Tad, the little guy I babysit has a new toy. A very cool toy. The kind of kids toy that’s meant to be taken apart and put back together by the wee ones. It’s an airplane and breaks down into about fifteen different pieces. It also comes with it’s own battery operated POWER DRILL and enough bolts to service the job. Tad’s father is a cabinet builder. Tad grew up on his father’s workbench and knows the names of every tool, every screw head and socket driver there is. He was weaned on power tools and handles them like a pro!
Monday, as we de-assembled and re-assembled the airplane, I was struck with an idea. What would happen if we used this power drill as a painting tool?! Could be fun, right? So I said, “Hey, how about we get out your paints and paint with the power drill?” Tad jumped up, “Yeah!! LET’S DO IT!!” our excitement was electric.
Tad grabbed the big roll of paper we use for painting, dragged it to the kitchen, set it down and gave it a shove. The roll rumbled slowly across the floor, leaving a swath of creative space in its wake from table to sink. I grabbed a plastic picnic plate to use as palette, then the red and blue Tempura extra large size paint bottles. Next I squeezed out a healthy glob of each color onto the plate.
Let’s pause for a moment; what’s wrong with this picture? First of all we were indoors where the kitchen cabinets and cupboards are white, the linoleum on the floor is white and pale tan. Second, and most important, was the fact that the last time Tad and I had done a painting project was probably five months earlier and before he started pre-school. Why does that matter? Because in pre-school he fine-tuned his self-confidence and mastered the art of speed – gotta be faster than the next guy or you might miss out kind of mentality had taken root. In this case, I was the next guy.
Back to the project. We knelt on the floor beside the paper, I held up the plate with the red and blue paint on it, he smiled then fired up the drill! Plop, down into the paint went the spinning head – zing, zing, zing, went flying paint, lovely blue splatters all over our faces and shoulders. Stunned, he quickly turned off the drill. We sat blinking at each other for just a beat, then I saw it, “Ahhhh, the POTENTIAL” lit up nice and bright in his eyes. Uh-oh, this could be bad. “Here, how about we put the plate on the paper, dip the end of the drill into the paint, then put it on the paper before you turn the drill on.” He was game. Dip . . . dip . . . . dip . . . (a three year old never dips just once) touchdown to paper and zrrrruuuuummm went the drill! Spinning slick paints, blending colors up and down the paper he went making trails of color and splattering paint on the white cupboards. He was sooo excited. I was beginning to see error in my thinking. Panic began rising from my core. “This is so cool Darcy, let’s do more!” Faster than lightening he’d dropped the drill and had a bottle of paint in each hand squeezing with all his might. Paint blasted in all directions. We ere covered in paint from hair to knees. I know,” he said, “let’s try the socket head!” In a flash he’d jumped up, dashed into the living room and returned with the socket head. Faster than flash, he had the heads switched out and was paint dipping again. Zuuummm, zummmm, went the drill, flip, flip, splat went paint all over the kitchen. He held the drippy power drill up over his head and shouted, “I know, let’s do reverse!” he was turning maniac on me! Click, zimmmm, zimmm, and paint was flying reverse! “This is so AWESOME!!!” he shouted. My enthusiasm for the project had taken a 180 degree nosedive. “I’ve got an idea!,” he shouted, “how about we do hand paintings!” He tossed the power tool aside, sliding purple paint and blue paint across the un-papered floor. I tried to retrieve it the drill before it hit the wall, but before I had it in hand he was both hands smearing bright slimy paint all over the paper and was dumping out more! My knees felt unusually chilled. I looked down and realized I was kneeling in paint. “I know - Feet, Let’s do FEET Darcy!” One word blasted out of my mouth, “NOOOOO!!” But was already both feet in the paint swish-skiing up and down the paper, slipping here and there off onto the floor. Stomp, stomp, splatter, splat, splat! “Stop, whoa, whoa, whoa, stop!” He stopped, frozen mid-stride. “Don’t move,” I half shouted. I looked around, paint dripped down the stove, the microwave table, every hanging hand towel, paint was smeared and streaked all across the floor in every direction. His face was smeared red and blue, his clothes were smeared with paint where he’d wiped them but he was smiling to all Hell.
“OK, Kiddo,” I said with enough authority he knew I meant what was coming next, “We’re done with paint for the day.” His shoulders slumped, the bright flash in his eyes dimmed and he dropped the drill where he stood. “Look what we’ve done to the kitchen! We need to clean this up.” “Oh, I know,” he shouted, “I’ll get washcloths!” And before I could stop him he was gone – red and blue and purple painted feet took off down the hall. Thinking to stop him, “No! Wait! We need a mop.” I knew his mom kept the mop in the living room closet. “I’ll get it!” he shouted as he whooshed past me, through the kitchen, THROUGH THE PAINT then out again through the living room! The only way to stop him was to chase him down and pick him up. Which I did. Whew, catch my breath. “That was fun Darcy,” he smiled at me. “Yeah, that was fun.”
We got him stripped out of his clothes then started on the body. One foot at a time in the sink, then the hands, then the face. Once he was as clean as he was going to get and had clean clothes on, I took him back his play area. I turned and took stock of the mess. Kitchen floor – TOTALED. Kitchen cupboards and cabinets, microwave table – dripping and smeared with paint. Bright painted footprints up the hall, back and out into the living room. Every surface he had touched, chairs, steps, oven, walls in the hallway, bathroom and living room, was smeared with paint and dappled with fingerprints. Thank goodness it was Tempura and water-based paint. The carpeting and linoleum cleaned up nicely with soap and warm water. However, on the white surfaces where the paint had dried before I could get to it – the kitchen cabinets, cupboards and the hallway walls – light blue stains remained.
What had been an eight minute “Paint With Power Tools” experiment, ended as a 40 minute clean-up gig. Like I said, it seemed like a good idea at the time.
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Changing the subject, when I got back from my trip, all was pretty much well. Nothing broken, no major devastation. Piper and Buntah were happy to have me home. I also noticed Piper had been happy to have me gone. She had semi-moved into the living areas of the house - like the art table and the computer work area. Socks and clothes piled high in spots, and bits of garbage laying around. How can one eighteen year old kid leave such a mess? She’d forgotten to water the plants on the patio and all three of our rose bushes are in major wilting distress. I doubt they’ll come back but I’m going to try. A brief, but to the point conversation about the condition of the house was all it took for her to quickly get things back in shape.
This trip took so much out of me emotionally, I’m having a tough time getting my feet back under me and back into my flow.
Monday, as we de-assembled and re-assembled the airplane, I was struck with an idea. What would happen if we used this power drill as a painting tool?! Could be fun, right? So I said, “Hey, how about we get out your paints and paint with the power drill?” Tad jumped up, “Yeah!! LET’S DO IT!!” our excitement was electric.
Tad grabbed the big roll of paper we use for painting, dragged it to the kitchen, set it down and gave it a shove. The roll rumbled slowly across the floor, leaving a swath of creative space in its wake from table to sink. I grabbed a plastic picnic plate to use as palette, then the red and blue Tempura extra large size paint bottles. Next I squeezed out a healthy glob of each color onto the plate.
Let’s pause for a moment; what’s wrong with this picture? First of all we were indoors where the kitchen cabinets and cupboards are white, the linoleum on the floor is white and pale tan. Second, and most important, was the fact that the last time Tad and I had done a painting project was probably five months earlier and before he started pre-school. Why does that matter? Because in pre-school he fine-tuned his self-confidence and mastered the art of speed – gotta be faster than the next guy or you might miss out kind of mentality had taken root. In this case, I was the next guy.
Back to the project. We knelt on the floor beside the paper, I held up the plate with the red and blue paint on it, he smiled then fired up the drill! Plop, down into the paint went the spinning head – zing, zing, zing, went flying paint, lovely blue splatters all over our faces and shoulders. Stunned, he quickly turned off the drill. We sat blinking at each other for just a beat, then I saw it, “Ahhhh, the POTENTIAL” lit up nice and bright in his eyes. Uh-oh, this could be bad. “Here, how about we put the plate on the paper, dip the end of the drill into the paint, then put it on the paper before you turn the drill on.” He was game. Dip . . . dip . . . . dip . . . (a three year old never dips just once) touchdown to paper and zrrrruuuuummm went the drill! Spinning slick paints, blending colors up and down the paper he went making trails of color and splattering paint on the white cupboards. He was sooo excited. I was beginning to see error in my thinking. Panic began rising from my core. “This is so cool Darcy, let’s do more!” Faster than lightening he’d dropped the drill and had a bottle of paint in each hand squeezing with all his might. Paint blasted in all directions. We ere covered in paint from hair to knees. I know,” he said, “let’s try the socket head!” In a flash he’d jumped up, dashed into the living room and returned with the socket head. Faster than flash, he had the heads switched out and was paint dipping again. Zuuummm, zummmm, went the drill, flip, flip, splat went paint all over the kitchen. He held the drippy power drill up over his head and shouted, “I know, let’s do reverse!” he was turning maniac on me! Click, zimmmm, zimmm, and paint was flying reverse! “This is so AWESOME!!!” he shouted. My enthusiasm for the project had taken a 180 degree nosedive. “I’ve got an idea!,” he shouted, “how about we do hand paintings!” He tossed the power tool aside, sliding purple paint and blue paint across the un-papered floor. I tried to retrieve it the drill before it hit the wall, but before I had it in hand he was both hands smearing bright slimy paint all over the paper and was dumping out more! My knees felt unusually chilled. I looked down and realized I was kneeling in paint. “I know - Feet, Let’s do FEET Darcy!” One word blasted out of my mouth, “NOOOOO!!” But was already both feet in the paint swish-skiing up and down the paper, slipping here and there off onto the floor. Stomp, stomp, splatter, splat, splat! “Stop, whoa, whoa, whoa, stop!” He stopped, frozen mid-stride. “Don’t move,” I half shouted. I looked around, paint dripped down the stove, the microwave table, every hanging hand towel, paint was smeared and streaked all across the floor in every direction. His face was smeared red and blue, his clothes were smeared with paint where he’d wiped them but he was smiling to all Hell.
“OK, Kiddo,” I said with enough authority he knew I meant what was coming next, “We’re done with paint for the day.” His shoulders slumped, the bright flash in his eyes dimmed and he dropped the drill where he stood. “Look what we’ve done to the kitchen! We need to clean this up.” “Oh, I know,” he shouted, “I’ll get washcloths!” And before I could stop him he was gone – red and blue and purple painted feet took off down the hall. Thinking to stop him, “No! Wait! We need a mop.” I knew his mom kept the mop in the living room closet. “I’ll get it!” he shouted as he whooshed past me, through the kitchen, THROUGH THE PAINT then out again through the living room! The only way to stop him was to chase him down and pick him up. Which I did. Whew, catch my breath. “That was fun Darcy,” he smiled at me. “Yeah, that was fun.”
We got him stripped out of his clothes then started on the body. One foot at a time in the sink, then the hands, then the face. Once he was as clean as he was going to get and had clean clothes on, I took him back his play area. I turned and took stock of the mess. Kitchen floor – TOTALED. Kitchen cupboards and cabinets, microwave table – dripping and smeared with paint. Bright painted footprints up the hall, back and out into the living room. Every surface he had touched, chairs, steps, oven, walls in the hallway, bathroom and living room, was smeared with paint and dappled with fingerprints. Thank goodness it was Tempura and water-based paint. The carpeting and linoleum cleaned up nicely with soap and warm water. However, on the white surfaces where the paint had dried before I could get to it – the kitchen cabinets, cupboards and the hallway walls – light blue stains remained.
What had been an eight minute “Paint With Power Tools” experiment, ended as a 40 minute clean-up gig. Like I said, it seemed like a good idea at the time.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Changing the subject, when I got back from my trip, all was pretty much well. Nothing broken, no major devastation. Piper and Buntah were happy to have me home. I also noticed Piper had been happy to have me gone. She had semi-moved into the living areas of the house - like the art table and the computer work area. Socks and clothes piled high in spots, and bits of garbage laying around. How can one eighteen year old kid leave such a mess? She’d forgotten to water the plants on the patio and all three of our rose bushes are in major wilting distress. I doubt they’ll come back but I’m going to try. A brief, but to the point conversation about the condition of the house was all it took for her to quickly get things back in shape.
This trip took so much out of me emotionally, I’m having a tough time getting my feet back under me and back into my flow.