Remind me to never, ever, EVER promise to write something specific. The moment I would think about writing it, I'd lose the motivation to do it. But I promised I would! Yes, but... there are so many other things I want to write about! So what did I write? None of it. For two solid weeks. Never again. I will write whatever I want to, no matter how long or short it turns out. And I'm not promising a certain number of posts per week, because that would be the same exact mess I'm trying to pull myself out of right now!!
Here's the scenario: Little Man loves art. He paints lovely abstract messes with acrylics and spends countless hours turning blank papers into colored-wax masterpieces with his crayons. Unfortunately, those crayons often end up off-paper, so he gets to use washable crayons.
So, I'm trying to get some laundry done. Little Man is happily lying on the floor, surrounded by pieces of paper and toy cars, a pile of well-used crayons at his side. I slip out the door with an empty laundry basket (the laundry area is in our garage). Empty the dryer. Load the wet wash into it. Grab the next load from the dirty clothes basket, toss it in with a splash of dye-free, sensitive skin detergent, and start it up. All in all, it takes just a couple of minutes.
Juggling a laundry basket filled with dryer-fluffed, warm, clean clothes, I open the door leading back into the house. And there, approximately three feet off the ground, is a streak of orange. Oh. Shit. The orange continues through the kitchen, running across the cabinets. By the third cabinet, it's joined by dark blue. Uh oh. This could be bad.
It was. Every wall was covered in streaks and spirals in orange, blue, black, and yellow. Around the desk. Across the fireplace. Up the stairs. A complete drawing graced the bathroom door. Lines, spirals, and squiggles in all four of the colors that Little Man was obviously carrying with him. And on into my bedroom. A black streak in the carpet led to where I found him crouched over the air conditioning vent, outlining the grill in multicolored squiggles. His eyes went wide as he saw me. His fingers tightened around the crayons, tucking them up into his fists.
And then he ran– dodging around the end of the bed and diving underneath, crawling into the open space between a heating pad and a spare sleeping mat. And why he thinks that's a good hiding space is beyond me. He's only about a foot and a half from the side of the bed. I reach underneath, grab an arm and a leg, and pull him out. I take him downstairs and point out his handiwork. He looks at it blankly. Like he's never seen it before. So I pry the fingers on his left hand open and remove two crayons.
Apparently, taking the crayons is too much of a violation. He screams, throws the other two crayons, and flops onto the floor. I retrieve those crayons and the pile that he'd scattered all across the living room, putting them back into their plastic storage container. When I put it back into its spot in the closet, Little Man's screams intensify and he stretches his hand towards the spot where I'd put it, straining as though he could will it into his hand by telekinesis or the Force.
I survey the room– a wax-streaked mess. I think about all the other crayon-covered areas of the house. And the basket of laundry sitting next to the couch. With a sigh, I drop onto the couch and start pulling clothes from the basket, pointedly ignoring the Little Man's plaintive cries and crocodile tears. I'd left him alone for two minutes. It'll take at least an hour to clean up all the mess he'd made in that time. But for now, it'll have to wait.
Here's the scenario: Little Man loves art. He paints lovely abstract messes with acrylics and spends countless hours turning blank papers into colored-wax masterpieces with his crayons. Unfortunately, those crayons often end up off-paper, so he gets to use washable crayons.
So, I'm trying to get some laundry done. Little Man is happily lying on the floor, surrounded by pieces of paper and toy cars, a pile of well-used crayons at his side. I slip out the door with an empty laundry basket (the laundry area is in our garage). Empty the dryer. Load the wet wash into it. Grab the next load from the dirty clothes basket, toss it in with a splash of dye-free, sensitive skin detergent, and start it up. All in all, it takes just a couple of minutes.
Juggling a laundry basket filled with dryer-fluffed, warm, clean clothes, I open the door leading back into the house. And there, approximately three feet off the ground, is a streak of orange. Oh. Shit. The orange continues through the kitchen, running across the cabinets. By the third cabinet, it's joined by dark blue. Uh oh. This could be bad.
It was. Every wall was covered in streaks and spirals in orange, blue, black, and yellow. Around the desk. Across the fireplace. Up the stairs. A complete drawing graced the bathroom door. Lines, spirals, and squiggles in all four of the colors that Little Man was obviously carrying with him. And on into my bedroom. A black streak in the carpet led to where I found him crouched over the air conditioning vent, outlining the grill in multicolored squiggles. His eyes went wide as he saw me. His fingers tightened around the crayons, tucking them up into his fists.
And then he ran– dodging around the end of the bed and diving underneath, crawling into the open space between a heating pad and a spare sleeping mat. And why he thinks that's a good hiding space is beyond me. He's only about a foot and a half from the side of the bed. I reach underneath, grab an arm and a leg, and pull him out. I take him downstairs and point out his handiwork. He looks at it blankly. Like he's never seen it before. So I pry the fingers on his left hand open and remove two crayons.
Apparently, taking the crayons is too much of a violation. He screams, throws the other two crayons, and flops onto the floor. I retrieve those crayons and the pile that he'd scattered all across the living room, putting them back into their plastic storage container. When I put it back into its spot in the closet, Little Man's screams intensify and he stretches his hand towards the spot where I'd put it, straining as though he could will it into his hand by telekinesis or the Force.
I survey the room– a wax-streaked mess. I think about all the other crayon-covered areas of the house. And the basket of laundry sitting next to the couch. With a sigh, I drop onto the couch and start pulling clothes from the basket, pointedly ignoring the Little Man's plaintive cries and crocodile tears. I'd left him alone for two minutes. It'll take at least an hour to clean up all the mess he'd made in that time. But for now, it'll have to wait.
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