Because I Didn't...

When I was in my early twenties, and years before my mother died, I remember that she, my sister and I sat at our dining room table one day looking through a box of drawings and art projects my sister and I had made as children. My mother had found them so special that she saved them. As we look through the artifacts we laughed so hard we were crying, all three of us. The pictures and greeting cards were laden with mismatched colors, disproportionate figures, and misspellings that ran down the side of the page when there wasn’t enough room to finish writing across the top. Since we thought they were so funny, I asked my mother how she never laughed when we brought these works of art home and presented them to her. Her answer was a simple, “Because I didn’t.”

Just last week I found that box in my basement, now only filled with the works made by me as my sister’s had been returned to her years before. I decided to look through that box again, by myself this time, in the quiet, after my kids had been put to bed for the night. It had been, at least, ten years since I’d been through it last so I didn’t remember much of what was in it. I do know that some of the pictures went back to when I was three years old as the only drawing labeled with a date had my name, along with “1970” written in my mother’s handwriting. I could only speculate on my age when the rest of the art was made, unless I could specifically remember making it. This time, however, I didn’t laugh; I marveled at the simplicity of the earlier pictures drawn by a child who was probably so happy to be coloring that, to her, it was a masterpiece; and at how the art got better as time passed.

Today, Zach drew a picture for me: an orange, sunset sky that stopped a third of the way down the page, green grass that stopped a third of the way up the page-the two never meeting at the horizon; and the two of us standing together on the lawn. The fact that he is as tall as I am in the picture doesn't matter, even though he's a good 18 inches shorter than I am in real life. His head is way too small for his body, and his arms are longer than his legs. My hands are as large as my face, my legs are virtually non-existent, and my hair is green, along with my entire wardrobe because, he said, my favorite color is green. He's right about that. There was absolutely no way I could laugh when I saw his drawing because, to me, it was, and is, a beautiful depiction of a mother and son standing together at sunset; and he was filled with pride when he gave it to me and received a big hug and kiss in return.

While looking through the box last week didn’t bring back many memories, I did recall that conversation I’d had with my mother years before-and how she never laughed at our work. I also know that I’ve never laughed when my children have presented me with one of their drawings or cards from the time they could hold crayons; and I save many of them, just as my mother did, so my kids can see them when they're older. The pictures look just like what my sister and I did as children, and are getting better with each passing day; and they give my children a huge sense of pride and accomplishment. The joy on their little faces when I accept their gifts says everything. Now, I completely understand my mother’s answer to me, and, years from now, when my children put that same question to me, “Mom, how did you not laugh when we gave these to you?”, I’ll simply smile and say, “Because I didn’t.”