Thursday, 2 May 2013

The Truth Behind Your Handmade Treasures

If you are a parent, it is likely that at some point your darling little ones have appeared home from nursery/grandmas/playgroup/school with a homemade something to make your heart melt - a Mother's Day card, a handprint picture with cutesy verse written underneath, a clay something or other. If these things take pride of place in your home, treasured because they were made with love, just for you, I suggest you look away now.
I have been part of the process from a few different angles. First off, when teaching three year olds. With the odd exception, your offspring do not skip over to the Mother's Day card  making table exclaiming "gosh I just love mummy so much, I must show her with a card". Oh no. They are usually bribed off the trikes with the promise that they can have first pick of Bike 2 (that's the fastest) when they get back, if they just stick this tissue paper here, finger paint here, come back you've not written your name, colour here, stop drawing power rangers all over that daffodil. All the while the staff are wittering on about how we are making this for mummy, because she is special. Then at home time, we go over why we have made the cards one more time, only to turn our backs and hear a mutter of "this is for my brother, it's a light saber".
Secondly, when my birthday comes around, Husband is usually Not Organised. This year was no different, and last Thursday I got dispatched upstairs so J could make me a 'surprise' card. Cue the following conversation between daddy and J floating up the stairs......
"J, come here and draw a picture on mummy's card. I said come here. No, you hold crayons with your hand not your foot. Fine, just write your name then. J, come here for goodness sake and put something on the card."
Then comes the sound of J grumbling "poo poo poo poo" while scribbling on the card.
"WHAT'S THAT YOU SAID?" roars Husband for my benefit, "YOU LOVE MUMMY? THAT'S NICE" 
Saying all that, the aforementioned card has pride of place on my windowsill. After all, J can't write yet, so no one else knows it says poo.

No comments:

Post a Comment