The Artist

My daughter, Brynne, is an artist.

Her canvas--our second crib, currently being used as a changing table.

Her medium--teeth.

I have to laugh--she comes by it honestly.

When I was ready to transition from my crib to a bed, my papa made my bed, crafted it out of beautiful cherry wood. I still have it, ironically, it sits in the same room as the masterpiece Brynne has created.

 As a toddler, I made my papa's labor of love into my own work of art.

I'm pretty sure I was punished for that. I would have punished me for that.

My mama had us take naps every day. She would tell us where the hands on the clock needed to be before we were allowed to leave our rooms. After my imagination wore out, and sleep wouldn't come, I got into all kinds of mischief--not on purpose, mind you. I would absently pick at a seam in the wallpaper by my bed, or pull fur out of a stuffed animal, or--I would etch teeth marks in the headboard of my bed. All while watching for the hands of my Disney clock to point to the right numbers, so that I could be released from my nap.

The wallpaper was patched, the stuffed animal has long since been thrown away, but I still have the bed. Beyond the amusing story, I see the teeth marks as an engraved memory. That bed stands in the girls' changing room quietly holding on to that memory for me. As I look down at permanent indents that Brynne's chompers have done to the crib, I glance up and smile at the work my teeth did on my own childhood bed so many years ago.

The cribs we purchased convert into beds, so Brynne will have her artwork to take with her someday. Maybe she, too, will have children who enjoy gnawing on wood, and she will have her own engraved memory to remind her to laugh.