Geniuses at Work
My Real Memoir
How Mom taught me to express myself: Until you start school, your life revolves around your parents. They can do nothing wrong. Only later, in your teens, do you discover they can’t actually do anything right, and that your sagely friends and major pop stars have all the real answers. But until then, it’s your parents who teach you what matters most in life.
Mommandad were my best friends, along with a little side-coaching from Weird Eddie, Babysitter Frieda, and Crazy Old Alice. But Dad went off to save the world every day. So it was Mom who showed me what mattered most. And for her (apart from family) it was stories–books and movies–and self-expression–crafts and decorating. It was the Age of the Housewife, so housekeeping was her day-job, but stories and self-expression were the real her.
So that’s what they were for me.
I Was Finally Going to School!
Which was neato. But what was even neato-er was that I got to cross the street all by myself! I still remember the delicious terror of crossing for the first time. I’d been warned that if I attempted to cross alone, cars—hundreds of them—would suddenly swoop down upon me and kill me over and over again. Yet here I was, crossing the street and not being killed even once!
But there was one thing I was even prouder of: my new Artist’s Smock! Mom had learned at Open House that we would be doing Art in kindergarten, and would need smocks. So she did what any mother of an Only-Child-Who-Happens-to-be-a-Genius would do. She spent two weeks stitching my personal “Authentic Parisian Artist’s Smock” to perfection. Then she finished her masterpiece with a custom monogram just like the ones the penniless impressionists in Paris wore.
The First Day of Kindergarten…
…was excruciatingly slow. I blew bubbles in my milk and tapped my toes through nap time, until Art finally arrived. But then Miss Shirley spoke the fateful words, “Alright, children, go to the closet and grab the first smock you see.”
By the time I got there, my smock had been snatched by a little cretin named Davey, who wouldn’t know a real artist’s smock from a dress shirt! Which was, in fact, what all of the other smocks in the closet were—kid’s dad’s dress shirts. Mine was the only Authentic Parisian Artist’s Smock. So I went straight to Miss Shirley, and pointed out her hideous error.
“We all need to learn to share,” she replied.
“Share?” I was an Only. Onlies don’t “share!”
Mom Was Heartbroken
She called the teacher and begged her to reconsider: “I made that smock just for him. It has his monogram on it!”
No exception was made. And I was irrevocably scarred, becoming at last the shattered shell of a man you see before you today.
OK, so I got over it.
But I still treasure storytelling and self-expression…
Thanks to Mom.
Painting: ‘
