Painting panic

I have never been accused of being laid-back when it comes to the condition of my home. We spent a lot of time and money rehabbing this house when we moved in. The hardships I endured for this damn kitchen are numerous -- I lived without a stove and had only a college dorm fridge for FIVE MONTHS when we ripped the first floor apart. Not to mention, I was on strict bedrest at the time and wasn't allowed to leave the house to eat a proper meal in a civilized setting.

And I like to think we have grown-up taste with grown-up furnishings, despite having two children in the house. Our dining room table, at which we eat all of our meals, is made of dark wood. The chairs are covered with a light tan suede-like surface. The floors are hardwood. The furniture is microsuede and in surprisingly good condition.

But keeping things this way requires a certain amount of vigilance on my part. The dining room is gated off and the kids are only allowed in during mealtimes or when we exit or enter the house from our parking spot. It's not a playroom, it's for eating and looking nice. The kitchen isn't very much fun for them, other than one cabinet I let them have free reign over. The living room has an ottoman filled with toys, but the main playroom is downstairs since we converted the house last summer.

One of the reasons we are able to keep it looking pretty good is that I do not allow craft projects in the house. There, I have said it. I am the worst mother ever because I prize my crayon-free walls over my children's creativity. But you know what? They take art classes where they can paint all over the room and I let them play with sidewalk chalk whenever they want. Also? Magnadoodles are totally awesome and totally mess-free -- you just erase it and start over! And I do let them have the Color Wonder markers downstairs because while they say they don't leave marks except on the special paper, I heard they DO leave marks on leather and suede. So they're banished to the downstairs, but are definitely allowed in the house.

A few weeks ago, I gave them an oversized pad of paper and some crayons to go crazy with downstairs on the rug. I figured with supervision, all would be fine. Except Jack got a little aggressive with his abstract art and scribbled through the paper. Guess what -- green crayon will indeed leave a mark on cream carpeting. I hyperventilated, took the crayons away immediately and was able to get the green out by blotting. But I was scarred. Also, vindicated because I knew I should never have allowed crayons down there in the first place.

But desperate times called for desperate measures this morning. It rained and was generally gross outside and there was no way anyone was going to be excited about playing inside the house with Mommy for more than an hour. So I asked Jack if he wanted to go to Pump It Up and he practically flew the door to get his shoes on.

I arrived at the building housing the empire of bounce houses and couldn't see the forest for the trees. There were nannies and mothers and kids EVERYWHERE. They came in twos and threes and gaggles. I did a drive-by and the entire lobby was full of kids waiting to get their jump on, so many there was an overflow group waiting in line outside.

Note to self: next time it rains, just go to the damn mall because everybody and their brother is going to head for Pump It Up. After profusely apologizing to Jack for not being able to go, I asked him if we could just do something else. He skeptically asked me what could POSSIBLY be as much fun as jumping around like a maniac, it popped into my head that stashed away in the bowels of the closet was a set of fingerpaints someone had given Jack for a birthday gift like two years ago. A gift that caused me to question that person -- a mother no less -- and her sanity. I mean who lets kids FINGERPAINT in their house?

So I offered up the fingerpaints as my plea agreement and he accepted it with excitement. OK! Let's take a deep breath and do it. I briefly considered having them do it outside on the driveway, but figured that would be more trouble than it was worth when it came to trying to keep Emmie out of trouble. Instead I bit the bullet and draped a sheet over the dining room table and stripped Emmie down to her diaper, covering her high chair with a large piece of paper.

I poured the paints into an old egg carton -- you'd think I was Martha Stewart with that little trick -- and let them go crazy. Jack took fingerpainting to mean handpainting and proceeded to mush both hands in the paint and smear them around. What the hell did I pay preschool tuition for last year? The kid doesn't even know how to fingerpaint. Emmie was much more demure, using just the tips of her petite fingers and not mixing any paint colors. She likes her primary colors pure, thankyouverymuch.

I managed to not lose my shit and after they tired of craft time, quickly washed everybody up and surveyed the damages. The room was fine. The table was fine. The chair cushions were fine. The kids were fine. I might just be able to do this again. Not anytime soon, but again, definitely.


It's yellow, but it sure doesn't look like any egg I have ever seen...


I shall use my finger now, but I am not content with that as my medium.


Not exactly what you think of when you hear "nude painting" now is it?


I take my art verrry seriously.


Go ahead, pull my finger. I know it's green, just do it...


This is from my Impressionist period. It's going to be worth millions.


The masters, hard at work.