So You Thought Painting Would Be Calm?

Painting with a toddler.

There is a very specific kind of optimism required to suggest painting with a toddler. Not hope. Not confidence. Delusion.
The kind where you lay out paper, squeeze little dots of paint, put on an apron, and think, This will be a nice, creative moment.

It always starts beautifully. Brilliantly. As an Early Childhood Educator you understand all the ways in which painting opens creativity, curiosity and expression of their self. As a mom it seems to translate a little differently.

He dips the brush. He smiles. He makes one single, gentle stroke across the paper. I feel like I’m winning parenting for exactly four seconds.

Then I decide to wash my hands.

Just a quick rinse. Ten seconds. Maybe fifteen.

That’s all it takes.

By the time I come back, the paper is no longer the main character. The table is painted. The chair is painted. One wall has been tastefully splattered. Somehow his elbow is blue, his knee is yellow, and there’s green on his ear that I can’t explain or emotionally process yet.

The brush is gone.

In its place?
An umbrella.

Which is now a sword.

Because of course it is.

We’re suddenly in the middle of a dramatic umbrella sword fight — slashing the air, spinning in circles, paint flicking everywhere like some kind of abstract action movie. I’m standing there, hands still damp, silently calculating whether this is the moment I give up or lean fully into chaos.

While I’m trying to gently suggest that umbrellas are not weapons, I notice something else.

The snack.

The snack I gave him earlier “just to keep him busy.”

It has migrated.

A cracker has found a new permanent residence inside a toy car. Another piece is firmly wedged into a dump truck. I attempt to remove it, only to realize it has been pressed in with purpose. This is no accident. This is engineering.

Paint on the floor.
Paint on the couch.
Paint on the toddler.
Snack crumbs in places snacks were never meant to go.

And he’s thrilled.

Absolutely living his best life.

Meanwhile, I’m standing in the middle of it all thinking, I literally turned my back to wash my hands.

But this is just another typical day here.

We’ll clean it up (eventually). The paint will mostly come off. The toy cars may smell faintly like crackers forever. The umbrella will return to being an umbrella… until the next time inspiration strikes.

And tomorrow?
We’ll probably paint again.

Because somehow, between the messes, the chaos, and the very short walk to the sink that changed everything — these are the moments we’ll laugh about later.

Probably once the paint dries.