Parenting | Humor | Satire
Is It Too Late to Admit That I, Not My Toddler, Drew a Picture of a Comet Destroying The Earth?
Everything on the internet is a fact, apparently
My local library has an art section where my son can draw. Cy is 21 months old, so not very focused or coordinated with his hands yet.
Cy’s coloring sessions go as follows: he picks up a crayon, makes one line, puts it in his mouth like a bone, soggies up the wrapper, and snaps it in half. Then he speed-walks back and forth between the construction paper and the nearest bookshelf, adds a whisper of a line each time, destroys another crayon, rinse, repeat.
Meanwhile, I squat at a table 13 inches tall and draw badly.
Last month, on that fateful day, Cy’s feathery distracted strokes of color were added to my latest bored doodle: a fiery comet headed to annihilate Earth.
I didn’t expect a photo to be taken of my son coloring at the library, nor for that photo — where it appears Cy’s putting the finishing touches on his apocalyptic scene — to be posted to the library’s Facebook page.
I certainly wasn’t expecting the photo to go viral.
Cy’s recognizable by the back of his head, with his signature double cowlick that makes his awkward-length hair look like Kate Gosselin’s circa 2008 or Guy Fieri’s now, depending on how he naps on any given day.
Even though I don’t post photos of my son’s face on social media (I know, I’m such a great mom), it took mere minutes for the rabid savvy Reddit and Facebook investigators to figure out who the tiny Picasso was.
“I’d know that adorable head anywhere!” Cindy from South Quincester commented below the photo. “It’s Cy! He’s a sweet little guy. I know all the little ones in town. I see him every week at Market Basket, where I’ve worked for 20 years. Boy, does MBs know how to retain their employees.”
After that, chaos ensued.
Media camped outside our house, snapping pics of our badly-kept front yard. We couldn’t leave the house without a doomsday prepper or religious zealot popping out from behind the bushes to ask how our toddler knew the end was nigh.
“Please!” They shouted, “When is the comet going to hit the earth? Where will it hit? Who will survive? Is God going to save us? How does Cy know? Let us talk to him! My mom is sick! Will Cy touch her face?”
When they weren’t baiting us with sob stories and plaintive entreaties, they were content to chant for hours:
Cy! Cy! Cy! Cy! Cy! Cy! Cy! Cy! Cy! Cy!
Cy loved it. He clapped his hands, waved from the windows, pointed at all the different kinds of vehicles he’d only seen before in his favorite books.
I thought if we were silent, the news would cycle through, common sense would win out, and the fuss would go away. I thought I’d never have to pipe up that I, in fact, drew the picture, not my son.
Boy, was I wrong.
Rhode Island School of Design called to offer Cy a free scholarship to be the youngest graduate ever. So did MIT — they thought Cy might know something they didn’t about the solar system. NASA wanted to shoot him into space with a Curious George look-a-like. The far right demanded the CIA kidnap our son to get answers. The far left sent us death threats for fear mongering and child exploitation.
How was I going to get out of this unscathed? Did I need to take to social media? Would a single Threads post suffice? Maybe a cryptic cliché would do the trick, like “Assumptions make an a$s of you and me.” Or, “Just because it’s on the internet, doesn’t mean it’s true!”
Right, who would believe that?
Last night, a news ‘copter circled the house. It got so close to landing, it forced all the leaves out of our yard that we never got around to raking. That was a perk.
Of course, it also blew out our front windows.
Honesty is the best policy. I know that. I do.
Just say it.
Say, “I did dat,” like Cy does when he helps me put his jammies on, and it’ll all be over.
Or I could give up the drawing to the art forensic who’s been emailing, texting, calling, dm’ing. She’d undoubtedly link — if she hasn’t already — the drawing to an emotionally-stunted, neurodivergent woman on the wrong side of 30.
Or I could give in and meet the celebrity toddler psychologist Dr. Thad at the library like he’s been begging. Thad can re-enact the scene of the crime — or miracle, depending on your interpretation. He can squat for an hour at a table so short that his thighs cry out to Jesus and try to get Cy to actually draw.
I’m sure after Cy picks up a crayon, makes one line, puts it in his mouth like a bone, soggies up the wrapper and snaps it in half, then speed-walks between the construction paper and the nearest bookshelf, adding a whisper of a line each time, rinse, repeat — Dr. Thad will look up from his toddler-infused daze and find his own apocalyptic ditty drawn via barely conscious scribblings.
Dr. Thad’s mouth’ll open into an O, then shut.
He’ll signal to the camera crew and yell à la a 30 Rock character,
SHUT IT DOWN!
And we’ll go back to our regularly scheduled programming.
Yes, that’s the ticket!
Thanks for letting me get this off my chest, pint of Häagen-Dazs.
You always know what’s best.