A few days ago, at a bookstore, I saw a girl trailing after two women and couldn’t help overhearing their conversation:
Little Girl (in cute little girl voice): After this, can we go to the Walker Art Center?
Woman #1: I don’t think so, honey.
Little Girl (in pitiful little girl voice): It’s free on Saturdays.
Woman #1: Have you ever been there?
Little Girl: Yes, lots of times.
Woman #1: What would you do there?
Little Girl: They have art for kids.
Woman #1: It’s just an art museum.
I’m a poor judge of kids’ ages, but this girl was little itty-bitty. I’d guess like five. Or seven. Or nine. Somewhere between five and nine, but she would have been a really short nine-year old.
And I know I don’t actually have kids. And God knows when I do, they’ll ask me to go to the art museum, and it’ll be Saturday morning, and I’ll be on the couch in my underwear, and I’ll growl, and make them mow the yard instead. But first get me a beer, I’ll say.
But when your kid wants to go to the art museum instead of McDonalds, which is where I begged my parents to take me when I was five (and seven, and nine), you know, take her! Or at least don’t tell her art is lame.