She’s Going to the Art Show!

The six-year-old girl living with us cannot possibly be related to me. Further proof of that came home from school in her backpack Friday. One of her art pieces has been selected for the district-wide Art Show on Saturday. That’s no small deal.

I have no idea what the piece is, and neither does she. She’s not even sure what the Art Show is, other than it’s something that may preclude her from going to one of her friends’ birthday parties this week, but of course not the party where there will be pony rides. So she’s happy about that.

She’s not happy about potentially missing soccer for the Art Show, but she’ll just have to chalk that one up to, “Yeah my parents were right about that one” when she reaches the age you realize your parents don’t suck.  The only thing bothering me is that of two soccer games, two birthday parties, and an Art Show all happening from 10-3 that day, the lone event we are assured of attending is the one with an on-site live horse.

I used to get “W’s” in art class in grade school. W stood for Weak, according to some weird scale that was used for the minor subjects. (“The artwork is weak.” “You’re weak.”) And my wife is no Rembrandt, either, so we’re not sure where any of this artistic ability is coming from. If any of our immediate or distant family knows, please speak up.

Meanwhile, she comes home from soccer the next day and proceeds to eat broccoli and play outside in the dirt and gather up worms. I’m taking a paternity test next week. This girl is not mine.