Henry brought home his first piece of art last week. Actually, his Italian preschool teacher hand-delivered it when I picked him up.
"It's fragile," she said solemnly, while Henry was busy ignoring my exhortations to put on his sneakers.
When I saw his work of San Valentino art, I am not proud to say I laughed, completely out loud and with no irony.
His teacher looked at me with a mixture of offense and puzzlement. And why shouldn't she? My toddler is preternaturally talented. Clearly:
I know I am going to hell in a hand basket; this fact has already been established. Also the fact that I do not have an artsy bone in my body.
But, like, really. What do I do with it?