It's Craft Time! Cue the Crazy Mama

Dear Sammie Joy,

As if the epic fail from August’s handprint fiasco wasn’t enough, last week, I dared to bring you to the local paint your own ceramics store. Somehow, I got it in my brain that something had changed in the last month and that you were now a crafting queen.

I envisioned pictures of the two of us, sitting side by side at the craft boutique and wearing matching aprons while we happily painted platters using your hand prints.

One handprint, I dreamed, would be perfectly centered in the middle of the plate and painted brown with colorful fingers. I’d decorate that one up to look like the typical handprint turkey that every kid does growing up. The other plate would be for Christmas. Somehow, I would turn your hand and footprints into a beautiful reindeer.

Maybe you would like painting so much that I would get a tile from the rack and have you paint your own tile so we could start a new tradition: the yearly tile painted by Sammie. Over time, perhaps, we’d be able to put all of your tiles together and have a crafting table, made out of the tiles that you (and your future sibling) had made over the years!

While I was having these visions of happy crafting dancing in my head, the boutique was running a half off deal, so I took that as a sign: it was time to get our craft on.

Someday, however, I’ll realize that baby + crafting = disaster.

Sigh.

It went like this: your dad and I dressed you up cute (so you’d look good for the pictures). Actually, I dressed you up cute. If your father has anything to say about what you wear, you’d be in whatever clothes were in the drawer nearest to him and are easy to put on. For the record, if you ever look back at your pictures and find shots of you wearing neon watermelon shorts with a red and orange Elmo shirt and disheveled hair, it’s because your father dressed you that day:

If you see pictures of you wearing outfits that coordinate with your matching hairbows, you’ll know that dear ol’ mama was responsible for clothing you that day.

Once you were dressed in your black princess shirt (I reasoned that black would be an easier color to clean should you get paint on your coordinating clothes), we ran a few quick errands and made our way to the paint your own ceramics place.

It started off well: there was hardly anyone in the store so I found the plates and quickly sponged them down so we could paint away as soon as the store’s only worker could help us. I had the foresight, at least, to remember our past experience and swallow my pride and take her up on her offer to help us put your handprint on the plate. Unfortunately, the day we went must have also been the same day the manager was hiring ALL of their employees in the greater Fresno-Clovis area because there were nonstop interviews while we were there. This meant we sat at our table for a long time waiting for her to finish the interviews so she could help us.

I tried to keep you happy, little one.

We took pictures by the paint.

You know, for the perfect scrapbook page that will go in the scrapbook that I’ve STILL yet to get started on.

I forgot to tell your father that *I* wanted to be in the picture, too, but when we tried for picture number two, the tide started to turn.

*Enter the unhappy baby who’s just now realizing she’s tired hungry and desperate for a nap and/or food. Preferably at the same time, and most definitely NOW*

I sent you and your father off to the nearby play area where I waited and killed time by painting a bottom coat of paint on both of the plates.

Finally, ions later, the manager was done conducting interviews, fielding phone calls and sending one of the newly hired employees off to buy her lunch. I called you guys in, and we quickly put you back in your apron and set about painting your hand brown.

You realized at about that point that I was attempting to craft with you again, and you must’ve had flashbacks from the previous crafting project involving your hands.

*Enter the unhappy baby who’s just now realizing she’s tired hungry and desperate for a nap and/or food and NOT wanting to craft with her mama.*

You rewarded our efforts by clawing away at the handprint, leaving a brown blob on both of the plates.

I gave up trying to craft with a seventeen month old at that point and sent you off to eat lunch with your father while I tried hopelessly to salvage whatever I could of the gobs of paint on the plates.

So much for painting your own tile each year. Hmph.

Crafting, I reasoned, would have to happen solo that day. I spent the next two hours painting and scraping and wiping and painting again because I forgot that you have to paint each color THREE times to get anything more than a washed out color.

The last twenty minutes of painting went by in a blur. I literally had a paintbrush in each hand and was frantically trying to finish everything off in time to meet a friend across town.

Fast forward four days. The pieces were supposed to be ready by 6PM on Tuesday (yesterday), and I couldn’t wait any longer. I was so hoping that we’d created two masterpieces that we’d use with fond memories each year.

The manager (a different one than the previous day) warned me about setting the plates upright in the bag before handing them off to me. I nodded politely and ran back to my car to tear off the protective paper from the plates and see how they turned out.

The Christmas one was so-so. I didn’t have the patience to paint THREE coats and so I ended up with a washed out red color on the edge. I also was a little annoyed that the lettering was funky on the “M” and “C.”

I give myself 2 paintbrushes out of a possible 4.

 

The Thanksgiving one, however, was PERFECT. Just as I had hoped it would look. I could see myself taking it to family Thanksgiving functions with freshly baked pumpkin bread and banana nut bread on it. I give myself 3.5 paintbrushes out of a possible 4. I would have given myself 4 paintbrushes, but the black paint outlining the turkey was a little too thick for my liking.

If you’re wondering why I’m not posting pictures of the turkey plate, it’s because this happened:

Yep. I should’ve listened to the paint manager lady when she told me to keep the bag flat instead of upright. I set the plates upright on the counter while I was preparing dinner. The clutter on the island was killing me, so I tried to tidy it up (I think kitchen islands should be renamed “throw all of your junk here in the middle of the kitchen stations”). I grabbed your diaper bag, and somehow it got caught on the plate bag. This domino effect translated into the bag tipping over and flying off of the island and onto the wood floor below. My mom powers were rendered useless—I couldn’t do anything but stand there hopelessly while I heard the tell-tale crunch of the ceramic plates.

Maybe I should’ve wrapped them better after looking at them in the car earlier.

Wouldn’t you know it if the mediocre Christmas plate survived while the epicly awesome Thanksgiving plate broke into three different pieces?

Sigh. I’d like to say that I learned my lesson and I’ve vowed to never ever again try to craft with you until you’re able to say “Mother, please pass me the paint brush for I wish to make you a fantabulous craft, please.” I’m not quite done with you yet, though. I’m determined to get it done right.

We’re going back to the paint your own ceramic place this weekend. We get half off if we paint in our PJs. I’m thinking I’ll wear my purple owl pajamas and you can wear your purple footed pajamas. I’m bringing my camera and we’re going to paint another hand turkey if it kills me. And we’re going to smile in the pictures and it’s going to be FUN, dangit!

Oh, and if that’s not enough, I’ve also arranged to have your footprint done in clay this Friday. The art teacher offered her services. How could I pass up an offer like that?

Stay tuned for the next chapter of “Call Your Mama Crazy”….

Love you little Sammie,

your mama