She was five when we went to paint for Mother’s Day. There were seven mothers and their children, all there to make the same painting: LOVE on a canvas. Little feet made the V, a little hand made the O, and the moms painted the L and E. When we finished, she wanted to paint dots. My immediate, entirely internal reaction was NOOOOOOOOOOO. She was going to ruin the beautiful word. But I let her paint.
I sat beside her and stressed over every dot. In my mind, the colors were wrong. The dots weren’t even round. She kept painting, and I kept letting her, although I can’t say I was relaxed about it.
Thirteen years later, that painting still hangs on my bedroom wall. The dots are my favorite part. They were the only part she actually created. Everything else was something we had been shown how to do. The dots were hers.
I wish I could go back and enjoy watching her put them there. I don’t know how much of my tension she noticed, but I know how much time I spent worrying about a painting I now love precisely because of what she added. I’ve learned something since then. I don’t always accept the lesson gracefully, but I accept it more readily.
I told her recently what I was thinking while she painted them. She laughed and said, “That doesn’t surprise me.” Then we both laughed, because I told her that when she has a child, I’m going to make that child paint dots on a painting for her.
She’s turning eighteen soon. She has told me, in no uncertain terms, that her choices will be hers. I’m still her mother. I will probably have opinions about the colors. But I’m glad she painted the dots.
