If I were an artist, I think my paintings would end up being similar to Norman Rockwell’s. He’s quoted as saying, “Without thinking too much about it in specific terms, I was showing the America I knew and observed to others who might not have noticed”; replace “America” with “motherhood” and this works well as an explanation of my efforts with this column. I like to think of these stories I share with you each month as my attempt to put into words what he painted into images: moments of real life that feel familiar, are often funny, and are true and authentic.
Sometimes I see my boys doing something that I wish Norman Rockwell could see, because I’m sure he’d be inspired to paint them. One example is a moment my mom and my oldest shared a few years ago as they sat on the couch together. My son had his Chromebook open on his lap, but he was looking at something on Mom’s phone, which she was leaning over to show him, pointing at the screen and chuckling. Other details that surely would have made it into the painting were my mom’s sweater and slippers, the pillow behind her back, my son’s bare feet, the fact that both their ankles were crossed, the coziness of the lit lamp next to them. “Grandmother and grandson share their e-findings on iPhone and Chromebook,” the description of the painting would read.
Another example occurred during a family walk to the park. Boys number 2, 3, 4, 5, and 6 were on their scooters, and I’d told them they could scooter to the next corner and wait for me there. There they were, a jumble of boys on scooters waiting at the corner, and they were all poised to ride again as soon as I gave them the go-ahead—the legs whose feet were on the scooters were bent, and they were all leaning forward as if waiting for the starting gun. Rockwell-esque details included the crooked helmets, the shorts that a couple of them were wearing with their coats, the way one of them was looking behind him at one of his brothers and laughing, a baseball field in the background. “Scooter Race” it might be titled.
Just recently, the four older boys were altar servers at Mass, and they’re all still young enough that they’re stair steps—each boy is a half a head or more shorter than the next oldest—which makes for a fun picture anyway, but I glanced over at them just at the point where the youngest of them yawned, and I thought, “That is such a Noman Rockwell painting.” I feel sure he would have enjoyed this early Sunday scene: the serious older brothers, the yawning rookie, the hair sticking up on one of them, the white robes and rope belts they each put on themselves with varying degrees of aptitude. Sometimes I’ll see them conferring during Mass about who needs to do what, or one of the older boys will direct one of the younger boys, which would also make a great painting. I’d call it, “Morning Mass.”
The way the baby opens his mouth wide to insert his pacifier himself, like a baby bird; the little boys clustered in the tree house having a chat while sitting on old chairs; my oldest boy shooting hoops by himself for hours; my five-year-old perched on the chair with the controller clutched in his hands during his turn at video games; my middle guys racing around and through the house playing tag or hide and seek; the sour face the baby makes upon trying a lime popsicle; the mismatched socks and too-big shirts and baseball hats that make their ears stick out—it’s as wholesome as modern childhood gets, and I can picture each scene painted in Rockwell style.
Even the writing of this piece could fit into my “Norman Rockwell of the Twenty-Teens” series. I’m sitting in a recliner with the baby asleep in one arm and my laptop balanced on the opposite arm of the chair, pecking away with one finger. “Mom at Work,” it might be called, or “Naptime Writer” (which is how I’ve often described myself).
They’re the kinds of moments that I think would make a lot of people think, “Oh yeah, I love when my kids do that!” or “I’ve noticed that too!” or “We did that just recently!” or “I remember those days well!” I feel the most inadequate as a writer at these times, because I struggle to convey with words what Normal Rockwell so expertly showed on canvas, and I really want to, because I think snapshots of childhood innocence and simple family life are beams of light in what many consider to be dark times. “Humor and wit were central aspects of Norman Rockwell’s character,” the Norman Rockwell Museum web site notes. “…Rockwell filled a societal niche by providing levity during times of great strife… [his] paintings presented Americans with a window into a more idyllic world.” He was certainly a master at doing so, and I’d love to think these stories I share provide a little of that to all of you!
Kate and her husband have seven sons ages 14, 12, 11, 9, 7, 5, and 10 months. Follow her at www.facebook.com/kmtowne23, or email her at This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it..
(All quotes from the Normal Rockwell Museum site: nrm.org.)
