When we get out the acrylic paints, Eldest Boy lasts until the first blob of paint is on his hand, at which point he declares himself complete, then races off to the bathroom to wash his hands before he goes and gets another apple from the fridge.

Youngest Boy, on the other hand, goes out of his way to get as much on his hands and his fingers as he can, and spends at least an hour happy as a pig in shit, before he declares himself ‘retired from this’ and demands that I make him a jam sandwich.

I, of course, am the bunny who has to clean it up. But I enjoy the mucky water in the bottom of the sink and the paint splodges that are stuck to the palattes (plastic plates) and the brushes. It makes me feel connected to a world of which I have never been much part.

Also, about fifteen minutes ago, the universe put a tiny little present in my lap, and it makes reaching my deadlines feel much less overwhelming. Ace.