Painting with a Toddler

Now that the chicken coop is (mostly) done it’s time to paint. It takes a while to find a day with nothing else scheduled. On the chosen morning, the two-year-old and I drop the older kids at school and change into paint clothes, because this won’t be pretty.

We lock ourselves into the fenced chicken coop and baby girl immediately starts chasing the chickens saying ‘chichens, hug. Chichen, I yuve you’ and trying to ‘hug them, love them, and call them George’. I start painting as fast as I can, holding the full paint can at shoulder level so she can’t throw in dirt, or rocks, or chicken food, or shoes. Or drink it.

She soon gives up the chase and looks for something else to do. Each stroke of my brush is punctuated with me saying ‘don’t eat the chicken food.’ ‘don’t eat the chicken droppings.’ ‘leave the chickens alone.’ ‘Don’t take off your clothes.’ She finger paints where I just painted, or decorates the fresh paint with handfuls of dirt. I can't brush all of it off. I realize why lumberjack always says I’m a terrible painter. I know deep down I was a bad painter long before I had kids but I’m more than willing to blame the kids for this, along with the fact that, like Clara Morrow, I’m always a mess.

‘Nummy drink.’ I hear and stick my hear around the corner to see that she has pulled the lid off the chicken’s water bucket and is sticking her face inside.

She comes up behind me while I’m kneeling and tries to pull my pants down. I don’t think much of it because I’m wearing a belt and she isn’t going to get far. I shriek as her little arm goes right down my bum crack.

I sing nursery rhymes, ABCs, and Laurie Berkner until I’m ready to move to a convent and take a vow of silence. I tell her not to lick the paint on her hands, not to wash her hands in the chickens’ water, not to paint the chickens.

We finish three sides and I decide we’re done for the day.

We put things away and tiptoe in the house, trying not to track in paint. Bath time. I take off her clothes and put her on the toilet. Nothing. She splashes in the tub while I wash her face and hands and hair. I had the foresight to put on long sleeves and pants so the rest of her isn’t too bad. We drain the water,  add fresh, and wash again. This time I watch her sparkly eyes and infectious grin while she blows soap bubbles. Her laugh bounces round the room. She gets out and I put her on the toilet again. She squeezes out a few drops and is rewarded with a jelly bean while I contemplate how many more boxes of diapers I’ll have to buy from Target before she’s potty trained.

I feed her a sandwich with my homemade raspberry freezer jam which she crumples and throws on the floor. I contemplate a second bath because of the yogurt smeared all over her. I put her down for a nap and head to my own shower with relief. I know we’ll have to finish the job soon and repeat today. I also know it looks a mess. But what does it matter if the chicken coop looks like a two-year-old painted it? The chickens don’t mind. And for the rest of my life I’ll look at the coop and think of my girl when she was young, curious, adventurous, and safe. 

Before she goes out to face that crazy, scary thing called life.