In honor of Father's Day, my son's preschool had "Drawing with Dad Day" this week. Like any good father, I was sure to attend. I wouldn't want my son to be the only one without daddy present, crying his little eyes out and planning to murder me when he gets old enough to reach the knife block.
The goal of this assignment was for each of us to paint the other. First we drew the figure, then painted it in however we wanted. This was kind of difficult for me, since I'm art-tarded. But, for my son, I did my best.
He drew something vaguely humanoid that looked like a refugee from the Cthulhu mythos, with a flaming red belly button and wide, orange eyes. We had a ten-minute debate on whether or not he needed to include my penis, with me begging him not to or at least to use a bigger brush, and him insisting that for it to be realistic he needed to include "all the details." Have you ever noticed that when a four-year-old argues, he does it in a yell so loud that the teachers from one class over stick their heads in the door to see what all the penis shouting is about?
Finally we compromised and he agreed to draw me in my underwear. He gave me pink panties. Quite frankly, I'd rather have been au naturale.
When he was done, this five-limbed monstrosity in pink panties and flaming belly button glowered at me with fierce orange eyes and fingers as long as its forearms. He proudly declared that it was me, showed it to everybody in class and pointed out my panties as way of apologizing for not including the penis, and practically ordered me to hang it in my office. I hope the canvas is flammable.
I pondered getting revenge on him, but how do you do a self-portrait of a four-year-old that is insulting? Especially since the one he did is a fair sight better than your artistic talents? Finally I settled on trying to please him, so I decided to do him as a super-hero, with cape and mask and everything. I labored, long and hard, with a vision of my son dressed as superman.
Have you ever noticed that watercolors run together? The skin ended up green, the costume was horrid brown, and the only distinct color was the puff of yellow hair up top.
That's right, I painted my son as Vomit Man, afro'd pukester of justic. Take that, evil-doers! When I finished, my son asked "Is that me?" I told him yes, and he responded "If you say so."
But at least I got to be a good father, which was the point of the whole affair. And I think he enjoyed it, even though my office will be victim of a tragic (and highly localized) fire soon. So in the end, all was well.
And for the record, I do not wear pink panties.