A young writer in residence - or, the handwriting on the wall

Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat, Weekend Edition on February 24, 2012


Recently, I learned that we have a budding writer in our home.  You may think, generously, “Oh, it’s in the blood.”  Or perhaps you saw the article that mentioned my eldest son winning the annual speech contest held by the generous Rotary Club of Warrenton.  Maybe you remember my children’s poetry when this paper ran the Kids’ Page or that my eldest daughter won the “Why I Love Warrenton” contest in the student category years ago in The Warrenton Lifestyle Magazine. Perhaps you heard my daughters give their speeches at their respective graduation ceremonies from Fauquier High School in 2008 and in 2010, or my middle son’s speech before becoming President of Warrenton Middle School’s student council.

That traditional kind of writing is not what I’m talking about.  My new writer in residence has found a far more interesting medium.  You know how some things are revealed to you only when you see the handwriting on the wall?  That’s what I’m talking about.  Literally.

Last weekend, because we are a super fun loving and partying sort of family, my husband worked with me on assembling some electronics.  That’s to help me keep in touch with my “inner engineer.”

Last weekend also being an extra-long weekend, we decided to do some fun things, such as have the children remove wall marks with that amazing Mr. Clean Eraser.  This sort of household activity can be lots of fun, especially if you don’t frequently overdose your children on things popularly construed to be fun, like going to the movies or to parties.

Hopefully, you know I am writing tongue-in-cheek.  Of course, we enjoyed the glorious sunshine at Rady Park on Saturday.  We brought in lunch and considered driving to the movies, but chose to watch one at home, where everyone could snuggle or lounge as necessary.  My husband worked on projects with each of the children too.

That’s when the handwriting on the wall came to me as clearly as if it had been written on the wall.  It was, actually.  Naturally, everyone denied doing it.  No matter.  Lately, my mothering has degenerated to tyranny.  It’s not “innocent until proven guilty” around here.  They’re all guilty.  I know it.  I live with them, remember?

The writer at large had written in teeny, tiny letters.  One phrase, on a bathroom door said, “God bless America, my home sweet home.”  My discovery coincided with President’s Day Weekend.  I should be proud.  All of this was compressed to a size that could easily be hidden by an adult thumb.  Does this mean I keep my children under my thumb, or that I suppress patriotic writing?  Not at all.

This may surprise you, but we have loads of paper in the house.  We have whiteboards and computers too.  We even have grains of rice, if someone insists on specializing in tiny writing.  Any of these are acceptable places for writing, but apparently, they are just not as appealing as the walls and the doors. 

In another “inconspicuous” spot behind yet another bathroom door, there is a “Hello, is anybody home?” penciled there.  This one, I learned from the young writer, was inspired and done years ago after watching “Beauty and the Beast.”  At least for that one, I got a confession.

For the patriotic musing, I simply chose the most likely suspect – someone with a track record for wall-writing, someone with a similar handwriting, someone who had attended a school where this song was sung every morning just after the Pledge of Allegiance to our flag.  That’s the candidate who gets my vote. They can have a taste of democracy when they leave home.  Hopefully, their new home will have more accommodating walls.

It reminds me of a school day years ago, when only the two youngest were at home with me.  I heard alarms of, “Mom!  Mom!  The Baby is writing on the wall!”  I dashed upstairs.  (I weighed less then.)  I had a habit of referring to the youngest child as “The Baby” even when that child was toddling about and speaking.  Everybody’s had a turn at being The Baby.

I saw that, indeed, The Baby had made a huge swirling scribble, right on the bedroom wall.  I shouted at The Baby to arrest any further artistic impulses he might have.  I turned to thank the older child for alerting me.  There she stood, with pencil in guilty hand, and an entire mural on the wall ahead of her.  There was a little house, the straight line for the garden and a few flowers popping up.  The picture was complete with that charmingly childish sun shining its warm and loving rays straight down onto the scene.

I shouted that child’s name out, in full, as written on the birth certificate.  “You said The Baby was writing on the wall, but you were doing it too!” 

She shrugged her helpless little shoulders and widened her innocent, four-year-old eyes.  “Well, The Baby was writing on the wall!  Then, I had to do it too.”

There is no longer a baby in this house.  The writer, however, apparently still lurks among us.