We do so love our art projects in this house.
Jed sometimes clucks his tongue and gives me the stink eye when I come home bearing a white and red bag with the distinctive bullseye dotting it everywhere.
He hates convention. From his artistic pedestal on high, he looks down his abstract expressionist nose at the die-cut scrapbooking-shouldn't-be-a-verb flowers I bought that became her obsession for days.
He hates the coloring books that litter our floors, with their black-bordered princesses or pirates, telling you in all their commerical perfection: "Stay inside the lines."
NO! He tells us. Don't stay in the lines; swerve! Go crazy! Be free.
"Don't go to dollar stores. We don't need anymore pom-poms," he begs, chasing a glittery, furry globe across the floor for the umteenth time that evening.
We have enough crayons, markers and paint to color the world. Don't buy another version just because they're cool.
But what do you think should happen when HE takes the kid to Staples and she finds THESE?
He grabbed them right out of her little pudgy hands and tossed them in the cart.
"What? They were cool! I wanted them, too."