If I can instill any modicum of art appreciation in the kids, I'll be thrilled. I don't need them to be art majors or have aspirations of careers in literature, music or painting, but I do want them to love a good book and enjoy both experiencing and creating things of thought and beauty.
Early Elgars. Nascent Norman Rockwells. Vee Wagners.
Yesterday they petitioned their mother to go outside and paint, an exercise towards this end which, in my opinion, is generally worth the sizable clean-up efforts afterwards. They donned their plastic painter's smocks, and had at it. N found his smock uncomfortable and immediately turned it around negating any protective powers it might otherwise have had.
Tolkiens in training. Apprentice Austins. Budding Beethovens.
The library is another thing we try to stress. We want the kids to be excited about the library and reading, so Stacy and I always make sure we get a little disturbingly excited about the prospect of going to the library to check out a book or even to return one, hopping our creepy, manic enthusiasm will transfer. It usually does. Tonight was one of those beautiful late summer evenings when the sun just can seem to bring itself to go down, so even though we knew it was closed we took a walk to our local chapter to return a couple of things coming due. The kids decided they must bring their various modes of transportation along, insuring the trip would take twice as long as otherwise.
Dickens in development. Burgeoning Bouguereaus. Hidden Hemmingways.
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