Yesterday, I took Amy to her first art class.
In her curriculum that I have made for her based on instinct and prayer, I feel this is what's next and best for her at this moment.
So we attended the first class yesterday, and it has all of the elements that make me feel so uncomfortable as a mother. Young perky moms with poorly behaved children eating paste and then making lame excuses like "Paste eating is actually an expression of giftedness." Other women who don't even know my name yet feel it their right to ask about my fertility. "So you have 4 kids? And 12 years between the first and last? What made you decide to do that?" And a new-age teacher who told me that she will not say that Amy's glue/glitter/cotton ball masterpiece "'beautiful,' because that is a judgement."
Omylord. Throw in some condemnation of bottle feeding and ask me to wear my swimsuit in public, and my maternal mortification is complete.
So just when I begin to go to that dark place in my mind to fantasize about telling them all that my kids have eaten a french fry before and I think Spongebob Squarepants is funny, Amy looks up from her work of sticky art and says, "Tank you, Ma."
Who needs some macaroni art on their refrigerator over the next 11 weeks?