Every now and then a kid brings home artwork that hurts my brain. “Do you know what it is?” No, I don’t. I see a bunch of blobs. I have a better chance of winning the lottery than guessing what is on that piece of construction paper. “It’s a ….” I stall, my eyes pleading with the artist to finish the sentence. For goodness sake, I carried you in my womb for 9 months. The last month was hell. The pressure was so intense it felt like my vagina was going to fall off. I would look down every now and then to make sure it was still there. I had to wear elastic pants for three months after giving birth. The Golden Girls had more sex appeal. So, throw me a damn bone and tell me what the hell you drew.

Whether it looks like anything or not I post most of their artwork on the wall. It really does bring me joy.


…. but, I have to draw the line here. I refuse to hang this picture because it scares  me.


What the hell is that? My 4-year/old daughter couldn’t even answer that question. For some reason it makes me think of Malachi in Children of the Corn. I would like to thank Stephen King for ruining an innocent, tasty vegetable with very little nutritional value. Corn stalks still make me nervous. Don’t even try to bring me in a corn maze. I will cut a b***h! The little fella/thing in my daughter’s picture looks like he is running for his life. Well, it didn’t run fast enough. That sucker is in the garbage can.

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