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.