We've hit this incredible milestone in the ages of our children and the growth of our family, in which craft projects have become so much easier than they were just a year ago. Beads are no longer eaten, paint is no longer ingested, and as a general rule - markers stay at the table. Generally speaking. It's heavenly, really. The result is days worth of craft projects and piles worth of finished projects. This mama is very happy, and so are the little ones.
I consider myself a fairly mindful, sorta crafty mama. I know well enough to never insert my own interpretation of childrens' art before they have. I never do. And yet - every once in a while - I find myself so very convinced and so very sure that I know the subject of the art, that I dare presume an interpretation. On this particular day, we had just returned from a long walk in the woods when the painting began. The table was covered in inspiration brought in from the outside - leaves, pine cones, acorns. I had just finished reading an autumn poem, and we had even been talking about the foliage through the whole painting process. So when Adelaide finished her painting and proudly handed it over, I quite confidently said, "It's fall! The trees! The leaves!".
I was met with an icy chill and a stare from my sweet little one. Followed by an emphatic, "No, Mama!!! Milkey! Me Milkey one side. Me Milkey other side."
Oh, right. What was I thinking? It's a painting of my breasts.
