poo sculpture: because they love you.
Valentine’s Day is fast approaching, which can only mean one thing – crappy gifts from my kids. The other day I was given a bunny made out of a toilet paper tube. At Christmas, I got what may or may not have been a dream catcher made from a paper plate and yarn. I know I should keep this stuff but, well, I don’t. I’m a good mom. Or I’m an acceptable mom. Or marginal. Some days I drift into bad mom territory. But mostly I’m pretty so so. Anyway, you get the idea. So, being a so so mom, I crow over these things, “Oh isn’t that wonderful! You made that yourself? Jesus Christ, it’s amazing!” Once my friend Jody, furious over her misbehaving daughter, grabbed a drawing her daughter had done and crumpled it up in front of her. “This is what I think of your drawing!” Jody shouted at her. I mean, she was honest. They’re not that good. For a while I keep the stuff around, tacked to the fridge or on some ledge in the kitchen or on the mantle. And then when no one is paying attention, I get rid of it. I used to save every little scribble. It seemed important at the time. Like one day when my kids were in college I could spread the stuff before me on the rug like some obsessed psycho and sob sentimentally over their drawings of legless pirates.
The worst art project of all is coming up at school: clay. Last year I got the above item. I actually put it up on facebook and asked my friends what they thought it was, so I could act like I knew all along. I thought it was poo, or possibly a sex toy. Turned out it was a sea otter. I mean look at it. I know I’m supposed to treasure these heartfelt gifts. But I sorta wish they’d just give me cash.
One of these days in the future, my kids will ask me if I saved all their doodles and art projects, and I’ll have to make up some story about a fire in a storage unit we don’t have. About how tragically all their Christmas ornaments made out of cat food tins were destroyed. And maybe I’ll muster a tear in my eye too. And I’ll say, well we may not have the log cabins made of Popsicle sticks you made when you were four, but at least we have each other
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My mom’s a piano teacher, and, unfortunately, a nice one. Which basically means that all the art shit other moms don’t want ends up at our house, cluttering our fridge. I’m 23, and the youngest is 14– so why the heck is there toothpick art hanging from our walls?