"But Mom," I whined. "I want to finish my drawing." I was in the middle of a Georges Seurat pointillism phase and had been busily hammering a piece of paper with colored pencils.
I recall this very distinctly.
Mom shrugged and put her hands in the air like she just didn't care. Next thing I knew I was out on the front porch with my sketchpad and no pencils staring at the door. Click.
"That was a very strange thing for an Art major to do to her kid," said Tom. "What'd she suggest you do instead? Go find your brother and dress him up in a leotard?"
|My brother, dressed in a leotard.|
Maybe, I mused. Either that or spend a pleasant afternoon brawling with the boys up the street, which is how I spent half my childhood.
My mother was completely unconcerned that they had BB guns and all we had were these ghetto guns my Pop taught us how to make out of 2x2s and rubber bands. Ammo were those hard little plastic tags from unopened bags of hotdog buns and Wonderbread. We'd skulk around Miller's Grocery and harvest a shelf's worth of firepower down the baked goods aisle.
Also a wholesome activity far superior to quietly drawing in my bedroom.
"She probably did you a favor," said Tom. "If you'd gotten any good at art, you'd be one of those poor starving MFAs."
"And instead I got good at duking it out with boys..." I said, before I realized this explains most of my career.