The Cheerleader

After having left a comment on virtual pal’s blog the other day where I openly shared my admiration for my offspring’s creative endeavors as a response to her lovely post detailing her own offspring’s visionary invention, I was met with a nefarious comment from one of pal’s readers on this here bloggy regarding (i) the frightening appearance of my latest crocheted meat product, and (ii) the inappropriateness of my overzealous parental boasting which, in her opinion, resulted in "upstaging" pal’s daughter’s accomplishments on pal’s blog. I didn’t know how to respond at the time (not that I could respond, because there was no return email address), but I do now...

I’ve been called a lot of things during my stay on the planet. Some of those things haven’t always been pleasant. Oh, and reviews of my artwork? Well, those haven’t always been filled with stars, happy faces and A-plus-pluses either. Some of those less-than-rave reviews were in print too. Needless to say, I’m a veteran recipient of bad cheer and I believe I can respond to this commenter’s indictments thusly…

Crocheted bacon scary?

Sure, I’ll give you that.

Proud mom?

Absolutely.

Prideful mom who feels the need to prop up my child at the expense of another’s child?

Absolutely not!

…For I love children and their insatiable conjuring of thaumaturgic masterpieces more than I love to crochet and knit meat products, and that’s sayin’ something…Hel-lo? Former art professor here, who shepherded more individuals, large and small, through personal creative discoveries than I can shake a stick at, for lack of a better metaphor. In other words, looking for an artsy craftsy cheerleader? I’m your Lady.

I’m also a Lady who comes from a long line of artsy craftsy cheerleaders. Well, maybe not a long line, but definitely a trapezoidal bunch of artsy craftsy harbingers of the holler. My father, the kingpin of the bunch, pencils at the ready, reams of paper stocked to the ceiling, instilling his creative mindset unto his progeny and proud as any father could have been of the rudimentary creations his preschool-aged daughters maniacally churned out, was an overflowing font of positive reinforcement, always gently prodding his children and well, pretty much everyone else around him, to dance precariously along the edge of the envelope. My maternal grandmother, while not the kingpin of the squad, was certainly the process pusher of the crew, making sewing machine, fabrics, thread, hooks, needles, an abundance yarn-y goodness as well as her generous guidance ever available. My maternal grandfather, the reluctant proponent on Team Ingenuity’s cheer squadron, constantly dismayed by his granddaughter’s flagrant use of his "man tools" would always, always exclaim with delight when finished product was paraded about made as a result of this girl using that guy’s "man tools"…and properly I might add. Finally, there is my mother, my biggest supporter and a helluva lot louder than I have ever been when it comes to acknowledging her children’s and grandchild’s accomplishments. I mean, the woman is starry-eyed when it comes to her offspring and her offspring’s offspring’s works of whimsy. It’s heredity, I tell you!

So yeah, I’m proud and I’m a loud and I’m sometimes misunderstood, but I live life richly and deeply, with a passion to create. I am also always, always supportive of creative exploits, whoever the progenitor happens to be.

Oh, and my pal? Not offended in the least.

Rant concluded.