My Son, the Artist (Poocasso)

art    /ɑrt/ Show Spelled[ahrt] 
–noun
1. the quality, production, expression, or realm, according to aesthetic principles, of what is beautiful, appealing, or of more than ordinary significance.
2. the class of objects subject to aesthetic criteria; works of art collectively, as paintings, sculptures, or drawings: a museum of art; an art collection..........
 
Last week, as I was getting ready for work one morning, my son was being a little too quiet. This is usually a sign that something is either in his mouth, his sister has him pinned down with her hand over his mouth or he is sleeping. So I began to investigate. Hmm. He was quietly walking down the hallway smiling and running his fingers along the wall. Amazing.


As I began drying my hair, Ethan entered the bathroom and continued quietly outlining the walls and cabinets. Not a word. No crying. So this was shaping up to be a great morning. Suddenly, I noticed it, that familiar smell. Ethan needed to be changed. So I summoned daddy and he whisked him away to the other room and began donning his hazmat suit to complete the task. But, somehow the smell did not fade. In fact, it seemed even stronger.


As I left the bathroom and walked down the hall, I noticed swirls and lines on the walls in beautiful patterns. They were faint brownish-yellow colored from what I assumed must have been a dried up marker. But upon closer inspection, I realized the smell in the hallway was quite pungent as well. LIGHT BULB. Nooooooooo. An even closer look and……yeeeesssssss. It couldn’t be, but it was. He painted with his poop. Was this payback for my last post where I called him a poop machine? Maybe he was trying to show me he was more than a mindless poop machine. He has talent. My son discovered his calling, and artist. A fecal painter. I have heard of making lemonade out of lemons, but never pop art out of poop. We have named him Poocasso


For a split second I was actually relieved that it was not marker, until the realization of what cleaning this would entail set in. I now know where the idea for Clorox wipes came from, all of the other mothers in the world with their own little fecal painters.


Obviously, I was late for work.