I’ve been trying to paint more, lately. After hammering at words on a screen, sometimes I need the instant gratification of painting. Smears on canvas. Textured chunks of color. Mistakes and missteps buried beneath more layers rather than simply deleted. It’s the equivalent of yoga for the brain, I think.
Not that I do yoga. On purpose. Though I think I accidentally achieved Warrior Pose after stepping on a chunk of slick cardboard in the kitchen yesterday. In other news, my kids recently learned the word “groin.” And “cock sucker.”
I’m exposing them to all kinds of things BECAUSE I AM A GOOD MOM. Like show tunes. We’ve been hitting those recordings hard lately, and not just Hamilton.
During one of our gourmet dinners (read: instant oatmeal) last night, Paul started humming a familiar tune. Then, with gelatinous chunks still clinging to his lips, he belted, “Have you seen my sixteen-year-old virgin?”
*sigh* Oh. Donna.
Now what are the odds, ya think, of him belting out this song on the playground at Pre-K?