My eight-year-old daughter Lauren is definitely an up-and-coming American pop artist, bound to go down in pop culture history. Today was somewhat different from other days in that she awakened extra bright and early on her own initiative without our usual song and dance routine. In fact she awakened so early that the rooster hadn’t even had his usual morning cup of joe by the time this little lady found her way to my bedside.
Lauren was toting a handful of art supplies. She held, amid her cute little brown fingers, paintbrushes of varying sizes, paints in shimmering hues, and a multitude of crayons. Of course, my half-opened eyes and ears were only able to decipher myopic metered doses of meaning at that time of day, so I’ve only come to understand that that is what was happening as the day has turned to evening and my wits have rejoined my life.
When it’s still bright and early in the morning, long before six o’clock, I don’t usually ask questions of anyone. I don’t talk to people either, for that matter, that early in the morning, unless, of course, our nation’s security is dependent upon it and I happen to be the absolute last and final person on earth who is capable of defending it, with words, I might add. If I don’t fit that bill, with great specificity, well then I usually just roll back over.
So when Lauren mumbles whatever she mumbles next, I make great attempts to exhale words. I mean I really, really try. “Good job baby, but go to bed first. It’s not even six o’clock yet.”
Still oblivious to almost everything, Lauren reemerges from her bedroom displaying her latest work of art – a masterpiece, she’s certain – for all to see. She has taken great care to decorate her new, beautiful, white-hooded, long-sleeved shirt! The one that would be absolutely perfect to wear on this very chilly day in early Fall, you know, from a mother’s perspective and all.