The Shocking Qualities of Art

Back before I had children I had the awful habit – one common to most (if not all) child-free people – of seeing parents deal with their children and thinking:  How hard can it be?  (And worse:  “I would never let my child behave like that”;  as if (a) it’s something parents choose, and (b) I’d have any control whatsoever over it anyway.)

Karma, etc.

Anyway, I thought I’d learnt my lesson the hard way, but no - the old habit of thinking that something I’ve never tried is easy lingers.  I found self at the Hockney exhibition last week and it’s impressive and all the rest, but you know, with the right materials and space etc, I could probably do it just as well.

And so I decided to take a leaf from the blog-book of the ridiculously talented Antonia, who often graces her site with incredible illustrations;  behold this week’s RL which is brought to you THROUGH THE MEDIUM OF ART.

(Art-ish.)

Thankfully it is short.  Nothing worth much comment happened this week.

First we had this:

(That, by the way, is Batboy, giving his feckless mother - who I concede looks more like an angel than possibly she deserves - a well-deserved talking to. What was she thinking going out on a Friday night?)

And then we had this:

(The Girl discovered that poo comes FROM HER BUM....  God knows what she's been thinking all this time, but it seemed to be something of a revelation to her. (She is not eating her hands. Nor did I start to draw an old-fashioned telephone. Sigh.  I am so misunderstood.))

And then, the most noteworthy event  of the week (at least for me, and almost for the kids):

What do you mean what is it?  OBVIOUSLY it’s a middle-aged lady getting the mother of all electric shocks from the bedside lamp her toddler daughter broke.  The facial expression, conveyed using only a few deft ink-strokes, is one of clear horror;  see how cleverly I manage to convey: I think I’m about to die... (In fact I think I DID die for a split second – my brain and vital organs flickered, just like crap electric appliances do during a storm – and I regret to inform you all that there’s nothing out there; no bright light, no long tunnel, just a split-second of blissful nothingness).  Step back and feel my loneliness, sense the absence of a husband buggered off for a few days, leaving me in charge of children and faulty bed-side lighting devices; gaze in pity at the bags under my eyes, and then, almost as an afterthought, see the clock on the Van Gogh-esque bedside table.  It is 9pm.  Realise with horror that I had sought to go bed EARLY so that when I was woken at 2am by a hacking coughing vomiting toddler there’d at least be some chance that I might be sweet and kind and responsive, instead of spitting and snarling and muttering ohforfuck’ssake under my breath (and I wonder where the Boy picks these things up).

Ok, you can take off your art appreciation caps now. Once it was clear that I wasn’t dead - if you can screech then you’re probably still alive – I was faced with a more immediate concern:  making my way through the house down to the cellar IN THE PITCH DARK to reset the fuse box.  Which is no mean feat when (a) you’re shaking like (gelatine-free) jelly and (b) you’re convinced that you’ve somehow turned into Electric Woman and are scared to touch anything which might re-spark you (door handles, steps, carpets, tiles, and-god-the-fear-of-touching-the-fuse-box.)

And so I eventually got into bed at about 11pm (having Googled: “electric shock after-effects” – bad BAD idea) and then lay there for several hours worrying about (a) residual heart failure and (b) seriously tho’, what would have happened if I had died?  The kids would have had 36 hours alone in their respective cots before the Man got home, and frankly I wouldn’t rate their chances of survival, unable as they are to get through an hour without scavenging in my pockets / handbag for snacks.  That’s assuming of course that the Boy didn’t fly out using his bat-wings and start to gnaw at his sister. 

But – hurrah!  - I DIDN’T die (or rather, die permanently), and I lived to tell the Boy the tale of the Naughty Bad Lamp That Tried To Kill Mummy.  To which he replied as follows:

and promptly stuck his fingers in the lamp’s bulb fitting.

UnFortunately, it wasn’t plugged in, and he lived to slag his mother off another day. (Although not about my drawing talent.  Yet.)