When Clara first started coloring, several months ago, she had five crayons that her grandparents bought for her. They were the basic colors--red, blue, yellow, green and brown--and they were thick so she could grasp them more easily in her pudgy toddler hands.
I colored with those for awhile. Then I started thinking about bigger and better things. I bought the Crayola 64-crayon coloring set at the grocery store and hid it in the drawer where I keep all my jewelry. I stole a page from Clara's giant Toy Story coloring book to color in my spare time, in my bedroom, with the door closed. I had vague ideas of coloring Woody and Buzz with a Matisse-like palette. The dinosaur--I forget his name--grew a lime-green and gold halo. Rings like those around Saturn circled his head.
"I've been coloring a lot," I admitted to my in-laws.
"Coloring is great," my father-in-law said. "You can buy more grown-up coloring books, like with pictures of historical figures like Thomas Jefferson and stuff, at education outlets. I have several."
"How do you know when to color softly or push harder?" I asked.
"Well, it depend on what you want. Do you want the soft stroke effect, or the waxy, deeper color?"
"It sounds like your technique is quite advanced," I said.
Clara found the 64-pack of crayons.
Of course she did.
After awhile, I got tired of trying to put them neatly back into the box after she'd used them. I dumped them all into a Tupperware container.
We started working coloring into our morning routine.
"I will color one Hello Kitty in your Hello Kitty coloring book, and then I have to vacuum the floor," I'll tell her. Unless the Hello Kitty I'm coloring needs a midnight blue background, and a crown, and maybe some stars...
This morning Clara busied herself with making jagged brown lines on the edge of the poster board. I carefully selected a salmon-toned crayon and began making tiny curlie-cues near the bottom.
"Mommy, daw a dog."
I drew a pink Beagle to go with the fifteen other dogs I had drawn on the board, and Clara cheerfully scribbled over the top of it.
My curlie-cues needed some definition, so I casually went into the kitchen for a fine-point Sharpie. I sat back down at an oblique angle, holding my breath a little as I uncapped the marker and began to outline my work.
Clara saw the Sharpie instantly and swooped down on me like a horseman of the apocalypse.
"Mommy, my turn!"
"No, it's Mommy's turn." I continued to outline, but she kept reaching for the pen, making my line wiggle. "Clara, it's my turn. You can have a turn in a second."
"No!! Mommy, it's my turn. Baby's turn! Me!"
"Okay, you can have it for two minutes, okay? And then me."
With a huff of satisfaction, she took the pen from me and began scribbling merrily. After a moment, she tried to put the cap back on and couldn't.
"Mommy helps you," she said. I put the cap back on for her, and then she took it off again. I wrote her name, "Clara," and my name, "Mommy," on the poster board with the pen. Very interesting, her body language seemed to say, but can you do this? And a wild flurry of scribbles appeared over and around the writing.
Then she dropped the pen.
"Me, 'icker. Baby unts 'ticker."
"Okay, you may have one sticker."
She picked a sticker of Mr. Potato Head and stuck it to the poster board. Then she took it off and stuck it to my sleeve.
"Ohhhhhh, Mommy! 'Ticker on sirt."
"Yes, it's on my shirt."
She tried to stick it on Wilbur, but it wouldn't adhere to his fur. "'Bur unt 'ticker?" she asked him. He licked his chops in response.
"'Bur, a mess," she said, pointing to the broken crayons on the floor. She sighed and shook her head. "No, 'Bur. No mess."
"Wilbur didn't break the crayons, Honey. You did. Don't you remember?"
"Oh, Mommy mess."
"No, not me. You. But you know what? It's okay. Crayons get broken. They still work."
"Oh, Baby mess."
"Yes."
There is nothing like the smell of a fresh box of Crayolas. In nursing school I treated myself to an anatomy coloring book. It was sooo relaxing. Thank you for helping me come out of the closet!
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