Fine Art

She has spent the last ten months repeatedly preventing me from putting the random items I pick up throughout the day in my mouth, and washing and wiping my body at every given opportunity. Then yesterday, from nowhere, Mum went and painted my hands green with what looked like masonry paint. Maybe it's just me, but this does not suggest the normal, rational behaviour you would expect of a responsible adult.
And oh, didn't I mention, the hand painting happened after stripping me, and herself, COMPLETELY NAKED.
Yep. She's gone. Finally lost it.

What other possible explanation can there be for such senselessly peculiar behaviour?
Once green, she provided me with scraps of paper and insisted I smear my hands about them. Er...pardon me?! When I do the same thing with my dinner, she has a right go. But because she decides that this time I'm being creative, it's okay. In fact, it's more than okay - she pretty much forces my hands onto the paper in the hope of getting my hand print. 
Look Mum, it's a hand. Immortalising it in paint is not exactly the work of Monet or Degas. At best it's only on a par with the back catalogue of Bitsa.


Still, she presses on, next covering her own hands and printing these, and subsequently forcing Dad into the fray. Then she stands back, proud of the fact that, yes, shock horror, we've all got two hands, as evidenced by her infantile composition.



While she messed about with her own project, I got down to the important business of rubbing green paint into my hair and nostrils. Turns out that this didn't contribute to her artistic vision and she got in a right nark about it. As she attempted to remove me from my high chair, I took my opportunity to remind her who's boss, getting a good swipe of thick green goo through her hair and by pure chance, down her ear. She plonked me in the kitchen sink and began to hose us both down, muttering about how I am "clearly not grown up enough for paints yet".


Despite Mother's aspirations to emulate the mediocre artistic efforts of craft fodder such as Neil Buchanan, the woman clearly has no appreciation for true statements of post-modern genius at work. I was mushing the paint about my body in the hope of depicting society's omnipotent grasp in shaping of the attitudes and beliefs of even its youngest members, which, in my portrayal, manifested its physical presence in the paint in my hair and ears.


Heathen.