Introduce your inner Picasso

My friend Elise sent me a great link the other day (Web, not sausage) which anyone with a kid who can handle a mouse should know about. The site allows the untalented (moi) to play at being an artist and the enviably talented to do some amazing things (see the "gallery"). Madeline, who will start kindergarten at the end of the summer, has LOVED getting artsy, and I've been surprised at her creativity. And, let me tell you, turning off the computer when she's done is considerably quicker than vacuuming up the glitter that was the hallmark of her most recent creative outlet.

One of Madeline's recent pictures is particularly notable for its text. Madeline knows her letters and their corresponding sounds, but I haven't made a real effort to teach her to read. (Before my Mom Card is revoked, let it be known I do read TO my children.) For starters, I figure that's what kindergarten is about. But, more importantly, if I tried, I'm virtually certain at least a month of any future counseling she might seek would involve describing "the summer my mother became the writing nazi."

So the little sprite spells everything phonetically. I correct her, of course, but mostly she just goes wild stringing sounds together. (Her kindergarten teacher will just LOVE me.) So, ahem, you'll notice in the photo, in red, it "says" iwutmbrdu. Which translates: "I want my bread." Now, like me, you might wonder what that last u is about. I asked Madeline and she explained, "Well, it's 'unh,' like when you're really tired and hungry, so you say, 'I want my bread.'" At this point she drops her shoulders and, with the weight of the world on her, adds a breathy: "Unhhh."

Keeping with her theme, the rather fancy breadbox is marked (translating): "Bread. Unh."

I would share something Connor has drawn, but so far everything resembles a plate of maroon spaghetti. In the interest of at least acknowledging I do also enjoy my son's company, I'll share a brief story (since you insist).

A few months ago when we were working on potty training (which is a whole, 'nother, deeelightful post), he was standing in front of the toilet, waiting for, I don't know, Santa, the Second Coming, a growth spurt, his mother's bum to meld with the tile floor ... out of desperation and a dash of the absurd I have never outgrown, I implored in a sing-songy voice. "Wake up, tee-tee! Come out!"

To which Connor immediately replied with crinkled brow, "It doesn't talk, Mom. It's tee-tee."

Thanks, Son.

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