21 years and some leprechauns.

After arriving home this afternoon from my first night away from Bea in 9 months, I realised in a sudden state of panic that my drunken St Patrick’s Day self had spent all my cash on booze and ice cream, and I had no money left with which to buy Ross a present. For his 21st. Which was today. So after a series of “shit, fuck, fuck”s, I found some sample pots of house paint and a scabby old canvas (that I had never got around to using on the basis that it was in such shite condition) and decided that yes, Beatrix was going to formulate a masterpiece and it would be completely dry before nightfall. I primed the canvas fairly poorly and sat with a hairdryer maniacally willing the thing to dry in time, the whole time pepping uninterested Beatrix with chipper comments like “YAY! We’re going to do a painting for Daddy, aren’t we?” to which she’d whinge and hold up her Sesame Street colouring book and crayons, which I could not pry away from her.

So in a peace keeping attempt, we got crayola happy all over it first before we brought out the big guns. What can I say, my little Pablo Picasso likes to mix her media.

Double-handed. Did I mention the kid was talented?

“Gently” was not an option. The canvas did not escape unscathed (or unpierced…)

Pablo would not take suggestions from Mummy. I tried to encourage circles and squiggles, but she would just scream and go back to blobbing. And now looking at the finished product sitting on my desk, she was right: it looks awesome, and almost Japanese. Lesson 529; never smother the artist.

I seemed to think that getting messy AFTER a shower was a real good idea. This proves that I was not in a clear head space. Mind you, that pink patch on her hand was the only body part to suffer the paint wrath, and overall I was quite impressed with the precise nature of my little girl’s painting.

In the end, my crazed efforts to rush the entire thing were fruitless; Bea got sleepy before we were meant to leave in order to take the painting to Daddy, and I just caved and put her to bed… and followed soon after. When Ross txted me at 9.30 to check what was going on, I could only stifle a “sleeping” and hid my head under the pillow.
Oh, St Patrick’s Day!
Oh, Baileys!
Oh, staying up til 4A.M. and having to face public transport with a mouth smelling like death!