Little Picasso . . .

My boy Owlie has discovered that he loves to paint.  He wants to do it every day.  He’s got it down now. Water, paint, paper. Water, paint, paper.

I spread out the butcher paper the length of the counter and just roll a little more paper out once he’s gotten it so wet it’s turning into pulp.

Occasionally he asks me to contribute to his artwork. I’ll add a heart or a flower or a rainbow. He puts down the more dramatic strokes. When I guess what he’s made, he corrects me with a sweet “No mama, it a …” (fill in dog, truck, birdie).

His favorite color of paint? Black, of course.  No matter how I try to persuade him to try red, blue or purple, he goes back to black. He’s dark and moody like that.

It’s pretty sweet when he takes his picture and sticks it on the fridge with magnets. Then when his Daddy comes home he points out his masterpiece.

I’m pretty much in love with the fact that he wants to be creative.  But even more than that, I am head over heels for the way his little hand holds the brush.  I could stare at this picture for hours.

Which is why my bathrooms are disgusting and the laundry is half done. {That and the fact that it is supposed to be 70 degrees here today. In February!}