My tiny little dancer

Sophia brought home her first (legible) piece of artwork on Tuesday. In the past, she’d scribbled a couple of strokes across papers and affectionately called them “colouring” or said it was an animal, person or whatever she was trying to express but she’s my 4th kid and unless her drawings prove to be Van Gogh artistic as opposed to merely the insanity that plagued the said artist, I generally nod and smile and then, coincidentally and conveniently – and I’m not admitting to anything here – that piece of “artwork” might find its way to the recycling bin.

I’m ashamed to say that I’m that callous mother that psychologists alert their readers to. You know the kind of awful parent that many enlightened adults today say that they grew up scarred because of the things their parents did or didn’t do. Somehow, I suspect that those same therapists have larger paychecks than I do (mine being a big fat zilch) and/or have fewer children, and have rooms aplenty for every breadcrumb mosaic inspired expression that their children have prolifically created.

I, too, aspire to be as rich and fabulous, and promise a room dedicated to each of my children’s growing tsunami of artwork. Until then, I’m afraid only the ones with some recognizable form of people or animal or whatever that they were trying to express, might make it into my stringent selection. Actually, I jest. I really meant that I would only keep drawings that have “I LOVE MY MUMMY” in brilliant colours or are flattering portraits of myself.

This piece of artwork obviously doesn’t meet any of that listed criteria but sometimes I’m a big softy and I’m known to hoard artwork if they make my heart squishy.

I love that she’d carefully pasted a wee heart neatly on each of her family members – and coincidentally, perfectly on the Mummy cut out and on hers (she’d laid claim on the purple little girl cut out); I love the way she’d paired her siblings, and that she’d chosen to be beside Monique’s cut out whom she adores; I love that my cut out figure is also a whiff taller than cut out Dad because it is important that I cling on to my delusional hopes of being tall. Most of all, I adored that when asked to describe her family, she’d told her teacher that we ‘dance’ and visions of us as the twinkle-toe Von Trapp family singing in the face of daily perils streamed into my subconscious.

You might say that I’ve read too much into it but I believe that children’s artwork are, at the core, a basic expression of their lives -- their feelings and their perception of reality. I don’t believe that we’ve been doing much dancing or any at all (that I know of) but I found her answer quite charming. Sure, it could be interpreted as the genesis of a potential delusional (nearly) 3-year old psycho-killer but I’m her mummy, and I think she is pretty bloody wonderful so I’d prefer to believe that it is her simple (and I don’t mean half-witted) way of saying that her life, with her family, is like a joyous dance.

I’m not a professional child psychotherapist and perhaps one day, when she is all grown up, she’ll look back on this picture and think it should have walked itself off to the recycling bin. But for now, it’ll grace my fridge door and later, packed away along with the other delightful memories that I cherish from my little joyful dancer.