Sunday, 27 November 2011
For some reason, I put off John's introduction to painting.
I persuaded myself that we were always too busy, or John was too tired, or the light was too poor for photographs and I waited and waited for the perfect moment when his concentration would be complete and my camera would be at the ready and this momentous milestone could occur.
And then suddenly, on a rainy, no-nap afternoon, when exhaustion was crushing my capacity for patience, the dark was creeping in at the windows and I had no idea how to fill the time until my mum arrived, that perfect moment arrived.
I splashed paint into some dishes, sat him up at the table and watched in awe as my boy become an artist.
I watched him dip his brushes seriously into the paint trays and then purposefully arrange thick dollops of paint on his paper until a colourful symmetry had been achieved.
I watched the absorption with which he painted and the silent satisfaction with which he surveyed his finished masterpiece.
And as I laid my camera aside, knowing that we there would be plenty of other times when we could repeat this activity under the blessing of bright sunshine, I wondered why I ever bothered to delay such happiness and vowed to make more of an effort not to let my own agenda hinder my ability to parent.