Woe to the Mother of an Artist

This morning I had about two hours of work on the computer. I usually limit myself to about 30 minutes in the morning and use Kyri's afternoon nap to finish up what needs done, but the afternoon is full today so I needed the time. I dutifully checked on the kids every 20 minutes.

Ben was attempting to clean his room while Kyri messed it up again. She got out Mike's guitar and I heard her strumming and headed down, explained the rules about touching Daddy's guitar and left her for another 8 minutes until I heard it again and removed the temptation. This went on for over an hour with me running down, praising Ben for attempting to behave.

Then I broke down and put a DVD on for them. I was in the home stretch. Less than 30 minutes of work left.

Twenty minutes later Ben came up the stairs and I asked: "Are you being good?"

"Yes, but Kyri's not."

"What's she doing?"

"Writing on the walls."

I sprinted down the stairs and discovered that she had climbed up, found a giant blue marker, written on three walls, her face, her socks, the television, the stair rail and had then climbed up on the counter and reached the top of the refrigerator and found all the jelly beans and was guiltily downing them as quickly as possible.

She is now in her crib. Everything managed to come off and at least she didn't draw on the carpet like last time. And I'm feeling sympathy for mothers of young artists everywhere.