Unbridled Creativity

My daughter definitely has a creative streak, as is evident by the many and varied art projects that adorn the doors of my kitchen and dining room. Aside from the standard daycare send-alongs, we have a collection of projects born from the pretty impressive contents of our "craft crate." The crate is the most widely used source of entertainment in our house and by keeping it updated and refreshing it often, the kids don't get bored of the contents.

Sweet T's creativity knows no bounds. Really. Last fall she treated me to a one-of-a-kind masterpiece. It was a truly remarkable abstract done in bold black, a real Statement Piece, if I've ever seen one. I thought the title needed more thought, but I kept my opinion to myself.

"Giant Box-Marking Sharpie on Suede"
by Sweet T Schroeder


And again yesterday, she blessed me with another one of her original works. When I pick the kids up from daycare we have a pretty standard episode of Schroeder ridiculousness and it goes a little something like this: everyone is clamoring for my attention and some (The Baby, I'm talking about you) will literally climb the bodies of the other siblings in order to be the first into my arms. You must feel so loved! you're probably saying to yourself. Yes, quite.
Realizing that my attention is not just divided but completely frayed, they take to their own devices. G runs towards the building and pretends not to hear my unending refrain of getinthetruckGetInTheTruckGETINTHEFRICKINGTRUCK! The baby takes off, running the length of the playground fence in search of his water bottle and an escape route. I can usually count on Sweet T to be my little momma hen and assist in the capture of her brothers.
But yesterday was not one of those days. While the boys ran in their standard - and opposite - directions, Sweet T obediently went and stood by her door, waiting patiently for me. I was getting the details of the kids' day from the teachers while chasing down The Baby and yelling for G, barely registering the loud pounding noise in my periphery.
I finally made my way to the truck in time to observe my daughter, deep in the creative process. She's unleashing the beauty of her next masterpiece, all over my truck. With a rock. A big, fat, dent-making, door-scratching, paint-scraping, mother-loving ROCK. A fucking ROCK, people!

I gasped, she dropped the rock and with wide eyes, nodded along when I requested that she not color my truck with rocks. Ever again. Actually, let's just not even touch the truck. Remarkably, not another word was needed to gain complete compliance from my entire crew for the remainder of the evening.

Being that I'm in the midst of trying to sell my truck, I've decided to fully market her latest work. I intend to play up the fact that the new owner of my Land Rover will be in possession of one of the earliest works from an up-and-coming, child prodigy, mixed-media artist. Yes, I'm pretty sure I'll have to fend off the throngs of people flocking to my door, cash in hand.