There are no words

This is a piece of 'work' completed by you at the nursery:

I can't tell you the feeling that filled our bodies from our toes to our crowns when the nursery lady handed this to us. We looked at each other, your mummy and I. There is no word suitable for it, so I will settle for a lame synonym: crushing disappointment.

You have shown all the potential so far of being a very gifted, intelligent, advanced boy. Sadly, we had to immediately reconsider our thoughts on your abilities today. There is no thought gone into the colour scheme or the theme of what you have created. "It could just be an abstract piece," your mummy attempted a defense, hopefully. 

"I've seen chimps pick at their vaginas and throw shit with more creativity." Came my swift reply;

"Looking at that is like watching an 87 year old arthritic woman having a drippy enema," I added, angrily.

"There is more inspiration on James Turner Street." Agreed your mummy, quietly.

"I'd sooner shit a fiddler crab than look at that abomination anymore." I screamed, half at the picture, half at Noah and half at mummy.

Your mummy could do nothing but nod, half shaking with tears. Did you do this on purpose, Noah? Why? 

As soon as we were on the road on the way home, I hurried the painting out the window and into the rainy, Hinckley Street.

"Is it too late to put him up for adoption?" Said mummy.

I dropped the car down a gear and sped home.