I’m shopping for house paint this week. A lemon yellow, or maybe a sky blue – any color that might match the wallpaper in Caroline’s room. It’s a cute little room, cut out of the bigger space that is our office/guest bedroom. Large enough for the essentials (bed, wardrobe, bookcase), it can hold a bit more, but not much. Our friends who own the flat originally designed it for their baby daughter and, with its yellow walls and blue and white striped wallpaper, it is ideally decorated for someone unwilling to commit to a pink princess theme.
Or at least it was until the day, lo these three weeks ago, when Caroline decided that she’d had enough of the enforced napping we put her through every afternoon, she wanted to do something more creative with her time. Having thrown all her toys out of the crib, stripped the bed and drunk all of her milk, her only resource was herself.
Dirty diaper in hand, she used it as a palette to paint the wall.
Then she called us in to see what she had done. “Bobek, painting!“ she said. She seemed please with the results. (Bobek = pellet = poop, also, a Czech cartoon character)
Five minutes later, sitting in a steaming bath tub as I clean her up, she is still talking about her art work. “Painting, niiice,“ she says, in a soothing tone. Will has just stuck his head through the doorway a third time to remind her not to do that again. He's got the headlamp on his head, a bandana around his nose and mouth, and long yellow gloves pulled over his hands, and he’s scrubbing her wall down. Caroline decides not to argue, but I can’t help but giggle a little bit.
Last Thursday, when Will was at work, she did it again.
I’ve bought Caroline a set of finger paints. And if you know of some wall paint that is water, finger paint and scrub brush resistant, do let me know.
2 hours ago