Drawing out your inner artist

This weekend, someone was talking about the fact that if you go into a kindergarten classroom and say, “Who can draw?”, every hand goes up. “Who can sing?” Again, everyone raises their hand. It's a classroom full of creative minds.

Go into a 7th grade classroom and ask the same question and hardly any hands go up.

By adulthood, only Picasso will raise his hand when asked, “Who can draw?”, and even he might question whether he should. What if someone says he stinks?

What happens in those years between kindergarten and middle school that stifles our self expression? Somewhere along the way, we learn that if we’re not the best at something, we just shouldn’t do it at all.

Whatever takes hold of us, it’s completely ingrained by adulthood. We would never think of drawing a picture and showing it off unless we believed it worthy of a museum. Sing in public? Not unless we’re Mariah Carey.

At some point, we start doing things for other people more than for ourselves, and we stop doing anything that anyone might criticize.

I thought about this the other day when my daughter spent a half hour forming a turkey out of a hand print, then wrote the words, “Happy Thanksgiving!”, at the top. Obviously, this was a decoration for the holidays. I suggested she hang it on the wall. She said, no, she’d just put it away in her room.

I was confused. Why would you make this picture unless you wanted to show it off? She shrugged and went on to her next project. For her, the joy was in the making of the picture. She’d done it for herself.

How often do we adults ever take time to make something just for the joy of making it? We’d consider that a complete waste of time.

The question is, what can parents do to make sure their children are still the ones who raise their hands in 7th grade when asked if they can draw, dance, sing or write? Maybe it’s as simple as this - we should stop attaching praise and grades to every act of self-expression. We’re so quick to say, “That’s a beautiful picture!”, “Wow, you’re getting really good at drawing!”

Maybe we should just say: “Did you enjoy drawing that turkey? What made you think of it? What do you like about turkeys?”
It also wouldn’t hurt if we set a good example by writing a poem just because we’ve had a spontaneous thought, or doodling a funny image that pops into our heads, or dancing around the living room just to be silly.

For most of us, this isn’t in the schedule, but wouldn’t it be fun to pencil it in? And while we’ve got that pencil in our hands ...

Dog's life for restless teens

I have two fluffy, little dogs that have spent the majority of their lives as “outdoor pets.” This means they’ve stood at our patio door drooling on the glass, watching us exist without them.

I recently made all their dreams come true. I brought them inside. They now sleep on a large pillow deemed their bed in the middle of our living room – happy as, well, two long neglected dogs that now live indoors.

Yesterday, I left the front door open two seconds too long. Both my Pomeranian and terrier jetted down the front steps faster than I could say, “ingrate.” Their tiny bums wagged wildly as they broke free of their constraints.

Where were they going? Who knows? I yelled after them, offering them the coveted wet food they so desire. They pretended not to hear me.

I waited 10 minutes. They both ran home, tongues extended, thrilled about their jaunt to nowhere. They fully expected me to take them back into our warm house. I did.

I hoped that my teenage daughter, slumped over in the chair thinking about her weekend plans, would catch the symbolism. She didn’t.

Having a teenager is like that. You can give them a warm bed, a big TV, a computer, hot meals and compassion, yet they spend all their time waiting for that front door to open wide enough so they can race off into the sunset. Then, when hunger or poverty overtakes them, they expect to come home to the same safe environment from which they so happily escaped. They want you to welcome them back. You always do.

Let me tell you another story. My 13-year-old daughter let me know last week that I'm ruining her life. She can’t wait to break free of her chains in this restrictive household. I tried to make her understand the power of her words. When the person you love most disregards your feelings in that way, all because you didn’t let them wear a short skirt or go out with their friends, it hurts. In fact, it’s a new kind of hurt that you’ve never experienced before.

My daughter brushed off my upset. She didn’t need me anyway. I’m just a roadblock to the blissfulness she could be experiencing in her world of cute boys and MTV Cribs.

My feelings were bruised and my temper peaked.

Within hours, my daughter nonchalantly asked to use my computer. Soon, she would want a ride to the movies or be scrounging through the pantry looking for “something good to eat” - something I’d lugged my toddler around the grocery store to buy for her. I explained to my child that she couldn’t say hurtful things to someone, then expect to use their stuff and employ their services.

In other words: I yelled after her to stop her frantic run to nowhere. She ignored me.

I’m trying to understand my daughter’s need to escape from something that doesn’t seem so bad in the first place. Where is she running? I guess she’s running toward that vague life she will someday create for herself. She’s looking for her own future that lies somewhere outside our family home.

Let’s face it, she’s trying to find that permanent escape route from the parenting of me and my husband. But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t love us.

When my Pomeranian strutted back into the house, satisfied and content after her run, she planted herself at my feet. She stared at me with her usual enamored glare and then rolled onto her back hoping for a good belly rub. In her mind, she hadn’t done anything wrong. She hadn’t made me late to meet my husband for dinner. She hadn’t ignored my commands. She hadn’t frustrated me. She had just stretched her legs.

I guess that’s the way teenagers see it. They’re exercising their individuality – phone in one hand, junk food in the other, friends on the mind, school the furthest thing from it. It’s our job not to take it personally when they walk past us in the hallway and don’t acknowledge that we exist. We’ve helped bring them this far. Now they want to chart their own path. Ours is predictable and safe. They don’t want that yet.

We’ll let them out for a run as often as possible, but we’ll be waiting at the front door when they return. They can test their speed and stamina, but they must do so without kicking the people around them and without stirring up too much dust. Respect will take them further in life than any mad dash into the unknown.

As for parents, we have to remember to go out for a jog now and then ourselves. There are still new paths for us to explore. It’s good for the heart. It stretches our muscles. Plus, it helps us keep up with our ever-escaping kids.

I used to play the violin

I used to play the violin. I took lessons from the age of nine and played all the way up to a community college orchestra.

I don’t play the violin anymore. I’m not really sure why, except that I do a lot of other things now. Most parents can relate.

One day, I pulled an oddly shaped box out of the back of the closet. My 3-year-old jumped up and down with anticipation. She held a ukulele in her hand and couldn’t wait to see my treasure.

I lifted a beautiful brown instrument from its box. My violin. Made 1911 in Germany. I pulled off some of the strands from the bow. The poor instrument was missing a string, suffering from years of neglect.

“This is Mommy’s violin,” I explained to my daughter.

“Oh,” my 3-year-old said. “Can I play it?”

“No, honey. It’s very expensive.” I picked up the instrument and it fit snugly on my shoulder.

I ran the bow across a string. A noise floated up and out and around the room, surprisingly deep and strong. I remembered to add vibrato to the note and then it sang. I had created a beautiful sound. I moved my fingers freely across the strings to make different tones.

I indulged in playing, just for a moment.

“Mommy,” I suddenly heard, “let’s not do this anymore. Put it away.”

My daughter had noticed that the instrument was coaxing me away from playing with her. She couldn’t let this happen. I am Mommy now. Not a violin player. The violin requires practice and devotion.

But it’s one of the things that helps define me. Maybe my daughter would benefit from seeing me being “into” something. Plus, what better lesson to impart to my children than the absolute beauty of music? Why have I believed this to be too selfish a venture all these years?

I stood my ground.

“Honey, look how happy it makes Mommy to play this violin,” I said. “I’m so excited to get it out again. Why don’t you play your ukulele and we’ll make music together?”

We did. For a moment, we just played. She plucked. I strung. We had a makeshift orchestra, albeit a mismatched one.

For a moment, I played the violin again.

The moment inevitably ended. I didn’t mind. I carefully placed my violin back in its case and put the case in the front of the closet so I could easily reach it. It’s days of being shoved in a dusty corner are over.