My son, the artist.

My one-year-old’s newest obsession? Painting.

Before you lean in and scrunch your face up and gush, oh that’s sooo cuuuute, let me explain something.

He paints with his thick, the-molars-are-coming saliva.

And his paintbrush? A small, pointy, plastic carrot from his kitchen set.

Oh, and this is the best part. His canvas? The leather couch at my mom’s.

Yeah. My child spit-paints on my parents’ expensive furniture. (I know what some of you other parents are thinking and you’re right, I should be glad it’s not poop he’s using. Yet.)

Kellan’s like a human snail, leaving behind a glistening trail as he wanders the house with his carrot dipped in saliva hanging at his side from between two adorably pudgy fingers.

On the upside, I think we’ve got a real Van Gogh on our hands here. My parents may be able to sell these drool masterpieces for a pretty penny. And then use the money to buy new couches.

And then he’ll cover them in his juices again. And so the cycle continues.

Ahh, parenthood. More interesting by the day. To put it mildly.

Ahh, parenthood. More interesting by the day. To put it mildly.

 

 

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