My daughter loves to draw. It’s her favorite activity, and she can spend hours at it. Her output alone might be responsible for about 3 square miles of clearcut forest somewhere in the Northeast. (Note to self: donate to the Arbor Day Foundation. Donate a lot.)
Piles of her drawings tend to accumulate, so when she’s not looking, I have to go through them and throw most of them out file them away.
One day I came across this one. I thought, “Huh.” (I did.) I turned it this way. Furrowed my brow (because I’m old enough to be a person who furrows one’s brow). And turned it that way. But for the life of me and all that’s holy, the only thing I could come up with re: What the hell? was that The Girl had drawn a picture of herself…
Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Except that, you know, she’s only 6. That, and I would drag her out of there before the tassels made their first full revolution.
I suppose I should have been happy that she seemed to be wearing a dress from Little House on the Prairie. Guess I was distracted by the fact that whatever she’s doing is boisterous enough to send her eyebrows flying above her head.
So I asked The Girl, “Um, honey, what’s this a picture of?” (Clearly, too upset not to end the sentence in a preposition.)
You can imagine my immense relief when she answered, “Oh, yeah, that’s me. Climbing the rope in P.E.”