture of himself crying at the table with hamburger falling out of his mouth. Instead, he drew a picture of himself with a huge smile and an enormous burger in his hands. This is what he wrote:
"My Mom and Dad made burgers on the grill. They were spicy and hard. I did not like it! I wanted to throw up. Then I went in my room and cried."

That sounds about right. I wonder if Mrs. T, in her 25 years of teaching kindergarten, has ever had a student who suffered so much through such an innocent assignment.