Let’s blame it on bad parenting. Because I am queen of multi-tasking. Ok, maybe viscountess. I try to do too much and feel like I’m doing none of it as well as I’d like. I perform daily triage to determine which tasks get green-lighted. It’s a constant struggle between the day job, the little man, the house and a couple of freelance and personal projects I’ve got in the hopper. Naturally the housework always falls to the bottom of the list…and the little man reigns as supreme ruler up at the top. But occasionally I try to sneak something in past him. And sometimes I can pull it off. Sometimes not. Today I’m trying to ignore a burgeoning cold…because I’m unusually motivated to work on a particular project. Earlier, after we returned from a visit to the coffee shop and playground, I thought it would be good for P to fingerpaint (instead of watching Monsters, Inc. for the twelve-thousandth time). So I set him up in style with his smock, paper and paints. I considered doing dishes, just around the corner, but instead settled in to watch the artist at work. But a niggling thought popped in to my head. I wanted to capture the idea for my project before it faded away. And thought, foolishly, that it would be ok for me to slip into the computer room for a few minutes. About two minutes later my super-mom hearing picked up a disturbance. I was about to investigate when I heard the little man heading my way. Being a bit under the weather I thought it best, all right, easiest, to let him come to me. He burst into the room, all smiles and innocence, not letting on what the problem was. Took me a moment to notice that his blue pants were saturated with blue paint. It’s called fingerpaint, not legpaint. Not buttpaint. But he’d managed to leave a trail up the stairs, and a couple of handprints on the door. I stripped him down, marvelling at the volume of paint the polar fleece pants had sucked up. Better than Bounty any day. I ran the bath and inserted my blue boy in it. Then, at last, I headed downstairs to check out the mess. It could have been worse, I guess. I never liked those chairs anyway. The upholstery of the dining room chair he’d been sitting on was covered in blue paint. I don’t think I can Shout it out. Unless screams of frustration will somehow do the trick. But I’m beyond that. It’s all about quiet resignation. Because I’m torn between laughing and crying. And can’t choose which.