Creators, not consumers.

My father used to have great bonfire parties in October.  In the months leading up to them, he would spend loads of time gathering old brush, fallen limbs, and dried leaves to add to the mountain he was assembling in his field. All of his friends looked forward to it, mostly because he was such an excellent host. On this night, his dining room table transformed into a buffet of appetizers, chips and dips. And his porch boasted several galvanized tubs complete with a sea of chilled craft beers just begging to be sampled. His friends, many of whom he had known since childhood, spent the evening mingling about, laughing, and drinking, their faces warm and glowing from the fire, and probably a little from the alcohol, too.

When my son was three, he attended his first bonfire party. I took great care in ensuring that I was outfitting him with a true bonfire "look". I bought him bibbed overalls, a thermal shirt, and hiking boots. So many of my dad's friends were going to be there. He had to be perfect for the party.  And he was. My trendy toddler stood at a safe distance and fixated his gaze on the men throwing someone's old, plaid brown couch atop the brush pile. Mouth open and eyes wide, he watched as it lit up the sky above him. He tapped a random party-goer on the hand, asking if they had just seen the "big fire" too.

After the flammable wonder had died down, and the heat subsided, I realized that I had not dressed my toddler appropriately. He may have been cute, but he was not warm enough. When I picked him up, he held my face in his tiny, cold hands to tell me that he loved the big fire. I took him inside the house to snack on some crackers and get a swig of hot apple cider.

Many of the party-goers had also moved inside and space was limited. We worked our way through the crowd until we found an empty spot on the couch. It was next to a young girl, possibly 10 years old. She was absolutely beautiful. Her hair was long and straight. Her eyes were soft and genuine and her smile was so gentle.  I quickly realized that she wasn't dressed for a bonfire at all. Before I could ask her name, my dad and another man approached us. "Oh, I see you have met Maura." I glanced back at the girl and reached out to shake her hand, "Its nice to meet you, Maura."

I couldn't help but notice the flecks of paint on her hands, a layer of dirt under her fingernails and paint on her wrinkled t-shirt. As I was taking inventory of all that seemed odd to me, her father explained that Maura was ten, enjoyed painting, and was excited to accompany him to this year's bonfire. She flashed a toothy grin, seemingly happy to be amongst the cheeseballs, Pinot Grigio, and old hippies.

I wondered how she was not uncomfortable and feeling out of place. After all, Maura looked as if someone had given her about 2 seconds notice that they were leaving for a party.  Why had her father not brushed her hair and placed a barrette in it, bought her a nice, woolen fall sweater, taken a nail brush to those fingernails, or washed the paint from her hands? I pitied her. Why didn't he want his beautiful daughter to be just perfect? I wondered who else at the party was looking at Maura and pitying her too.

I thought about the production my mother went through with me if we were going to a party.  She always dressed me in my nicest clothes. She took great care in curling my hair and even dabbing a little blush on my cheeks.  One year, she dressed me in a brand new floral cotton bubble suit that I could not tolerate. As I tugged at the shoulder ties, and pulled at the elastic on the legs, she said "Stop that! You look darling. Everyone will think you are just darling!" There was great emphasis placed on looks, and perfect looks at that.  I realized that I had to tolerate the restrictive elastic legs so that everyone would think I looked darling.

It would be more than thirty-five years before I realized that "looking perfect" is a very imperfect message to send to children.

A few months ago, minutes before we were leaving to eat dinner with friends, I noticed that my daughter was still at the table painting a picture.  She didn't have on a nice dress. She wasn't wearing a matching bow. Her fingernails were a mix of old polish, dirt and paint. I looked at my daughter and was instantly struck by her beauty. She looked up at me with a smile, picked up her picture with paint-stained hands and said, "I've spent a long time on this one. Will you frame it for me?"

My mind flashed back to Maura. I remembered her dirty fingernails and unkempt hair. But mostly, I remembered her genuine smile, honest eyes, and hands stained with Cadmium Red. And I realized that creators are just darling.