Lower Level Drawing and Higher Level Thinking..... brought to you by the book Harold and the Purple Crayon

I walked into the kitchen this morning to see Isabel drawing on her white board easel. When she saw me she immediately hid her left arm behind her. I was, of course, intrigued. I asked her what she had in her hand, to which she replied, “Nothing.” When I asked her to show me, sure enough, there was nothing in her hand. All would have gone unnoticed had the bright flash of purple not caught my eye. You see… she did answer me truthfully; there was not anything IN her hand. Now, ON her hand…. Well that’s a different story.

Apparently inspired by temporary tattoos she got this past week, Isabel the Inker decided to try her hand (quite literally) at this new venue. I calmly sat down on THAT god forsaken white chair and explained to her (at eye level) that we don’t draw on ourselves. When I asked if she understood, she replied, “Yes, Mommy.” I left the kitchen and headed for a quick shower feeling pretty confident in myself. Fifteen minutes later, I walked back into the kitchen to find this:










Check out that face!!! Can you say REMORSE or WHAT???

That was this morning.

On the way home from the grocery store this evening, we passed by the same homeless woman (complete with her life’s belongings) sitting on the same bus stop bench she had been sitting on when we passed her this morning. Isabel (who notices EVERYTHING) asked why she was still there. I tried to explain to her as simply as I could…(is that even possible when talking about the whole issue of homelessness?) ... that the woman had no home to go to. It was the same conversation that we had this morning when we initially drove past her.

Tonight at dinner, we are eating, Isabel is chatting away and then she gets silent. I look up and she asks, “Is she lonely?”

I have no idea what she is talking about. When I ask her, she responds, “That lady.” It takes me a few minutes (and additional questions) to realize she is referring to the homeless woman. And then…this… “We could be her family, Mom.”

No words. Such a mixture of emotions. Tears of sadness for that woman and all that are like her, tears of gratitude that my daughter understands empathy, and tears of joy that this child is mine.

Quite the day.