Help! My Son Paints Nudes

I was in bed the evening my husband returned from visiting our youngest, a painting major at an excellent art school in the south. He crawled into bed and whispered to his sleepy wife, "I have three big surprises for you in the morning." "That's nice," I whispered as I patted his hand, then drifted back to sleep.

The following day my man jumped out of bed, quickly showered, and raced down the stairs and into the living room, eager to present me with his gifts. I showered and dressed quickly, too, anxious to see what he was so excited about.

About halfway through my staircase dissension, I spotted THEM. I braced my legs and dug my nails into the railing to avoid falling down the stairs in disbelief. I could feel my blood pressure falling and my impending death looming.

Three life-size paintings of women dressed in their natural glory were propped up on my living room wall! The morning sun highlighted all their bits and pieces.

My jaw dropped to the floor and perspiration drenched my brow. My husband couldn't stop laughing.

I was mortified, thinking of the neighbors and paperboy driving by, glancing into my uncovered large, bow living room window, and meeting our naked houseguests.

"Why did you bring them HERE?" I inquired. Barely able to speak through his unbridled laughter, my husband replied, "Wyatt has nowhere else to store them. And don't they look lovely in our living room?!?" 

"No!" I exclaimed. The thought of my little boy painting those nude models horrified me. I considered poking out my mind's eye as THAT scene from Titanic raced through my mind.

I grabbed some sheets, covered those gals so they wouldn't be cold, and then turned them toward the wall.

"You have three days to find them a new home, or they're going to the dump," I informed my husband.

I comforted myself. Bottecelli's mom would agree.