Other childrens' cards bear a carefully sloppy greeting,
Or a rocket ship trailing a rainbow flame
Or strategically random buttons.
Our children understand randomness is stochastic
A propelant jet isn't rainbow hued
And one can not be carefully sloppy.
One must be deliberate.
Our kids cut and glue and color with their typical wildness
Their enthusiasm shows in their jagged cuts and crooked stickers,
In the stray tape
In the coloring that is more bald than color.
They hunch over their Frankenstein creation willing it to monstrous life
Proud, happy, innocent of the ugliness.
The card they hand you is, generously,
Organic
Rustic
Abstract
And impressively garish given the harmoniousness of the starting materials.
They are aesthetically handicapped, you see.
They don't have a mother who guides them into straight lines and golden ratios
Or who insists they color from edge to edge or coordinate their colors.
(As if I can coordinate colors)
They have a mother who watches.
Happy Father's day from your aesthetically immature offspring.
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