My little artist

After this afternoons disaster with the chalk, I thought I'd take a few minutes to reminisce about all of Berlyn's artwork through out the house.  Wait... not all... just a few.  There was the time she found an old eye liner pen (I didn't even know I had) and stood on the toilet, drawing above the tank.  There's the permanent marker on my bedroom door and the crayon marks as you walk down the hallway.  There's this beautiful abstract that you'll see right above the couch.  This does not, mind you, include the ink on the carpet in the craft room (or the blue paint that is now hidden by a rug) or the pen all over the rocking chair.  If I had to guess what my little girl is going to do when she grows up, I would venture to say that she has some serious artistic talent.  Or at least interest.  Interior Design, perhaps?  I will save all of these mini masterpieces to sale or put on display when she's rich and famous.  It could happen...

Lord, help me.

We had been home for a total of fifteen minutes.  I was in the kitchen throwing dinner together and Nick was taking a shower.  I heard him come out, followed by several "Oh no's."  There was some muttering, and then he called my name.  I knew it was bad, so I just took my time finishing the meal, getting in a few deep breaths before going to look at the damage.  Berlyn had climbed on top of a stack of paper, dug her hands around my scrapbook bin, and found CHALK.  Flaky, oily chalk that is for my paper crafts.  Chalk that I now regret ever initially borrowing from Heather, then coveting, and eventually buying for myself only to very rarely use.  Chalk that is now crumbled and smashed into my once white (hahahahah) carpet.  Carpet that I just spent an hour spot cleaning last week.  After picking up the pieces, vacuuming the crumbs, dumping Shout and scrubbing my heart out.........................................................  there's still a beautiful rainbow of colors to decorate the floor in front of my bed.  The end.