I like to doodle, not because it’s a skill I possess, but because my hands seem to belong to another body, gesticulating wildly when I speak. Doodling sometimes contains them.
The other day, my mom, dad and I were having our nightly, pre-dinner game of cribbage. While waiting for my mom to deal me a stellar hand, I doodled.
Not far from us, Vivian and William stood two inches from the TV, mesmerized by an around-the-clock Sponge Bob marathon.
I started doodling the first letters of their names: V and W. Then I connected my scribbles, making a stick figure of sorts.
I played my cards, which contained nothing stellar, only a pair of eights and a couple of throwaway cards.
When it was Dad’s turn to shuffle and deal, I doodled some more, this time with intention.
I decided I’d attempt to doodle a stick figure using only the first initials of the four people in my family: my husband, my twins, and I. A family logo of sorts.
So I picked up my pencil and started doodling a C, L, V, and W.
Because I’m a bit dense, I didn’t realize where this was going until I finished.
I looked up at Mom and Dad. They were sorting their cards, deciding what to throw in Dad’s crib. They sensed my stare, or maybe my mischief. They looked at my drawing.
“Well,” I said, “it’s definitely a guy.”
And we burst out laughing. There I was, a 40-year-old woman subtly blushing in front of her 70-year-old parents.
“Your cut,” I said to my mom. She cut the cards and my dad flipped over the Queen of Hearts. In the background, the TV blared with Plankton attempting to steal the Krabby Patty formula.
A summer holiday vignette.
Any doodlers or closet Pictionary players out there?