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?

Wrong.

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Another crayon killer, under my own roof.

The horror.

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