My kids are enjoying their last day of school today, or at least enjoying that it is the last day, barring the Promotion Ceremony tomorrow morning.*
As you might expect, veritable forests of dead, pulped, ironed trees have been unloaded from both backpacks this week. Each kid also came home with a Sunny-sized art portfolio and bags of dubious pottery, including a uniquely painted owl (see left) and a probable-turtle that only a mother could identify appreciate.**
I’ve shared some of my favorite Wesson Kid artwork throughout this school year and y’all aren’t off the hook yet.
Since roughly Christmas, Janie has been saying the word pastels in the same tone she uses for American Girl merchandise. I think I figured out why:
And also why she keeps asking me to play Owl City’s Fireflies on repeat in the car.
The kids studied George Rodrigue this semester, and while Jane’s Green Dog variation was pretty good, I’ve been enjoying her Blue Guitar Period:
Seriously—this guy has been showing up everywhere, flower, whammy bar and all.
Sunny, on the other hand, has been working on perspective. This one is from a project asking student to look at things “From a Bug’s Point of View”:
She says this is a self-portrait, and that the girl is standing on a glass coffee table to get away from the bug. But the face isn’t expressing screaming terror or the heaving squickies—although it’s true she doesn’t look particularly happy—and the hair isn’t made of springs, so I’m thinking it isn’t, really. Regardless, I think it’s pretty good for a six-year old—look at the hand placement!
She did bring home one lovely self-portrait, though, that befits my curly little artist:
That, ladies and gentlemen, is my girl.
___________________
*And the brief, but intense, pre-Promotion Ceremony ritual of explaining to my children why they can’t wear tank tops and flip-flops. Dresses and shoes and brushed hair and teeth, thank you very much, under imminent threat of a post-Promotional Ceremony Cleaning of the Play Room.
**I shall call him Squashie and he shall be mine and live in my writing place and he shall be my Squashie.
Earful of Cider 