Picasso

Living with Evan is, as always, an adventure. I had a push to get the latest edits on my book done, so I did what I had to do. I utilized the electronic babysitter and put on Thomas the Train and went upstairs into my study to get some work done. It’s not as bad as it sounds. I was twenty feet away with the door open. If he needed me, I would have heard. Unfortunately, he didn’t need me. He was just fine all by himself. So far as I can figure, the pen must have fallen from the top of the fridge where we now keep his markers and his crayons since the crayon in the carpet incident of June.

In honor of Harold and the Purple Crayon, the pen was, of course, purple. I walked downstairs and found a new collage the length of our living room wall. Evan apparently wasn’t happy with the new couch, so he decorated that, and the ottoman, and the chair. He added some flair to our bookshelf and began his budding writing career by contributing to our Harry Potter collection, and then having heard his Grandpa Art’s suggestion last week to paint the kitchen cabinets, Evan started in on that, and then continued on to our kitchen table, our kitchen bench, our kitchen barstools, even the kitchen sliding glass door. The single room he didn’t touch? His playroom.