Today was very nearly the first weekday that I did not post something, ever, since the beginning of Tenor Dad. Though I have pledged not to write about my son’s health in these pages anymore, at his request, to understand today’s story you must at least understand that we were in the hospital. From the middle of the night to just a few moments ago, we were not home. We were in the middle of something.
In the middle of the middle of something, I took Edward down to the playroom at the end of the hall of the pediatrics floor. He was not having a good 24 hours, and he was not at all happy about being admitted to the hospital. Luckily there was no one else around, so he was able to cook some legos in the microwave of the kitchen set, and have his large toy robot (complete with giant gun) drive a firetruck around the floor.
Then those poor volunteers walked in the door. They were very nice people who clearly have a lot of love to give to the world, and their mission was to bring art to the children in the hospital. Edward hates art. Every picture he has ever drawn has been a long squiggle of not caring. Here are the drawings of our local lake monster Champ, from his camp earlier in the summer. Can you guess which one is his? His is the one that says “F- you guys, I’m not drawing Champ. I want to play outside.”
So they wheel the art cart in and walk up to him, saying “Hey, we heard you like to do art!” He just turned with a dark glare, stared them down, and walked off. So far, so good. And these poor people tried everything. One of the girls made a sword out of pipe cleaners to try and duel him, but when he wasn’t having it she made fox ears and a fox nose out of the pipe cleaners and started singing “What Does the Fox Say?” while dancing around in an amusing fashion. Nope. He was not going to be lured into doing art. Finally they say “Look, I’m painting something cool.. Do you want to paint too?”
Edward walked over to the painting, pointed his robot at it, made some explosion noises, and simply said “My Robot Just Killed Your Painting. Now It’s Dead.” And he walked away.
He walked over to the large interlocking mats in the corner and proceeded to make a cube out of them, which he then extended into a rectangular prism, fastened a door on the end, crawled inside, and shouted “I’m making a fort to get away from you! I don’t like art!” Things he also does not like, according to the various interactions he had with this beleaguered team of do-gooders, include: girls, painting, markers, pictures, colors, and “you.”
So he did not do any art. The art team did some art on their own, and finally we left, back to his room down the hall to watch “Paddington” on pay-per-view, which I am assuming is covered by my insurance. Now we are home, he is fine, everyone is outside playing, and I have had 3 hours of sleep and want to die. So, actually, back to normal. Sweet. See you tomorrow.