Van Gogh-ing

As most parents will attest as being typical, our children have had a favorite parent at different stages of their development. Butterfly loved her father more than me at the beginning of her life, with her first smile given to him. I became the outstanding favorite by age 6 months, which lasted until preschool, when she again had eyes only for Super Hubs. Now she plays us back and forth like a fiddle, depending upon who has likeliest propensity to fund her wardrobe wants.

Rock Star showed no favoritism until age one, when he preferred his daddy until age two. Then he became partial to me, which lasted…forever. Butterfly still calls him a “Mama’s Boy,” which I don’t see as a bad thing. I rather like it, for as long as it lasts. I suspect that one of these days he’ll push me away into the Motherhood Abyss, where I’ll hang with the other moms of adolescent boys. But for now, I’m content being in his good graces.

Little Squirt, however, has had a favorite parent since Day One. It’s his daddy. To Little Squirt, his father is his Hero. His Knight in Shining Armor. The Sun around which he orbits. If I were to disappear, Little Squirt, standing in the glow of his father’s wonderfulness, probably wouldn’t notice for a couple of days.

Today Little Squirt designed a work of art, using markers in all colors of the rainbow. I recognized his typical idyllic scene of a house on a lawn of flowers and green grass (clearly neatly mowed and well hydrated). A yellow sun reigned over blue sky, with birds flying in abundance. It was a setting in which dreams were made; Disney-like in its appearance. I could almost hear Snow White whistling. And looking through the windows of the house were two stick figures.

He proudly showed me his masterpiece of art. In answer to my question, he said the two people in the picture were himself and his father. “And where are the mommy and the brother and the sister?” I asked. He paused for a second in thought, then responded, “They’re dead.”

Ouch. I’ve been erased off the planet by the whimsy of a 5-year-old’s wistful fantasy! Even after I just purchased that pair of blue Crocs he’d been wanting.