I tend to celebrate a few of the cliche frustrations of being a mother, because they make me feel like I am REALLY a mom. Throwing up when pregnant (experienced) and child cutting their own hair (not yet experienced) seem so exciting to me, because I'm actually experiencing them first hand. When Burl was younger, he had a spot in the dining room where he would sneak away and draw on the walls. Magical. While I don't allow drawing on the walls, I still cherished the spot. (Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Fool me several times, and START PAYING BETTER ATTENTION, MAMA!) The spot grew and so did my awareness, and eventually he didn't draw there anymore.
When I painted my blue dining room white, I wanted to save the spot. I didn't save the whole spot, just an 8x10 section that I taped off. It's special to me. I nailed a frame around it. Somewhere between respecting our house and taking care of our things and children actually live here and we value their messes, is me and my little framed artwork. I like to decorate and make things pretty, but I love whimsy and sweet character that my kids have created.
I remember feeling a little bit excited when I saw the spot for the first time. It was a little "ohmygosh, this actually does happen. I'm a mom!" I'm just not ready to let that spot go.
We somehow skipped the drawing on walls, and just had adventures with drawing on the play kitchen and library audio CDs. (Goo-Gone to the rescue for that!)
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