I remember once upon a time (probably in my know-it-all pre-child days when I had time for shit like reading and having opinions), I read something about how important it is not to diminish or belittle a child’s efforts. So for example, when a child shows you a drawing they did and you have no idea what it is (because children are shitty artists) you should never just straight up say “What the fuck is that?” Because to them it’s TOTALLY obvious that the oblong circle with the line through it and the unrelated check mark on the other side of the page is a raccoon playing chess and now they know that you are basically an idiot who has been faking it this whole time and once they know this believe me when I say, it’s over. 

What you are supposed to say is “that’s an interesting drawing, why don’t you tell me about it?” which tricks them into telling you what it is without revealing that you have no idea whose kids they are and why they are talking to you. Spoiler alert: they are mine and they have taken to talking to strangers. We haven’t been on speaking terms since adventure day. Don’t worry though. They have been thoroughly trained not to accept any candy. They only show their shitty drawings which makes them kidnap-proof. Science.

I have successfully been employing this deciphering technique with the children for years now and so far nobody has caught on. But just recently I have come to the conclusion that somewhere along the line the problem stopped being that I didn’t know what the drawings were and became that I actually don’t want to know.

The other day, Escher came into my room with a large piece of paper on which he had drawn two connecting parallelograms with three small dots in a triangular pattern on each of them. He handed it to me and I said “Oh that’s very nice. Why don’t you tell me about it?” And he shrugged and said “it’s just a vagina.”

…………oh good.

“Ah.” I said, putting literally every ounce of effort I could into sounding as casual and unfazed as possible because I’m quite sure that absolutely anything I do at this point will be the exact moment the therapist traces back to when they are trying to talk him into giving up his hostages twenty years from now. “Well that’s very nice dear. And, um, what are these?” I asked as politely as possible as I pointed to the dots.

“Freckles.”

…..Obviously.

“Good job” I said. Because I figured that was both kind without being overly encouraging since I was hoping to avoid a world where Escher felt it was his calling to draw freckled vaginas for the rest of his life in various mediums and places. Thankfully this seemed to be all he was really looking for from me and he took his drawing back and wandered away while I looked for my emergency wine in the closet.

Then about four minutes later he came back into my room and he handed me back the picture with the following added details:

1) An exaggerated somewhat fire-hosey looking penis (this I recognized) and

2) The letters SG in a comic style angular bubble between the genitals.

So I rather lamely said, “Oh you’ve done some more work have you? What’s happening now?” Which actually had very little to do with the fucking picture and was more of a strangled general outcry to the universe as a whole.

“Now it’s fighting a penis. And that says versus” he says, pointing to the SG.

“Absolutely. Uh huh” I nodded. And now I am thinking this for sure will be the tipping point for the ministry. But before I could take the opportunity to say something clever or educational or even attempt to broach the subject that SG is not shorthand for versus he said “Oh wait. I’m going to add some boxing gloves.” And then he left again.

At this point I confess, I sort of wanted to see where this was going. Like when you back yourself into a corner in one of those choose-your-own-adventure books and you bloody well know that regardless of which decision you make the dragon is going to eat you and all of your friends but you want to read it anyways out of sheer commitment to the process.

This time when he came back he had added a girl to the vagina and a boy to the penis and there were arrows pointing to the genitals (which is assumedly the illustrated equivalent of “my eyes are up here”….except instead of trying to draw someone’s attention away from your body you are using glow sticks coupled with inappropriate gyrations to encourage them to come hither). There were also some suspicious lines coming from the genitals and no boxing gloves, which was vaguely disappointing.

“Okay…..” I said, because I was fairly sure that asking any further questions at this point made me an actual accomplice.

“This is me and Rhyme fighting.”

Jesus lord mercy.

“Okay. Um. What about this?” I said, sort of generically indicating towards the suspicious lines.

“It’s pee, mom.” This one he said ROLLING HIS EYES as if the key problem with this whole scenario is that it wasn’t immediately obvious to his mother that he had drawn a picture of him and his sister fighting naked while simultaneously peeing.

At this point, I confiscated the picture. I’m pretty sure I said some words too but there was this loud buzzing in my ears at the time and I no longer remember what they were. Thankfully, he didn’t push it and nothing more has come of it, except now I have this drawing that I am pretty sure can get me arrested.

You know how sometimes on the news there will be some terrible tragedy that befalls a family and they go around and interview all the neighbours and they are all on camera talking about how they have no idea how this could have happened and that the family was just so nice and quiet and normal and they can’t imagine what went wrong?

That is not what will happen to me. Instead, all of the neighbours will be nodding and saying things like “I always knew there was something wrong with them…..especially that little one.” And then someone will go into my house and they will find this picture and everyone will be horrified and all the news anchors will be collectively alarmed and Gary the camera guy will get his big break because he will have an inside scoop about what a bunch of weirdos we were…probably because he reads this blog.

You stay away from my fucking closet wine Gary, you asshole.

In case you thought I was kidding….