She was torturing the puppy (again) and my husband yelled, “Please, please, leave that poor dog alone! She doesn’t want ribbons on her ears!”
My daughter growled. Yes, I said my daughter and NOT the dog. Anyway, she growled and stormed off into her room.
I looked at my husband and raised my eyebrow. “You’re in for it now.” He gulped.
Ten minutes later, my daughter came storming out of her room, paper in hand, her little mouth clenched tight. She stomps up to me and hands me her paper.
“Here,” she said between her teeth. “Give this to Dad.”
I glanced down at the paper, furrowing my brow. “What is it?”
She snatched the paper from my hand and held it up. “This is me, getting angry because of daddy!” She pointed at him. “This is me walking out the door and screaming at him in my room. And this is me coming back and telling you I’m mad.”
She pushed the paper toward me and I stared down at it again. “And what’s this?” I said, pointing to the second one.
“Those are my arms in fists.”
(Thank God. I totally misinterpreted that.)
“I’m sorry—“ my husband started to say. My daughter pointed at him.
“Don’t talk to me!” She ran off.
I stared at the picture a little longer and then handed it over to my husband. He smiled as he took it, looking proud.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I really liked the zombie squirrel better.”
My husband got up and put the picture on the fridge. “I’m calling it, 'Angry Art'.”