Cubism? Or child cruelty?

A while back, Juli was down at the Alabama coast with some friends, catching the last tar ball and oil free gulf beach for a few years. Naturally I took the girls on an outing. This time we visited the Hunter Museum of American Art in Chattanooga, a very funky museum that's really an assemblage of three completely separate buildings, each with its own distinct architecture. The museum is a little like a tuxedo with running shoes and a tie-dye cummerbund. Bizarre and odd but lovable.

One of the "wings" has a sitting room with some art books and pads of paper and drawing instruments. Each of us decided to draw something. I sketched my three civilized and mother-reared good little children while they were drawing. And since it turns out that my kids instinctively know to shield themselves from my pernicious influence, they accept all my shortcomings as charming or, at least, basically harmless because also dad-ish. This, I think, is a privilege dads hold with daughters not afforded them by sons. So rather than being horribly insulted that I drew them as little deformed monsters, they instantly noted the drawing's cubist features and were thrilled by it. They begged that I not throw it out but take it home to show their mother when she returned. Nora, my youngest, placed it on the refrigerator door.

My corruption is nearly complete.

I'm proud.

Very proud.