So Will came home with a "pilgrim" project a while ago: he had all week - maybe it was two? - to fashion a little pilgrim out of a clothespin type thing, representing a country from which some of his ancestors emigrated. I thought, yay! Easy! I've got a good bit of Inuit in me (that's Eskimo, you mainlanders), so Will drew a face on his clothespin, we glued on some cotton balls for a fur coat and hood, and boom! Pilgrim's Progress. Done.
Apparently I did not read in the tea leaves of this project's instructions that you - that's YOU, mama - are actually supposed to fashion a doll you could find at a toy museum. Or maybe you are supposed to outsource your child's pilgrim project to a firm in Plymouth that specializes in crafting perfectly despicably delightful clothespin dolls. Because today we had to attend a little Thanksgiving lunch for the first graders, and the entire hallway was lined with tables sporting the most ridiculously intricate, adorable little pilgrim people:
Holy shizer you all.
There were tables like this set outside every single first grade classroom. It was like walking down a hallway of the hotel in "
The Shining" for me - ye gads, you all. What a nightmare.
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| Scary scary stuff |
At first I felt just horrified at my lack of maternal oversight - erm, TAKE-oversight - on this project. In fact, it would never even OCCUR to me to work this hard on a kiddie art project. So what am I missing? Some basic maternal instinct? A total disregard of my children's ability to get into Stanford or Harvard? So much thought, time and proximity to crafting materials - glue guns! fabric scraps! Sharpies! - went into these precious baubles - why? Why?
Dear friends, if you have the answer, please let me know, so that I might weigh this evidence against moments lost sipping Pinot Noir and watching
edifying television.
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