Family Daze

As with all art, appreciation is in the eye of the beholder

By Debbie Farmer

Before I had children, I couldn't understand why anyone would keep scribbled crayon pictures of unidentifiable animals and bald stick people all over their refrigerator door. I was amazed how people would let their child's art clutter their otherwise neat and orderly home.

I found out why, after I had two children. What started out as a cute finger painting by my 4-year-old daughter mounted onto the front of the refrigerator, rapidly multiplied into an entire collection. Within days my refrigerator began displaying more art than the Louvre. I knew I had to do something when a picture of a flying purple elephant got stuck in the freezer door and caused the entire contents to thaw overnight.

As soon as I took a picture down, before I could say "Gogh," another appeared. Then, guilt ridden, I'd pluck the discarded one from the trash, smooth it out, and stick it back in its place before my children noticed it was gone.

At Christmastime I decided to turn my surplus artwork into presents for the family. I bought clear contact paper and turned images of crayon chaos into placemats. I calculated that if I presented them in sets of ten to each grandparent, my refrigerator, and my conscience, would be clear by spring.

I chose the artwork carefully because I had a fear of sitting down at my in-laws' house for Thanksgiving dinner and seeing a self-portrait of my 3-year-old son under the gravy boat, proudly displaying his newly discovered body part. I also avoided giving pictures entitled: "Mad Mommy," "The Snakes That Live Under My Bed" and "The Hungry Potty Monster." We finally sorted them into two piles: Rembrandts (pictures containing identifiable objects) and Picassos (acquired tastes). We decided to give the grandparents an equal number of each, along with extras for replacements.

Soon my refrigerator looked like an appliance instead of an art gallery, although my children didn't recognized it since no one in the house remembered what color it was. It also took several days for my family to get used to both doors closing all the way.

One morning, as I was making coffee and admiring my kitchen's new look, I heard my daughter coming down the stairs from her room.

"Look, Mom," she said, holding out a freshly colored paper. "It's for you."

I recoiled in horror and tried to throw my body over the clean refrigerator door.

My daughter stepped closer and pretended to read her crayon scribbles. "It says 'I love Mommy'."

I looked down and saw a picture of myself, with a stick body and eleven fingers, inside of a flying heart.

"It's wonderful!" I said. Then I gave her a kiss and securely mounted her masterpiece on the door, over the ice dispenser.

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