My daughter and I built a birdhouse. I bought the kit from Home Depot. It cost $5.00. She was 3 at the time. I was jumping the gun on "father-daughter" projects. I learned 3 year olds are not into watching their dads read instructions and cobbling together wood. After I built it, I left it on my workshop shelf for two years. She, turning 5 in August, spotted it this summer and pestered me to paint it. I put her off because I didn't feel like inducing myself with a panic attack watching her sloosh paint from one end of my workshop to another. I also knew her 3 year old brother would come find her while she was painting it, see what she was doing, and want to help. I considered painting it at night and telling her the "painting fairy" had done it for her. It would have worked. I have a number of "fairies" that do things like this in my house for my children. It is a quick and easy way to get out of actually letting my children do stuff which I rate high risk for disaster.
Finally I gave in because she asked me "Can I paint the birdhouse now?" a 1000 times. Maybe more. I can't recall because my brain goes numb after a while. She is the absolute master of repeating her because she knows how effective it is. I set her and her brother up at my work bench. They both stood on a white plastic chair. I put down a cloth and placed the birdhouse on top of it. I showed them how to open the can of stain with a screwdriver. I spent the next thirty minutes have quiet bouts of panic and anxiety as I watched them both paint the birdhouse, flicking and smearing 50% of the paint on unintended targets like their bodies and the table, nearly knocking over the stain can with every reload of paint. I resorted to deep breathing and picturing some of my favorite things in my mind to get through it. Praise Jesus when they were finished and returned to their normal activities, trashing the house and yard and making noise.
Now I believed this exercise would provide my children with some kind of learning experience that would translate into them growing up to be productive and stable adults. What I forgot that we keep all of our paint on shelves accessible to my two small children. Dozens and dozen of cans of paint. I guess I could have kept my screwdrivers out of their reach or not provided a full demonstration on how to jimmy the lid of the metal can off.
I am sitting at work. I get a call on my office line. It's my wife and she is super mad at me. I don't panic. It's not the weekly anger I get for accidently weed wacking her flowers and plants . Its the "What are you teaching your children" anger. It's a quiet rage mostly rooted in disbelief in my lack of foresight.
My daughter and son had located and selected a can of paint from our garage. Light blue. I think when we bought it, it was called "Sky Blue" or "Baby Blue". They dragged this can out to the backyard. My daughter, applying her new found skills, popped the lid off the can. If I hadn't shown them where I keep my paint brushes, this may have stopped at this point. No such luck, they knew, in the work bench, second drawer from the right, loaded with painting gear. Armed with a paint brush in their little hands of mischief, they proceeded to paint their play house, the lawn, and themselves. My wife discovered them just as the painting damage had pretty much reached it peak. Unfortunately she was coming out into the yard to get my son to take him to a doctor's appointment. My children received the quickest bath ever. Ever. They made their doctor's appointment. Amazing.
I came home. I noted the playhouse was covered with broad strokes of blue paint. It was actually not a bad job for a primer coat. The playhouse was surrounded by a wide circle of paint splashes, like someone had dropped a paint filled balloon from the sky and it had exploded directly on top of the playhouse. I estimate by the end of summer the painted grass should have grown and been cut away. The playhouse will remain blue until the next rainfall.
I'm worried that I showed them how to start a campfire.
Teaching them a new skills: A+
Parenting: C-
Finally I gave in because she asked me "Can I paint the birdhouse now?" a 1000 times. Maybe more. I can't recall because my brain goes numb after a while. She is the absolute master of repeating her because she knows how effective it is. I set her and her brother up at my work bench. They both stood on a white plastic chair. I put down a cloth and placed the birdhouse on top of it. I showed them how to open the can of stain with a screwdriver. I spent the next thirty minutes have quiet bouts of panic and anxiety as I watched them both paint the birdhouse, flicking and smearing 50% of the paint on unintended targets like their bodies and the table, nearly knocking over the stain can with every reload of paint. I resorted to deep breathing and picturing some of my favorite things in my mind to get through it. Praise Jesus when they were finished and returned to their normal activities, trashing the house and yard and making noise.
Now I believed this exercise would provide my children with some kind of learning experience that would translate into them growing up to be productive and stable adults. What I forgot that we keep all of our paint on shelves accessible to my two small children. Dozens and dozen of cans of paint. I guess I could have kept my screwdrivers out of their reach or not provided a full demonstration on how to jimmy the lid of the metal can off.
I am sitting at work. I get a call on my office line. It's my wife and she is super mad at me. I don't panic. It's not the weekly anger I get for accidently weed wacking her flowers and plants . Its the "What are you teaching your children" anger. It's a quiet rage mostly rooted in disbelief in my lack of foresight.
My daughter and son had located and selected a can of paint from our garage. Light blue. I think when we bought it, it was called "Sky Blue" or "Baby Blue". They dragged this can out to the backyard. My daughter, applying her new found skills, popped the lid off the can. If I hadn't shown them where I keep my paint brushes, this may have stopped at this point. No such luck, they knew, in the work bench, second drawer from the right, loaded with painting gear. Armed with a paint brush in their little hands of mischief, they proceeded to paint their play house, the lawn, and themselves. My wife discovered them just as the painting damage had pretty much reached it peak. Unfortunately she was coming out into the yard to get my son to take him to a doctor's appointment. My children received the quickest bath ever. Ever. They made their doctor's appointment. Amazing.
I came home. I noted the playhouse was covered with broad strokes of blue paint. It was actually not a bad job for a primer coat. The playhouse was surrounded by a wide circle of paint splashes, like someone had dropped a paint filled balloon from the sky and it had exploded directly on top of the playhouse. I estimate by the end of summer the painted grass should have grown and been cut away. The playhouse will remain blue until the next rainfall.
I'm worried that I showed them how to start a campfire.
Teaching them a new skills: A+
Parenting: C-
