The World of Crayola

Today, my love, I introduced you to my giant box of Crayola Crayons with the sharpener built into the back.

You are reaching the point where you would rather make your mark than eat the wax, so I knew it was time.

At first, I only handed you a couple crayons, but you pointed at the yellow box on the table with a force that proved only that you are not telekinetic. Too bad, that could come in handy. Anyway, I put the whole box on the floor, and the first thing you did was to push the crayons in your hand back into the box. Not in the right spots, of course, meaning an open spot, because the colors are not in any sort of order. I believe I once even dumped out the whole box in front of your cousin Destiny to her utter amazement. So by "right" spot, I only mean one that was capable of readily accepting a crayon. That didn't matter, of course, and you shut the lid anyway.

Now, I have put the crayons away and the Powerpuff Girls coloring book, which I have no intention of explaining why I own, and you are peacefully napping. We all had a rough night last night, with your first case of the stomach flu and how your Dah-DEE and I got to see the food we put in you for dinner (banana and blueberries, because you were sick) once again, all over the couch.

But I digress.

I was pondering the crayons as I lay on the bed resting with you to my left, unagi curled into the crook behind my knees. Once upon a time Crayola used to have a color called "flesh" which they have renamed to "peach" under the guise of political correctness. I took out "peach" just a minute ago, made a mark on white paper, and compared it to my own skin. Not a match.

I then took out a color called "tan" and one called "tumbleweed" and my favorite name, "burnt sienna." I don't know what a sienna is nor how you burn one, but I remember this name from my childhood. I made marks with these on the white paper and observed how I don't really look like any of them.

I'm a bit less pink than peach, and not as orange as tan. Tumbleweed is a bit too errant, although I do like traveling.

If I held these same colors up to you, I wonder where you would fit?

See, the thing is, that you and I, as you'll figure out at some point probably in elementary school, are not the same color. People who don't look too closely think you're the same color as your Dah-DEE, but as your Uncle Anthony said, she's not as dark as his brother (Dah-DEE). And not as light as me, I added.

You are somewhere in between his tan to burnt sienna and my peach to cafe au lait. Speaking of cafe au lait, that would make a darn good Crayola color.

This used to bug me, that we weren't the same color. I kept searching for some bit of you that looked like me, something beyond the obvious because the obvious is skin color. I had to give that up, over and over. Even when I was in Mexico for a week, getting tan, I came home and you had been out in the central California sun, getting more tan. You will always beat me at tanning contests, you turn a rich burnt sienna even with SPF 45 in about ten minutes of sun exposure.

As you grow older though, the resemblance peeks through. In the bridge of your nose and around your eyes, I can see me. Your girl parts, you definitely got those from me. You wrinkle the bridge of your nose when you laugh, like me.

I wonder what check box to mark when I have to specify what nationality you are. Your heritage is a cornucopia of European from me - Irish, Swedish, French Basque, Norwegian; but also German, American Indian, and Mexican from your Dah-DEE.

You are a mix, a blend, a harmony of nationalities mixed to remarkable perfection. You aren't a check box on a form, but then, who is?

The truth is, in a black and white photo, we are all shades of gray, and even to Crayola, gray is still gray.