My son is at school today, but my daughter is home from preschool. So she and I headed to the Minneapolis Institute of Arts for a bit.
We spent the first 10 minutes of our visit trying to navigate away from the hoards of school field-trippers who were just stepping off their school buses when we arrived. But once we were able to break away from the group, we had a nice time walking around and looking at whatever struck our fancies.
My daughter made me take a picture of this statuette of two dancers (found in a shipwreck). And when I asked her at the end of our visit what her favorite piece of art was, she said this was it:
My favorite was this giant painting that I luckily — because my daughter was resting her “tired feet” — got to admire for more than the usual 2 seconds before being dragged to the next gallery.
I know I’ve mentioned this before, but my daughter is the more “intense” child in our family. Not in a bad way. Just in the intense way. She is happy and good-hearted and sweet, but she does not flow along with the current of the stream. She pulls herself out of the water and onto the bank whenever she damn well feels like it.
This picture of her at the top of the museum stairwell is so very her. Waiting, semi-patiently, for me to catch up (I had stopped to look at the museum map). Tolerating my slowness, but still letting me see a bit of her annoyance.
It was fun to have some time with her today. In the quiet gallery rooms, and with her stimulated by all of the art, we had some good conversation.
After looking at a painting of Jesus and Mary, she said, “I thought Jesus had a broomstick.”
She was completely serious. And I didn’t laugh. And then we talked about it. Right there in the quiet gallery. And that will stay with me.
We had fun today, too.
We got lost for a bit:
And then found our way out. She wanted me to take a picture of her pretending to be one of the Roman sculptures before we left. I don’t know if there are any Roman sculptures out there holding a tiny Rapunzel doll … but if there are, she does a dead-on impression:
It was a good morning.
I’ve voiced my fair share of complaints in life about how difficult and tiring and mundane it can be on the days I’m home with the kids. But I know that at some point in the future, each time I’ve complained will be canceled out — and then some — by the times I wish I could have this time back.