Growing up, I was the only member of my family who found solace and pleasure in this pursuit. So I love that every one of my children know the particular delight of worlds springing into existence beneath their fingers, flickering to life as they press lead to the blank page.
Bee and Zee work for painstaking hours crafting multi-paged, multi-volumed comic books. The younger two delineate creatures and contraptions that I can only imagine call brightly to them from that mythical place in their minds' eyes.
Hubby doesn't seem aware of it, but he was once a very capable artist; I've seen the evidence in his first grade sketch book. And yet somewhere along the way he lost the passion, the ease, the joy, and now he loathes to construct even the most canonical stick figure.
So I can only grasp a mother's flimsy hope that the wonder of making art will remain kindled in the spirits and fingers of my children.