And then I heard myself say, “I’ll be right back, I have to go downstairs to get the aliens.” I may have been the only one on the planet that day, uttering those words in the middle of making a Christmas gingerbread village.
Monique and I began our tradition eleven years ago when she was five years old. What started as a pinch hit baby-sitting favor for her grandmother has continued long past the age I expected her to call it quits because is was no longer “cool.” It has even continued despite the fact that she can drive now and surely can find other activities with her teenaged friends. And this is a great kid we are talking about. She has lots of friends and is involved in too many activities to list here. Making gingerbread with me is not her only option.
But, I’m the one who has the aliens and this is no ordinary tradition.
Monique and I were in our second or third year of cookie baking when an adult friend of mine came to join us. As was our tradition, I had made every color of dough I could: green, yellow, red, orange, blue and purple. We made tie-died stars, little purple men and a long multicolored snake with the last bit of dough. The sprinkles were flying and it looked as though a sugar bomb had exploded in my kitchen. We were in heaven! At least I thought we were, but it turns out my friend was in agony.
"I couldn’t believe how patient you were! I mean, you let her make purple Christmas trees and green dogs! I’d let her do a few of those and then I’d say, 'okay, that’s enough of that, now we have to make some nice ones.' ”
I could hear Harry Chapin in my head, “Flowers are red and green grass is green.There is no need to see flowers any other way than the way they always have been seen.”
Eleven years later, Monique and I still make purple men and, yes, our ginger bread village sports aliens, rubber lizards, miniature princess Barbies, a butler and zebras in one of the houses. And, no adults are invited to join us.
Fast forward to another Christmas and a visit to another friend’s house where the children are intently focused on their craft project. The room is spotless.
"I had such high hopes.In my mind these were perfect.” She spoke these words apologetically, with a hint of embarrassment as we watched her four-year-old daughter paint Christmas ornaments.She was making a pink snow man (her favorite color) as her mother winced and fought the urge to hand her a paintbrush dipped in white.
This is how it begins.
I have no intention of vilifying anyone, least of all parents. I will grant you, I don’t have kids myself and maybe I just don’t understand the stress of having little creativity machines running around all day. The fact is, our creative wounds can come from anywhere and those who deliver them would likely be mortified if they really understood what they were doing.
Proceed to Part 2.
Reprinted from A Guide to Getting It: Creative Intelligence
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