“I’ve got a great idea,” I blurted out with a cautiously enthusiastic tone one evening about three months ago as my artist wife and I got ready for bed.
The idea had been percolating in my mind for years by this point. Travel restrictions due to the COVID-19 pandemic had left it closer to a distant dream, no different than the planned trip to Cooperstown.
She stopped brushing her teeth and looked at me.
“What is it?” she asked plainly through a toothpaste-filled mouth with zero enthusiasm. Zero.
Our seven-year-old daughter loves art.
Our kitchen table, our hallway, our living room coffee table — there is no flat surface in our house that isn’t hidden under a thin layer of drawings she’s doodled. And when we clean them up to try to see the surfaces again, they’ve all been replaced before we can turn around.
For a seven-year-old, both the thought and the execution of the drawings are remarkable.
We’re still not quite sure which parent she gets this passion from. But I will say that I could barely churn out a passable, human-looking stick figure at seven years old. (Maybe that’s a good hint.)