Doodling Fool

The graffiti on the outside of my house has nothing on what lies within.  I feel like I’m living a scene from Raising Arizona.  We may not live in a trailer but someone in our house has learned their ABC’s real good because they’ve etched “Fart House” across our front porch risers.  When you couple that with the dirty diaper that always seems to be sitting just outside the front door, "Fart House" seems like an appropriate name.  I’m amazed the mailman will even deliver to us.

Inside the house, Max is a doodling fool.  He prefers to create on tabletops and walls, but will settle for sketching on my sweeper in a pinch.  His alphabet skills are not yet as accomplished as his siblings, but give him time.  He’ll probably write long before he decides to speak his first word. 

Max comes from an enduring lineage of scripters and artists.  Years ago toddler Stancey drew some hair for her Charlie Brown-headed brother—another color other than green Sharpie would have been preferable.  And Madison was our sidewalk correspondent until one of his libel remarks upset the neighborhood children.  (No one wants to see his or her name connected to the phrase “is poop”)  Finally Sam did some fine engraving (in gravel) on my van door when he was honing his penning skills.   

So really, I should be grateful that they’re all so literate!

I’m not bragging.  I don’t for a minute think my kids are unique in their desire to want draw and write.  What I do think is unique is my indifference to their desire to create as the day goes on.

“Mom!  Max is drawing on the dog!”

Yah?  So what.  He goes to bed at nine.

Thank God for the Mr. Clean Magic Eraser.

As for the dog, it’s a good thing she’s dark because there’s only so much Mr. Clean can do.  What can’t be erased will be left for posterity.