My Tornado of Death

Her outstretched hands, 10 perfect fingers, each 5 attached to their rightful palm. Pillows of toddler pudge held the paper up to me. She stretched every fiber in her little being, willing her gift closer towards me.

It’s for you. I drew it for you.

She proudly announced.

Take it!

Her request was layered with the beginnings of exasperation. She shook her gift in front of me.

I thanked her as I took the paper from her hands. Another art piece to obligatorily display on the refrigerator. An addition to the seemingly endless ticker tape of crayon and colored pencil scribbles.

Not long ago preschool art was proudly displayed as colorful decor, yet recently it had become nothing more than an oppressive cover. An endless output to smother me and my modern appliance. 3 year old twins and a newborn. A recent parade of melancholia rained down upon my expectations of motherhood.

I looked down on the paper she had handed me. Monochrome hues, scribbled in fury and haste over 8 ½ by 11 inches of white. Technicolor to my postpartum grayscale.

It’s for you!

She reminded me, pulling me back to the moment. 3 year olds never let our thoughts stray far from present.

Wow, Emrie. It’s, it’s so, so, uh, so bright and magnetic! And the circle, I mean oval. The oval spirals so… so….

I stopped myself.