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Posts Tagged ‘paint’

If it’s all right, I’d like to shout from my sweatpants here that my son, the guy in the yellow shirt beside his sister, did not get out of his bed last night and thereby did not make me get out of my bed either.  That is until his tummy kicked him at seven thirty and told him it was ready to growl.  By which time he had to tell me.

Which bears another announcement.  I am a much friendlier person today. Heh heh…Try me.

That I did not inhale and forget to exhale while my children built a pyramid with my spice jars was also better for my health.  Gah….spice jars…who cares?

But forget the spices.  Forget the jars.

Friend, just don’t forget your underwear.

‘Cuz per the house rule–established out of necessity in 2010, no one paints in the buff.  Not him.

And not her. 

Though she tends to care a bit more about where her paintbrush lands.

Which is why her paintings actually look like what she says they are.

Sunset, anyone?

Anyone?

Only the guy who thought he’d fiddle with the wet sunset after he was told, “Don’t touch the wet sunset”, ended up on the stairs still in his underwear to contemplate his impulsivity of touching, sigh…the wet sunset.

But clearly the only contemplating going on was, “I wonder how I’d look with my sister’s yellow sundress on backwards, and my mom’s white tennis shoes.”

By which time I contemplated whether there was ever such thing as…

enough sleep.

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That it started this morning with a G-rated turkey craft and two kids in their underwear…

And ended tonight like this…just means…uh, something.

But I have no idea what.

I guess I’ll start with what I remember.

I, uh, remember pulling out the paint…

And then noticing my son’s eye for color.  As well as his knowledge about what colors tukeys might actually be.  Uh…or not be.  Those be the turkey’s feathers.

And here are my daughter’s feathers.  Completely compliant with Fall.

These are my son’s hands.  And those are his turkeys.  I can only say that he poured a lot of love into those feathers.

And earned himself an “A” for concentration on the black paint.

 

Here we are an hour later fattening our turkeys.

And here, after way too much time on a single craft and after a complete meltdown by the one in pajamas, are our turkeys. 

Apparently looking suspect–to, uh, something.  As later this evening, my husband called out from the kitchen, “come here, quick.  You gotta see this.”

Only I couldn’t tell you what I was expecting.

I just know it wasn’t this.

And which is why I’m tellin’ ya.  Ain’t nothin’ safe around here. 

Especially not a lunch-bag turkey with blue and black feathers some twelve feet away.

Or its cousin.

And since picking off paper turkeys on the ledge of the living room is the kind of fun you can’t keep to yourself, here’s my son taking aim at a turkey.

Only he’s maimed the thing and has to reload.

And my goodness, there it goes. 

Which calls for a momentary restock.

Because everybody needs a turn…

To feel the power.

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That I feel like collapsing on Fridays right around three p.m. is a habit I’m trying to break.  But by that time–usually before– I’ve reached the end of my words or at least words that make any sense, and I just want to sit.  And answer no questions.  Especially those involving paint. 

Only that didn’t happen yesterday.  Not with a six year old who came home enthused about her art class and couldn’t sit still until she’d asked 43 times if she could paint.  Which was a reasonable request, say, the first time.  But the mess, aggghh.  That’s all I could see.  Until I realized the child was going to ask a 44th time, and I figured I could handle the mess more than I could handle that.

And so she painted.  With vigor.  And explained about Georgia O’Keeffe, whom she said painted flowers up close with oranges and reds and whom she said she wanted to paint just like. 

Which was great until I realized all our oranges, pinks and yellows had been mixed together.  And which completely didn’t matter (a conclusion I’d reach an hour later).  Because she was painting.  And loving it.  And had promised somewhere in there that she would put away all the paints.

Here she is with her finished piece.  The one she called “Beginning Morning Bloom of a Poppy.”

 

And here is her brother who also painted.  Whatever he wanted.

And whose piece he’d call, “Connecting Walls and Closing Windows.”  As we all scratched our heads.

Which is why I don’t claim to understand everything that happens around here.

And most certainly not on Fridays.

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