making her mark

when susannah asked me to guest blog, my immediate reaction was 'hell YES!' quickly followed by the much more rational 'oh, hell.'
what can i possibly write that will do any sort of justice to the humor, love, honesty and just plain awesomeness she throws out? feck.
i started to worry, to become self-aware in a way i'm not on my own blog, to judge myself before i even began.

then, one afternoon, i watched my daughter draw.



she alternately squats and sits smack dab in the middle of a large pad of art paper. every time she shifts her weight from one leg to the other, a tiny sumo wrestler with fat little feet with toenails that need trimming, the paper crunches and squeals and she looks at her father with eyes wide, surprised, awed. he asks her to pick a color. she keeps going for brown.

it started when she was about three months old. mother's day, last year. i put a marker in her chubby little hand, my fingers snug over hers, holding her arm in place. with my left hand, i moved the paper around and she drew her very first picture for her grandma. she didn't know what the hell she was doing. she just looked at me and i was beaming and smiling and squeaking about beauty as her saucer eyes followed mine and i kissed her neck folds.

this is art, sweet baby.


her father is an artist.
i like to make things. i like to sew. i like crafts. i like acting, although i stopped pursuing it as a way to make a living. i like to write.
but, her father?
her father is an artist.

try blue, he says.
oh! so pretty!
and she giggles.
she busies herself with taking the cap off and on the marker and shakes it at him when she can't do it by herself. she doesn't like asking for help.
here, he points, the paper popping and alive.

she moves the tip of the marker across, over and over, with meaning. her first circle, her first polka dot, her first sunshine in a field of strawberries and kittens.
her world is colored by images i haven't yet deciphered and i watch, outside the lines. she has the remnants of her imagination smudged all over her skin and she touches the spots of color, a bit irritated that she didn't quite intend for that to get there, marveling that it is there all the same.


we frame her picture and hang it on the wall. every time i look at it i am reminded.


this is art, sweet baby.




my name is krista.
and i blog here.
enjoy your tropical sunshine, susannah.
but we miss you all the same.