BOYS DON'T CRY

Boys don't cry...

Not when they are babies and they see a man coming to hold them, who happens to be tall,
They would not scream at the top of their lungs.

They might start drooling, or spitting up on him or act shy and snuggle tight to Mommy. But....


Boys don't cry...

They would not scream bloody murder at the age of three, passing the toy store with a variety of mechanical animals having fun in front ...or at the sight of Chicken Dance Elmo (especially when somebody forgets and has the nerve to turn)

They might try to take them apart...never quite able to put them back together...or use it as a projectile misfile for their unsuspecting mother or sibling. But...

Boys don't cry...

They would not tug frantically away from your grip, when they realize you are taking her to see one of those relatives...you know the one's with those scary hearing things in their ears.

They might drive that favorite uncle or grandparent crazy with question after question about the device until said person turns it off. But...

Boys don't cry...

Not when your strolling down the “walking boards" and you happen to pass the entrance of a haunted house they would not jump from their stroller, climb up you leg and scream so loud that people are staring (most likely thinking that you are beating the sweet little child.)

Instead they WILL beg you to give them the six dollar entrance fee, promising to never to ask for anything ever again. But...

Boys don't cry...

They would never start sobbing (a huge drooling sob) when I tell them that they have to wear the blue shirt to school...between the gasping tears they would not claim that they were ugly. Certainly this would not go on for 45 min...I dropped the "ugly?" in the blue shirt, still crying child off, (they would know I would)!

They knew that what ever was set out for them was what they were wearing...clean or not, blue or not and they would not say a word about it. (Until they were in their twenty's) But...


Boys don't cry...

Not at the top of their lung when you show them a really cool bug (dead), or refuse to come into the house 'cause there is a Daddy Long Legs near the door, and panic when they see a snake in the flower garden (earth worm) finally deciding that they were NEVER playing in the yard again because of a alleged bee sighting.

They might bring in every 'cool' bug the find (dead or alive). Pull the legs of the now 'Daddy No Legs’ (fireflies also fear boys) And after being stung by a bee run out with some elaborate plans for revenge. But...


Boys don't cry...

Of course, boys don't cry at the thought of Halloween, or back up so quickly at the entrance of Lowe’s that they are outside and Mommy trapped inside. They would never vow to give up all the potential candy, because some houses have balloon Frankenstein’s in the yard. (Or worse) They would never keep their parents from their traditional Saturday lunch at the diner, because the same blow up creatures is at the door. Especially, not at the age of seven.

They will count the days after Easter for the chance of candy and spookiness, dreaming of just as many tricks as treats. But...

I prayed for many years for a 'girly girl' of my own. My daughter is 13 year younger than my youngest son, and now I know that boys don't cry...they are nothing like girls...totally different creatures no matter what anyone says!

Girls cry...but they smell better!

IT'S MY ART!

“I tend to admire a hard-driving entrepreneur far more than a creative artist, to value producing measurable results more than time to appreciate the beauty around me.”--Jerry Scott 2008


It's My Art

I heard this line many, many years ago, on a TV commercial. I think it was for Life Insurance? The minute I heard it I took it as my own! My mantra so to speak.

I have had a house cleaning business, hand painted shirts I sold at craft shows, prepared tax returns (for lasagna), and sold jewelry at home parties. Whether I made a display sign, put it on a business card (I think I handed out three), or just thought it to myself---each business was dubbed It's My Art.

Every time I set a table for a church function, planned a craft for school children, or fostered a baby—I would think It's My Art!

Occasionally when bailing a boy out of jail, stroking the hair of a beautiful girl in a hospital bed, picking up the never ending cereal bowls, or tried to calm a sobbing drama queen...I sigh...It's My Art?

Too often when washing laundry, dishes, or scrubbing different porcelain areas in the house... I will think...It's My Art ...NOT!

Every now and then when dressing for the day, finding that perfect outfit, or fearfully looking around for the host of 'What Not To Wear' to spring from the bushes...I think, what can I say...It's My Art.

When I paint the house trim in shades of purple, use metal flashing as a chair rail, or lovingly put just one more rubber ducky in our bath room...Hey... It's My Art

Now I am painting with oils, drawing with charcoal, turning a bedroom in an art studio (Sammi didn't need her own room). Now I am typing up old poems and essays and bravely sharing my thoughts. I am even considering another attempt at working with clay! And with each piece I create-- I am proudly thinking... It's My Art

So as I type these thoughts, and work on my book... and partly because my friend no longer calls his Blog...Thought For The Day, I have titled my new endeavors... It's My Art


Note for the quote above....

Jerry, the second I read the thought you penned, I laughed. You are one of the most creative people I know. You appreciate beauty in the eyes of those who come to you with their sorrows and their joys. You paint a loving picture when you speak of your hope in Jesus. You eyes sparkle at the beauty of Bev and your family. And you too uptight (and a little modest?) to admit that It's Your Art!