My Son, the Artist
Our first child scribbled crayon all over the kitchen floor when he was just shy of 3, scribbled on the walls with permanent magic marker when he was 4, and got extremely active with the scissors sometime in between. I remember my parents' comments when I related these incidents to them. For the first episode of the floor, my mother asked me, "well, where were you while this was going on?" (I was in the bathroom). With the marker on the walls my father very calmly replied to my hysterical recitation of events with, "the question is, how did he get his hands on the marker in the first place?".
Nowadays, I relate my sons' disasters to my parents after I've had time to think about my defense. For example, when I was pregnant, "I was in the bathroom" was always acceptable. I mean, it's an absolutely necessary activity, not like say, making the bed or cleaning the shower. (Of course, they'd have something brilliant to say about unmade beds or yucky showers, but that's besides the point.)
But now I'm careful with the markers and the crayons and have SET LIMITS about where they are allowed to be utilized, namely, they stay on the kitchen table. Now that we've got our oldest, who is 6, fairly civilized, I can safely say that we've reigned in his ideas about home decoration. But now it's our middle boy's turn, and he's embracing his artistic sensibilities with gusto.
I was clearing up the kitchen table from the latest round of artwork in preparation for dinner when I noticed a cap without the matching marker. This is not an unusual occurence, and it was a yellow marker (and washable) so I didn't exactly go hunting for the marker. I started dinner preparations when my 3 year old walked into the kitchen with what I can only describe as the biggest ---t eating grin on his face that I have ever seen. In his grubby little hand was the missing yellow marker.
My mommy antennae went up like they were electrocuted. I asked him, "where have you been?" and got an even wider grin. I snatched up the marker and went through the house like one of the characters on Crime Scene Investigation. Did I mention we just moved into a brand new house? I checked the living room, the bathroom, the baby's bedroom, his bedroom, his older brothers bedroom, and then, dreading what I might find, my bedroom. No sign of toddler graffitti anywhere. The little guy follows me, still grinning. As I retrace my steps, a part of my brain registers I haven't seen or heard our youngest (17 months) for the last 5 minutes or so.
I found the baby on top of his oldest brother's bed and the sight of him made my heart stutter. He looked like he had yellow fever. His face, ears, and hands were colored with yellow magic marker. Even his ears were yellow.
I grabbed him down, washed his face (while he vigorously protested), and said to Andrew, "don't color your brother again, ok?"
Another entry for the list of things I never thought I'd ever, ever, hear myself say.
Nowadays, I relate my sons' disasters to my parents after I've had time to think about my defense. For example, when I was pregnant, "I was in the bathroom" was always acceptable. I mean, it's an absolutely necessary activity, not like say, making the bed or cleaning the shower. (Of course, they'd have something brilliant to say about unmade beds or yucky showers, but that's besides the point.)
But now I'm careful with the markers and the crayons and have SET LIMITS about where they are allowed to be utilized, namely, they stay on the kitchen table. Now that we've got our oldest, who is 6, fairly civilized, I can safely say that we've reigned in his ideas about home decoration. But now it's our middle boy's turn, and he's embracing his artistic sensibilities with gusto.
I was clearing up the kitchen table from the latest round of artwork in preparation for dinner when I noticed a cap without the matching marker. This is not an unusual occurence, and it was a yellow marker (and washable) so I didn't exactly go hunting for the marker. I started dinner preparations when my 3 year old walked into the kitchen with what I can only describe as the biggest ---t eating grin on his face that I have ever seen. In his grubby little hand was the missing yellow marker.
My mommy antennae went up like they were electrocuted. I asked him, "where have you been?" and got an even wider grin. I snatched up the marker and went through the house like one of the characters on Crime Scene Investigation. Did I mention we just moved into a brand new house? I checked the living room, the bathroom, the baby's bedroom, his bedroom, his older brothers bedroom, and then, dreading what I might find, my bedroom. No sign of toddler graffitti anywhere. The little guy follows me, still grinning. As I retrace my steps, a part of my brain registers I haven't seen or heard our youngest (17 months) for the last 5 minutes or so.
I found the baby on top of his oldest brother's bed and the sight of him made my heart stutter. He looked like he had yellow fever. His face, ears, and hands were colored with yellow magic marker. Even his ears were yellow.
I grabbed him down, washed his face (while he vigorously protested), and said to Andrew, "don't color your brother again, ok?"
Another entry for the list of things I never thought I'd ever, ever, hear myself say.
posted by Kirsten at 1:49 AM
4 Comments:
I stumbled across you site from dinnerwithdad. When my oldest brother was a baby my dad, with theoretically more responsibility than a mischevious preschooler, drew a flamboyant curlicue mustache on my brother's face. That was before he realized it was a permanent marker. My folks still wonder what the nursery ladies at church thought the next day... By the way - nice writing.
Thanks, anon. I'm getting some feedback on the crayon/marker issue that you wouldn't believe. My friend Jen told me her kid stuck a purple magic marker in the microwave "just to make it [the microwave] pretty". She was wiping up purple for quite awhile after that, she said.
You might want to try a white board wall.
Of course, then you have to deal with the issue of explaining to the kid that he's only allowed to draw on this wall...
Eric, dude, where do you think the kid got the idea in the first place? At his preschool there was an entire wall of whiteboard. That explanation was pretty weird. It went something like, "darling, you can draw on the walls at preschool, but not at home, ok?" The kid looks at me with his big eyes and says, "OK, mommy. I sorry." I couldn't even be REALLY mad at him anymore after that.
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