In the Jungle

My brother (before he became a father) used to tease me about the "gifts" I had started giving to my family members since having children. There were the Sears Portraits, the tiny hand prints in clay, and the crayon scribbles matted and framed, then wrapped in festive tissue paper - all of which, while certainly treasured, were giggled about during the holidays when I (and he, eventually) would purposely up the cutsie-ness and admit that our adorable offspring and their above average talent ("They're so advanced!" my grandma would tell me when my babies would lift their heads as newborn infants or eat with spoons as toddlers) had provided us with a consistent, convenient, and inexpensive supply of presents for aunts, uncles, Papas, Nanas and siblings. We all think our children are brilliant because...well, duh, they totally are, but I've tried on this blog to refrain from exhibiting an excessive degree of mommy bias or from scanning all of the artwork currently decorating our refrigerator and then posting those pasted, glued or painted portraits and landscapes, here, for your viewing boredom pleasure. But sometimes, sometimes, I can't help myself.

Elijah, my nine-year-old, had a writing assignment this week: create a short story using "Story Starter Picture" #1 (see above), which is a drawing of some kids on a raft extending a stick to a girl in the water. I, immediately, thought of summer camp - maybe somewhere in the woods of Wisconsin. There was some horseplay, perhaps. One of the campers lost her balance, fell in the river, and was being fished out by her friends. When I was his age, that is probably the angle I would have taken, using the minimum amount of sentences required to craft a straightforward beginning, middle, and conclusion with a couple of predictable similes thrown in for good measure. But my son doesn't think inside (or even know how to locate) "the box." The same picture that elicited from myself a rather dull and tired tale about a bunch of rowdy twelve-year-olds on a tippy raft inspired the following amalgam of poetry and fiction from Elijah:

AAAHHH!!! A scream stunned all the creatures outlining the Amazon, but not the gator.

Thrash! Thrash! The kicking scared all the aquatic creatures in the water, but not the gator.

Tug! Tug! The sound that stirred the water made the eels slip, but not the gator.

Whew. Whew. The sight of her relieved expression soothed the men after the rescue, but not the gator.

Itch! Itch! The feel of scratching on her sweaty face as she wondered how she’d survived.

Yea! Yea! The sound comforted all the creatures outlining the Amazon, but not the gator.

So yes, as his mom who happens to be quite fond of the written word, I love the subtle way he shows, without telling the obvious, that the girl in the water has just been saved from the jaws of a now disappointed Alligator! I still can't believe, I suppose, that the sons and daughters I carried and delivered are going on to become individuals with their own unique perspectives and tastes. I have to tread carefully through this next stage of parenting, lest I squelch in them something I should have allowed to flourish or fail to reign in the impulsiveness a future spouse might not appreciate or eventual boss will not tolerate in the workplace. It's difficult, right? Remembering that our children are not extensions of ourselves or possessions to manipulate into a mold of our own design. Pray first, respond second, I should tattoo that to my forehead so that everyone I come into contact with will remind me of it and hold me accountable.

In the meantime, I'll be printing off a hundred copies or so of the above Jungle piece and decoupaging it to any hard surface it will stick to. That way, when your birthday rolls around, I'll be all prepared.