My daughter brought this home from school last week. Just in case your eyes are not transmitting the proper information to your brain: it's a piece of paper that has been crumpled up and then glued to a popsicle stick. I turned it over in my hands a few times.
The Yeller Thing
As I mentioned in a previous blog post, I spent my entire adult life trying to become a mom so that I could be the proud recipient of some macaroni art. I soon learned that the old adage "be careful what you wish for" is true. I've got art aplenty. The Louvre has nothing on me. Well, if the Louvre were filled to the rafters with construction paper, glue, and glitter, that is.
"What is it, sweetie?" I asked.
"It's a yeller thing," she replied, with a look that told me that she was losing patience with my woeful lack of intelligence and/or observation skills. She held the crumpled paper to her mouth and yelled, "Hey, Gretchen!" into it. Lucky Gretchen. The day that A claimed Gretchen as "her" dog was either the best or the worst day of Gretchen's life, depending on how you look at it.
My best guess is that the project started out as some sort of megaphone, but something clearly went awry somewhere between the design and production phases (and it definitely never made it to the Quality Assurance team). The real question, though, is what do I do with a "yeller thing?"
As a project one weekend, we assembled and painted a wooden art board for the kid's room. It has a bunch of clothespins poking out of it, so as new artwork comes through the door, I usually hang it there. When that becomes full, some of the art moves to a Rubbermaid tote in the basement. Many of the projects that come home from school are pretty cute, such as a spider made out of a paper plate. However, many times she brings home a sheet of paper that is hosting a single swirl of blue marker. And that's it. Occasionally she'll even hand me an objet d'art that has some other kid's name on it. Yet it's clear that she expects me to treat all of the "art" with great reverence and respect.
What's a mom to do? Surreptitiously syphon some of it out of the house and into the recycling bin? Will she be in therapy as an adult? I wonder if Whistler's mother had this problem.