Conversation Over Crafts

Whilst gluing together foam gingerbread houses and painting wooden livestock, Nolan asks me, "How come your shirt isn't dirty?".

I appraise my spotless shirt and then his (brand new) opposite of spotless shirt --it's spotted. Red spots.

"Because I'm being careful," I answer continuing to glue foam candy beside the door.

"Boys aren't careful," he generalizes.

I steal a glance at his brother who somehow has managed to be marred by paint even though he has only been using glue.

"Look how messy I am," Nolan continues, pointing out his spotted shirt.

I look up again. Oh! his hands, they are more than spotted! And Oh! The table, it now sports splotches of red, green, and blue. Nolan follows my gaze as I take in his hands, the table, his shirt, The Pook all smothered in varying degrees of paint and glue. It only bothers me momentarily. Our stain removal regimen is known to be successful on grease, grass, and diaper blow-outs up the back and down the arm holes. I've become accustomed to my title "Mother" and my subtitle "Cleaner of Everything Under the Sun".

Nolan, on the other hand, seems to be realizing for the first time that he makes messes (hugely understated) and seems somewhat surprised and embarrassed. I can see the gears turning as his eyes dart from spot to splotch.

Finally, he concludes, "Well, I'm working hard. I bet when Joseph Smith worked hard he got messy."