Our family is full of artists. All kinds of artists. I create art from ordinary day to day items that would otherwise end up adding to the pollution problem. My fiance loves working with metal. My sons, well they love all kinds of art and the messier the better. My littlest angel Morgan, well he has a strange love of art that seems to out weird even my tastes.
The funny thing about little boys, especially while potty training, is they seem to get particularly creative around this time. It's almost like a little alarm goes off that tells them to seek out strange and unusual ways to express their creativity. Like most members of my family, the stranger the better. Well maybe not. The day I discovered my son's zest for art was a particularly busy day. Probably busier than any day I have had since, well since Pagan Pride Day last year. I was an art major and have a hunger for anything artistic. I think it would be fair to say my appetite has been somewhat diminished.
Flashback circa 1992, LA art scene. There I am in a 20's style black beaded flapper dress, hair vampire red and done in a mass of ringlets, and anxiously awaiting my first performance art exhibit. I am excited. Eagerly awaiting the artist that created the gorgeous splashes of colors on the home sized canvases in the gallery just outside the closed doors of the theater. I have to say I was feeling very uncultured. Everyone around me seemed very sophisticated and there I was, skinny little goth girl from Fort Valley, Georgia. I almost didn't go. I didn't care for the city. It seemed everyone was in a hurry to get barely further than they would have if they had just waited. I was never in a hurry to get anywhere. I wanted to soak up everything. My friend Adrian, who was flamboyantly gay, sported a two foot screaming orange mohawk, and wore a fuchsia shirt so bright it ran the risk of getting satellite attention, was my anchor. I hovered around him like my life depended upon it.
And then the artist arrived.
Now here is where things start to relate to the topic at hand. It gets a little gross from here, so please don't snack while reading. Perhaps I should have added a disclaimer...
The artist in question was tall, pale, seemed to be completely out of place with everyone else's very tanned bleach blond looks. And yet he was completely at ease...so much so that he disrobed and strutted around like a peacock. Ok, artists are chronically eccentric, it's what we do, but this was borderline comical. And then out came the artist's assistant. With paint, gallons of it. And a hose. In a flash I had it all figured out. This naked, cocky guy (no pun intended I promise) was going to spray the canvases with the paint and probably end up wearing it.
Not exactly. The artist's assistant proceeded to assist the performer in question with a paint enema. Yes you read that correctly. Unfortunately. From there on, I was no longer concerned about my level of sophistication. This particular artist was very talked about, from Geraldo to Donahue. I missed those episodes. I sat in the audience wishing I had not. The beautiful canvases in the gallery were pieces produced by, and pardon me but there is truly no delicate way to put this, although I will try, this artist projectile spraying the paint on the canvas with his backside.
And that is as delicate as I can get. I will leave the rest to your unfortunate imaginations. Needless to say, I left the showing with the full confidence that in no way shape form or fashion was LA the place for me.
Walking into Morgan's room, I kind had the same impending feeling of horror. You see my little son, who is still potty training, decided to adorn his room with a similar organic matter. I was not amused, somewhat horrified and astutely aware that a hot bucket of water and lots of bleach was definitely going to be needed.
Morgan on the other hand, seemed to be very proud of his accomplishment. He had a fresh pull up and chirped all the way to the tub, with rubber ducky in hand. As frustrating as that was, I have to say spending a little q-time with Morgan while he was splashing around and having a blast doing what little boys do with bubbles, duckies, and boats was somewhat of a relief. Life has gotten too busy. My little shop, which has exploded this year, has kept me busy. I now write full time for examiner.com, and a host of other things take me away from doing a lot of the things that keep my life simple. Like spending extra time with my son.
He gets lost sometimes. In the hustle to get packages to the post in a timely manner. In the hustle to get healthy meals and snacks ready. In PTA meetings and soccer games. In page after page of homework. Even though the circumstances were unfortunate, it brought me back to a place I desperately needed to be. A place where the articles, the beads, the tabs, the orders, were not as important as the reason I bust my behind to make them and keep them coming. Sometimes life has a funny way of resetting our priorities. It has a way of forcing you to sit down and just marvel at the small things.
And when it comes down to it, it's always about the small things in life. That's usually where our happiness can be found. Maybe I'll miss a few parties. Maybe some events will get cancelled. Maybe there will be days when I'm too tired to do anything but cuddle on the sofa with my sons, make fruit trays and popcorn, and just enjoy the Harry Potter or Bewitched series we've watched a gazillion times.
It's amazing how ten years later the same lightening bolt of awareness and realization that made me astutely aware of my place, struck twice. After pulling out the legos for Morgan and scrubbing the walls, I understood this was his way of asking for Mommy time. I cancelled my appointments for the rest of the day. I don't think he will ever have to ask me twice.
But I will still be very happy when potty training is over.
Namaste ~
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