I pride myself on the fact that every one of our children has had the distinguished opportunity to showcase my art skills each year they have been selected for “Star of the Week” in their elementary school classrooms. Multiply kindergarten through second grade, times 4 children, and that equals twelve “Star of the Week” masterpieces. Twelve. Four years of art education has not gone to waste. Money well spent I’d say.
I have masterfully created epic posters littered with colorful photos, stickers, smatterings of hand drawn art, lettering perfection, and perfectly labeled events of our young “Star’s” life to which my children had little involvement. On occasion I would let them place a sticker or glue a photo, and allowed them to answer the required questions like, “What is your favorite food?” and “What do you like to do in your spare time?” while trying desperately to not answer for them.
I amaze myself, really.
Our children would smugly sweep into their classrooms, poster in hand, anticipating the stunned faces and dropped jaws from classmates running to catch the first glimpse of the magnum opus. I have a reputation to behold.
I would escort each child to said classroom only to soak in the sticky sweet of acclaims and applause and watch, hidden among the mass, sullen faces of those whose defeat was apparent because of ill equipped mothers. Sad.
Enter child number four. Child number four wants to take my skills and stomp them into the rubbish lying in a city gutter. Child number four wants to do everything himself. Child number doesn’t color inside the lines and misspells words using permanent marker. He hastily turns a “b” into a “d” and crosses out unnecessary letters. Child number four uses tape instead of glue. You can see tape, you cannot see glue. He has stickers which overlap each other, and lays misshapen photos too close to handwritten words and phrases. Child number four spats in the face of my animated characters and expert collage execution. Child number four will suffer the consequences of his misguidance and stubborn ways. He will suffer.
Walking into the room carrying a heap of a “Star of the Week” poster, the teacher greets me, anxious I’m sure, to view the beauty for which I am known around campus. I plop the poster on the back table and begin to explain. “I have a degree in art from a reputable university. I can create a spectacular “Star of the Week” poster while blindfolded, suffering from dehydration and with supplies purchased at a hardware store. This is what I do. However, I have a 4th child who says, ‘I’ve got this Mom. This is my poster.’”
The teacher laughs and says, “I love when the kids do their own posters. The parent posters are pretty, but the posters done by children are my favorite and his is beautiful!”
My art supplies are packed away for good. Posters from past years are stuffed into the garage rafters, and I have resigned to letting the 4th child do projects on his own without any of my help.
The smell defeat is waifing about, but it isn’t as bad as I thought it would be. I surrender, but if you happen to need the skills of a seasoned “Star of the Week” poster creator, I know just the right person.