When I was growing up, I loved crayons.

There was nothing more wonderful than getting a brand new box of Crayola crayons at the beginning of the school year. I would take great care in pushing in the preforated yellow box, making sure that I didn’t rip the front or sides to spare myself the indignity of having a ruined box for the rest of the year.

Once the golden box was open, I would look at the neat rows of crayons. There they were: periwinkle, sea green, violet red, and the siennas – raw and burnt.

I took great care to make sure I returned them to their proper locations after use and tried not to push too hard – except, of course, when I was adding contrast by shading one side of the image – to keep the tip properly beveled.

When my son turned two I was so excited to get him his first box of crayons. I thought of my own fond memories as I handed him a box of crayons specially designed for the dexterity of a toddler.

Peter took the crayon in his hand.

And then the little monster bit the tip off.  

I tried larger (yet) crayons. The mutilation continued. I tried…RoseArt (blech). No luck.

I soon resigned myself that my son and his appetite for wax couldn’t be quenched.

When our darling baby girl came along my hopes for a crayon nurturing offspring were rekindled. She’s a sweet girl, has angelic blonde curls, and her middle name is Rose. She’d surely treat the crayons the way they deserve, right?



Another crayon killer, under my own roof.

The horror.