Let me set the stage for you. As most mothers of young children tend to do this time of year, I've decided to celebrate the season with a smorgasbord of holiday crafts, even though I generally give my glue gun the evil eye while I turn away and smugly sip my coffee. I don't know if it's that we poor dears, as a group, are deceived into this heightened sense of creative festivity by the aroma of snow-scented candles (ask me how I know this scent exists), the reams of colorful paper and their starkly bare inner tubes that begin to grow like sapling forests in our closets, or just the wild proliferation of joy and anticipation, but no matter the cause the end result is this-those of us who, as a general rule, refuse crafting at all costs, not only embrace this messy, expensive, time-consuming hobby, we invite our children to join us. What madness are we perpetrating?! In my enthusiasm I have planned an entire 24 days worth of celebratory events, many of which involve the use of scissors, glue, and paint. Paint! What am I thinking?!
Of all the evil minions lurking the shelves of a craft store, paint, in all formulas, is my self-sworn foe. Acrylic? For grown-ups only please. Crayola's offering with that tiny purple-handled brush and about 5 plasticky bristles? The primary colors are positively screaming obscenities at me as they promise irreversible stains, never mind the profuse promises on the package. Barking dog, says I. Don't get me started on finger paint. Have the manufacturers never seen how children are absolutely, fatally prone to shoving their messy digits into their mouths at any and all given moments?! Imbeciles.
Despite my very strong feeling regarding paint in all forms and colors, one activity I planned to do with my 5 year old son and 2 year old daughter was assembling snowflakes with craft sticks, puzzle pieces, and hot glue, then painting them. I'm going to give you a moment to snicker at me. Joke's on your if you snort your peppermint mocha. That'll burn.
So here we are, my sweet children and I, crouched on the floor because I can't find an extension cord to make the glue gun reach the table, merrily making these snowflake ornaments. My son is practically vibrating, high on a cup of cocoa and the intense joy of wielding an instrument whose name includes the words "glue" and "gun", two of his favorite items of all time. My daughter manages to burn herself only three or four times as she sticks the puzzle pieces to the craft sticks, but soldiers on like a true artist, unfazed by pain, intent on lining those pieces up perfectly. Once the pieces are dry and I've removed most (some?) of the excess glue strands, it's time to paint our snowflakes.
My son fetches a paper plate. My daughter selects her paint brush. I squirt the paint with an uncharacteristic liberality and verve, and away we go. Bristles are quickly gobbed with paint; puzzles pieces are transformed by swift, joyful smears. I remain tense and watchful, ready to call it quits, grab an entire roll of paper towels, and swear off painting forever, or at least until next Christmas. I continue to watch, and then realize, They are doing just fine. Sure, my son reloads his brush for every single puzzle piece, and my daughter seems to paint the same three or four branches of her snowflake over and over again. But neither of them have painted themselves, or each other. Their clothes are unsmeared. One drip on the table is easily wiped away. I breathe out and slowly reach for my camera. Snap a few pictures. Feel brave enough to break their concentration and ask them to look at me, smile, and say "Merry Christmas!" The magic isn't broken, so I grab my own snowflake and paintbrush and begin to paint. As I smooth the glittery gold color over the brown puzzle pieces, I actually relax. And then my son says, "I love painting. It's my favorite kind of art." And on he paints, blithely, merrily, a bit messily, as I am struck down by his simple confession. I, who from this moment on, can no longer profess to love my son and loathe paint, who must realize that the joy in those blue eyes is worth any smear of paint on the table, or the stain on any shirt. How can I let my own selfish obsession with neatness and order hold sway, even in the wildly unfettered world of art and creative play? The simple, truthful answer is that, I can't.
And so, today I am converted. Today painting has become an accepted, embraced, and encouraged form of self-expression. Today I give my son the gift of freedom, and find it for myself as well.
-Ashley
