The Soul of a Tortured Artist

So the other day I’m making dinner and Grace is planted in front of me at the bar busy doing her art. Being the supportive, encouraging mother I am, my enthusiasm bubbles over for anything my children produce. This time being no exception, I threw out an “Oh Grace, what a wonderful rocket ship!” After a very stony silence, Grace informed me that it was a Christmas tree, not a rocket ship and said, I quote, “You just don’t understand my art, Mommy”. She then silently descended from her perch, took her drawing, and retired to her room. Wow. I wonder what adolescence will bring.