Of childhood, and throwing things
I am not a crafty kind of person. A glue gun scares me. Bedazzle my ass.
When I was a wee little blonde child, I liked to draw horses and princesses. A teardrop shape gave me the basis for a face. Try it, it works. Page after page of paper purloined from my father's office was covered in these drawings. I never really progressed. Today, my princesses and horses look eerily like the ones I drew a gabillion years ago.
My mother, who was good at everything, actively dissuaded her five daughters from doing anything remotely related to home economics. She was a bright mind who had skipped several grades. Her choices in life were becoming a nurse or a teacher. She chose to be a nurse. While she adored her six kids, she was very militant that we all go to university and have careers. My one sister rebelled -- she quit after grade 13 and married her high school sweetheart. The horror!
I often thought my mom didn't teach me stuff because I was left-handed. But that never really truly explained why I burned water into my 30s.
My son, luckily, felt the same way about crafts. I tried, half-heartedly when he was a young child, to introduce him to the world of painting ceramic mugs and making things out of Play-doh. Even Lego didn't hold his interest. From a very early age, all he wanted to do was spar.
I understood this. I was the girl who bit the feet off her Barbies. While other girls coyly married their Barbies to Kens in elaborate ceremonies, complete with cake, I was busy cutting Barbie's hair into a jagged punk mop and throwing her off the roof. Ken too. I hated Ken and his sexless smirk.
Oh well. I like to plant things. I like to cook. I will never own a glue gun. Unless I do something extreme with it.
When I was a wee little blonde child, I liked to draw horses and princesses. A teardrop shape gave me the basis for a face. Try it, it works. Page after page of paper purloined from my father's office was covered in these drawings. I never really progressed. Today, my princesses and horses look eerily like the ones I drew a gabillion years ago.
My mother, who was good at everything, actively dissuaded her five daughters from doing anything remotely related to home economics. She was a bright mind who had skipped several grades. Her choices in life were becoming a nurse or a teacher. She chose to be a nurse. While she adored her six kids, she was very militant that we all go to university and have careers. My one sister rebelled -- she quit after grade 13 and married her high school sweetheart. The horror!
I often thought my mom didn't teach me stuff because I was left-handed. But that never really truly explained why I burned water into my 30s.
My son, luckily, felt the same way about crafts. I tried, half-heartedly when he was a young child, to introduce him to the world of painting ceramic mugs and making things out of Play-doh. Even Lego didn't hold his interest. From a very early age, all he wanted to do was spar.
I understood this. I was the girl who bit the feet off her Barbies. While other girls coyly married their Barbies to Kens in elaborate ceremonies, complete with cake, I was busy cutting Barbie's hair into a jagged punk mop and throwing her off the roof. Ken too. I hated Ken and his sexless smirk.
Oh well. I like to plant things. I like to cook. I will never own a glue gun. Unless I do something extreme with it.