All I did was ask him to be my Facebook friend and upon his acceptance, I found out all this crazy polling stuff going on! My favorite peace-man-sensitive-pony-tailed-folk-singer is all over the news exposing negative Clinton campainging!!!
I really wanted to go to the Arcade Fire/Superchunk Obama Rally this Friday so I went down to Pittsboro to score some tix yesterday. I got them (and a few extras if anyone's interested) and in a matter of seconds also agreed to make about 250 phone calls and do some door-to-door canvassing for Obama this weekend. I'm pumped. I think I may even have a chance of swinging David over to my side (my husband David, not folk-singer David). We'll see what he thinks after Friday's concert.
I'm pumped, people!!!!
Monday, April 28, 2008
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Utter Randomness
Many many years ago David and I were on a road trip talking in the car about this-n-that, stuff we'd heard on the news. He told me about this man who rode around the world on a bicycle and wasn't that impressive. I thought about it and said that what I really think would be impressive is if a person ate a bicycle. Or a tree. Not that a person eat a tree, but that a tree eat a bicycle. Anyway, you find me a person anywhere in the world who eats an entire bicycle, and I'll be impressed.
David is super impressed with my new yoga moves. Maybe you can't tell from this photo but getting into lotus position while in shoulder stand is not all that easy. I can do it! David told me last night that he's way more impressed with my lotus shoulder stand than he is with me attending an AME church service (and then writing about it).
So, I'm on the phone with the IRS trying to sort out a work-related issue as they're blasting Mozart's Eine Kleine Nachtmuzic. I cannot hear that song withouth thinking back to when I played violin from the 4th-7th grade when a group of us girls got accused of "sniffing" glue when really we were huddled trying to attach a Lee Press-On Nail. Also associated with orchestra is how Lane M. used to tie my impossibly long hair into knots just seconds before we were to go out on stage to perform. We played Eine Kleine Nachtmusiz. With knots in our hair.
You can go ahead and take me out of the running for this year's Mother-of-the-Year Award. Grace's school called me at work today at 12:30 PM to inform me that Grace was in the office waiting to be picked up as it was an early release day. Oh, and Johnny missed his Kindergarten Orientation because somehow I DIDN'T KNOW ABOUT IT.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Joy Juice
Some people enjoy going to bars to converse with people while filling their bodies with fluids that make them feel good. People like me? We go to IV lounges at our doctors' offices.
I sat for over two hours today in the IV lounge at Dr. Webster's office in High Point getting my first Mega C Nutritional IV Drip. The first hour I sat alone, flip flopping between working on a research final and text-messaging my sister, (r u ok?) my husband, (u r on my 2 do list) and a classmate (to whom when he informed me that he'd finished his paper a week early, only had two more research questions to complete AND has the day off tomorrow I texted: u suk! j/k). (I'm a texting newbie, btw, and still can't figure out how to make my phone type the number 1, so I just use a lower-case "L" but get made fun of by Kate who's one of those who can text full paragraphs while driving and curling her eyelashes at the same time).
The second hour, two ladies joined me, and we intermittently chit-chatted about our intravenous cocktails and whether we agreed with People Magazine's assessment of this year's sexiest man alive. The lady beside me who'd driven three hours from eastern Tennessee to get her "joy juice" assured me I'd feel like a million bucks when I wake up tomorrow.
For $135 an-out-of-pocket-pop, I'd better.
Next week, same bat time, same bat channel. I'll receive my second Mega C drip in preparation for the following week's heavy metal chelation.
Rock on.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Standing on the Promises
As I parked my car and hurried to get inside, my heart pounded with a lot of excitement and a little anxiety. My trepidation had less to do with how I thought I would feel during the service and more to do with my perception of how others would feel with me present. I skipped up the concrete steps and smiled at the teenaged boys sitting outside the thick double doors. An attractive woman wearing white gloves greeted me, handed me a bulletin, and ushered me to my seat towards the back of the sanctuary. There I was, at 11:00 AM on a Sunday morning, attending for the first time a worship service at St. Paul African Methodist Episcopal (AME) Church, located at the corner of Merritt Mill Road and Franklin Street in Chapel Hill, North Carolina. In addition to it being my first time worshipping at St. Paul AME, it was also my first time attending any church service where the congregation was comprised mostly of—if not all—African Americans. Feeling fully alive and conspicuous in my red dress and fair skin, my heart warmed with joy as I heard a familiar hymn. Joining my black brothers and sisters in Christ on the second verse, we lifted our voices together singing:“Standing on the promises that cannot fail, when the howling storms of doubt and fear assail, by the living Word of God I shall prevail, standing on the promises of God” (Bulletin)
As a fellow Methodist, I felt acquainted with many of the elements and the order of the service. Although the historic practices of Methodism provide the basic doctrine and “orderly system of rules and regulations” the AME Church has a heritage rooted in African American opposition to racial discrimination prevalent in American Methodist churches in the 18th century (website). In addition, structurally, the AME Church operates under an Episcopal form of governance (website). Even though my 36 years of churchgoing provided a schema on which to base my experience at St. Paul, I was struck with the elements of difference, particularly with the music, the length of the service, and the emotive participants.
Music is a key component of worship at my church, University United Methodist, as we enjoy numerous choirs, soloists, and an accomplished organist. However, at St. Paul AME, musical expression was the congregation’s soul. Led by an energetic directress, the featured Men’s Choir was accompanied by a drummer, an electric pianist, and a saxophonist. I left feeling like I had been to a big-city jazz concert after a saxophone solo, a feeling that was heightened after a theatrical youth song and dance number that was as visually engaging as it was pleasing to the ears.
I knew just enough about the AME Church going in to suspect that the service would last longer than the standard hour to which my church usually adheres, but I was not prepared for the service to last in its entirety longer than two and a half hours. I attended St. Paul AME on a special Sunday, the Men of Destiny Conference “2008” Annual Worship Service, and the sermon was delivered by a guest preacher. The sermon began about 12:30 PM and culminated at 1:20 PM with shouts, praises, tears, and everyone in the house who was able, standing on their feet, clapping their hands. It is difficult to determine if the claps were in praise of the inspiring sermon alone, or if they also represented an outward expression of gladness that the sermon was finally over! People stayed and the congregants remained engaged.
When I juxtapose my church’s worship service with the one I experienced at St. Paul AME, the most striking difference is the unabashed external emotional expression of both the leaders and the audience. People clapped during the songs and stood up shouting praises when the spirit led them. The house was filled with joy, and I felt like I belonged and was welcomed there.
As I sat and worshipped in fellowship with other Christians, I thought how at once I was the numerical minority but also a member of the dominant majority. I thought that even though I was sitting amidst a racial and cultural subgroup other than my own, we were all members of the Christian community. We were also all members of the Chapel Hill community, and it felt good to recognize my loan officer, an Orange County Commissioner running for NC State Senate, and a former co-worker that all but offered me a job upon finishing my Master’s Degree. This assignment served to remind me that as a professional social worker, sometimes the lines of difference I will face will be stark, sometimes they will be blurred, but all the time the promises of a community should be available to all.
As a fellow Methodist, I felt acquainted with many of the elements and the order of the service. Although the historic practices of Methodism provide the basic doctrine and “orderly system of rules and regulations” the AME Church has a heritage rooted in African American opposition to racial discrimination prevalent in American Methodist churches in the 18th century (website). In addition, structurally, the AME Church operates under an Episcopal form of governance (website). Even though my 36 years of churchgoing provided a schema on which to base my experience at St. Paul, I was struck with the elements of difference, particularly with the music, the length of the service, and the emotive participants.
Music is a key component of worship at my church, University United Methodist, as we enjoy numerous choirs, soloists, and an accomplished organist. However, at St. Paul AME, musical expression was the congregation’s soul. Led by an energetic directress, the featured Men’s Choir was accompanied by a drummer, an electric pianist, and a saxophonist. I left feeling like I had been to a big-city jazz concert after a saxophone solo, a feeling that was heightened after a theatrical youth song and dance number that was as visually engaging as it was pleasing to the ears.
I knew just enough about the AME Church going in to suspect that the service would last longer than the standard hour to which my church usually adheres, but I was not prepared for the service to last in its entirety longer than two and a half hours. I attended St. Paul AME on a special Sunday, the Men of Destiny Conference “2008” Annual Worship Service, and the sermon was delivered by a guest preacher. The sermon began about 12:30 PM and culminated at 1:20 PM with shouts, praises, tears, and everyone in the house who was able, standing on their feet, clapping their hands. It is difficult to determine if the claps were in praise of the inspiring sermon alone, or if they also represented an outward expression of gladness that the sermon was finally over! People stayed and the congregants remained engaged.
When I juxtapose my church’s worship service with the one I experienced at St. Paul AME, the most striking difference is the unabashed external emotional expression of both the leaders and the audience. People clapped during the songs and stood up shouting praises when the spirit led them. The house was filled with joy, and I felt like I belonged and was welcomed there.
As I sat and worshipped in fellowship with other Christians, I thought how at once I was the numerical minority but also a member of the dominant majority. I thought that even though I was sitting amidst a racial and cultural subgroup other than my own, we were all members of the Christian community. We were also all members of the Chapel Hill community, and it felt good to recognize my loan officer, an Orange County Commissioner running for NC State Senate, and a former co-worker that all but offered me a job upon finishing my Master’s Degree. This assignment served to remind me that as a professional social worker, sometimes the lines of difference I will face will be stark, sometimes they will be blurred, but all the time the promises of a community should be available to all.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Thank You to MY Fairy Godmother
My Fairy Godmother was looking after me last night and boy, am I thankful. Grace lost her fourth tooth yesterday while we were at a birthday party. Her first three teeth came out with no help from David or me but yesterday I had to intervene and give it that one, two, three gentle pull to just get that sucker out! I wrapped the tooth in a paper towel and put it in my pocket as we enjoyed the rest of the party. Grace reminded me at bedtime that we needed to put the tooth in a plastic baggie and put the baggie under her pillow. We did it and at tuck-in time wondered what the Tooth Fairy might leave in terms of cold hard cash. So far in our house, the Tooth Fairy has left one shiny quarter for each tooth lost. So, when Grace lost her first tooth, she got one quarter, when she lost her second tooth, two quarters, etc. This was her fourth tooth, so we did the math and thought it highly likely that she would get four quarters (a dollar!!) for her fourth tooth.
After Grace and Johnny both fell asleep, I stayed up a couple more hours doing schoolwork. Drunk with fatigue, I stumbled to my bed at around 10:45 PM and was deep into my own dreams in a matter of minutes. I awakened at around 3:00 AM as Grace's bare long legs wrapped around mine. She had come into our bed with her "sleep toys" and her plastic baggie with her tooth still in it; she'd put her tooth under one of our pillows and had fallen fast asleep. I'm glad I had the middle-of-the-night sense to tell the Tooth Fairy to get with the program! She (the Tooth Fairy, not me) stumbled into the kitchen and retrieved four quarters to place under Grace's pillow in exchange for her fourth tooth. As luck would have it, three quarters were readily available hanging out on top of our microwave since Grace lost her third tooth just about a week ago. The Tooth Fairy fished out another quarter from the change jar and finished her secret transaction in time for the both of us to get a few more hours of sleep.
You should have seen the smile on Grace's face...a smile that reminds me of a Jack-O-Lantern with staggered missing teeth on the top and the bottom...when she jangled her baggie full of quarters. Four quarters to be exact. Just like we had predicted.
Friday, April 18, 2008
Sunburnt Brain
I have a lot on my mind these days. To name a few:
1. End of the semester assignments. I haven't even finished this semester and already have received an e-mail alerting us to summer school reading that is due on the first day of class.
2. My health issues. More lab tests have been ordered. This is suspected as well as this.
3. Grace's developmental issues. Someone from here is coming by the house tomorrow to evaluate Grace to determine if she's a good candidate for this.
4. How are we going to pay for all of this?
5. At least it's sunny out and at least I have cute shoes.
1. End of the semester assignments. I haven't even finished this semester and already have received an e-mail alerting us to summer school reading that is due on the first day of class.
2. My health issues. More lab tests have been ordered. This is suspected as well as this.
3. Grace's developmental issues. Someone from here is coming by the house tomorrow to evaluate Grace to determine if she's a good candidate for this.
4. How are we going to pay for all of this?
5. At least it's sunny out and at least I have cute shoes.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Props to Caramore
A New York Times op-ed piece written by Lee Smith mentions Caramore, David's company. I'm really proud of David and the work he and the others do there.
From the Times:
April 6, 2008
Op-Ed Contributor
In North Carolina, Really Outsider Art
By LEE SMITH
Hillsborough, N.C.
“WE mentally ill can be a shy bunch — aside from bipolar mania, we generally keep to ourselves,” the filmmaker Philip Brubaker says to a big laugh as he introduces his latest documentary, “Brushes With Life: The Journey of Art,” to a packed house.
We are at the Brushes With Life Gallery, which is housed in the University of North Carolina’s neurosciences hospital and has one requirement for the artists it showcases: each has a mental illness (something that, as Mr. Brubaker notes, “is seldom an asset”).
He continues: “Art springs from the heart, but more importantly, the mind. A mind that is heavy with anxiety and pain can get a release from art like nothing else. Their journey through art is a way to relieve pain.” The lights dim.
“I’m sick of that phrase ‘mental illness,’ ” one of the artists, Rhonda, announces to the camera in the film. “Many of us may have started this process out of anger, but ultimately, it’s healing.” Figures hide within figures in her intricate, elegant black-and-white drawings.
Todd, talking as he draws his humorous animal cartoons, points out that “the gallery focuses on dealing with the whole person; we’re not dealing with mental illness here.”
A young man named Kwami is filmed leaning up against a chain-link fence, watching some boys shoot baskets. “I wanted to play basketball,” he says. “But my mom’s boyfriend burned my hands while she was at the store.” The camera focuses on his large, nubby hands; the audience gasps. But Kwami says, “People can see my hands, and they don’t mind it — but having a mental illness, now that’s way more of a problem than my hands.”
Some of Kwami’s wildly colorful paintings also hang on the walls of Caramore, a residential treatment program in Chapel Hill where my own schizophrenic son, Josh, spent some productive time before he died in 2003.
Humor and openness abound here — both in the film and in everyone’s comments afterward. A far cry, I can’t help thinking, from the reactions of hush-hush horror our family faced when Josh became ill back in the 1980s.
Unfortunately, “Brushes With Life” is a splash of color and hope in a dark picture: North Carolina’s entire mental health system is in jeopardy. According to a recent investigative series by The News & Observer of Raleigh, a 2001 reform effort has failed, wasting more than $400 million and putting the 350,000 seriously ill people in the state system at risk of losing community care.
Local mental health services used to be provided by federal, state and local governments. The reform plan put the counties out of business and forced them to hire for-profit “providers” that offered sometimes specious “community support” services for exorbitant prices. Costs more than doubled, to $1.5 billion a year. Only 5 percent of the money went to intensive outpatient therapy. As a result, our mental hospitals are overwhelmed, while prisons and homeless shelters are filling up with people who have persistent mental disorders.
Peter Kramer, a local social worker, has served Hillsborough’s mental health program for 20 years. The day his program switched from state support to private contractors in July 2006, he says, “A mother called up and said her son was hearing voices, but there was no doctor there to refer her to.” His clinic is due to close entirely. “People are calling us in tears saying things like, ‘What’s going to happen to me? I’ve had my doctor for 17 years, what can I do without him?’
“The people in this film have been supported by good doctors and programs — by local clubhouse programs, by outpatient therapy, medication and case management,” Mr. Kramer points out to me at the reception. “The art is good, and they are getting validated here. Instead of seeing them as people with deficits, we see them as people with strengths.”
Mike Dunn, another of the artists in the film, tells me: “People are people, you can’t just draw lines. I’m trying to be a good ambassador for people with my illness. We have hurts, and we have hearts, and we have hopes, too.”
I just wish Josh could be here to see it.
Lee Smith is the author, most recently, of the novel “On Agate Hill.”
From the Times:
April 6, 2008
Op-Ed Contributor
In North Carolina, Really Outsider Art
By LEE SMITH
Hillsborough, N.C.
“WE mentally ill can be a shy bunch — aside from bipolar mania, we generally keep to ourselves,” the filmmaker Philip Brubaker says to a big laugh as he introduces his latest documentary, “Brushes With Life: The Journey of Art,” to a packed house.
We are at the Brushes With Life Gallery, which is housed in the University of North Carolina’s neurosciences hospital and has one requirement for the artists it showcases: each has a mental illness (something that, as Mr. Brubaker notes, “is seldom an asset”).
He continues: “Art springs from the heart, but more importantly, the mind. A mind that is heavy with anxiety and pain can get a release from art like nothing else. Their journey through art is a way to relieve pain.” The lights dim.
“I’m sick of that phrase ‘mental illness,’ ” one of the artists, Rhonda, announces to the camera in the film. “Many of us may have started this process out of anger, but ultimately, it’s healing.” Figures hide within figures in her intricate, elegant black-and-white drawings.
Todd, talking as he draws his humorous animal cartoons, points out that “the gallery focuses on dealing with the whole person; we’re not dealing with mental illness here.”
A young man named Kwami is filmed leaning up against a chain-link fence, watching some boys shoot baskets. “I wanted to play basketball,” he says. “But my mom’s boyfriend burned my hands while she was at the store.” The camera focuses on his large, nubby hands; the audience gasps. But Kwami says, “People can see my hands, and they don’t mind it — but having a mental illness, now that’s way more of a problem than my hands.”
Some of Kwami’s wildly colorful paintings also hang on the walls of Caramore, a residential treatment program in Chapel Hill where my own schizophrenic son, Josh, spent some productive time before he died in 2003.
Humor and openness abound here — both in the film and in everyone’s comments afterward. A far cry, I can’t help thinking, from the reactions of hush-hush horror our family faced when Josh became ill back in the 1980s.
Unfortunately, “Brushes With Life” is a splash of color and hope in a dark picture: North Carolina’s entire mental health system is in jeopardy. According to a recent investigative series by The News & Observer of Raleigh, a 2001 reform effort has failed, wasting more than $400 million and putting the 350,000 seriously ill people in the state system at risk of losing community care.
Local mental health services used to be provided by federal, state and local governments. The reform plan put the counties out of business and forced them to hire for-profit “providers” that offered sometimes specious “community support” services for exorbitant prices. Costs more than doubled, to $1.5 billion a year. Only 5 percent of the money went to intensive outpatient therapy. As a result, our mental hospitals are overwhelmed, while prisons and homeless shelters are filling up with people who have persistent mental disorders.
Peter Kramer, a local social worker, has served Hillsborough’s mental health program for 20 years. The day his program switched from state support to private contractors in July 2006, he says, “A mother called up and said her son was hearing voices, but there was no doctor there to refer her to.” His clinic is due to close entirely. “People are calling us in tears saying things like, ‘What’s going to happen to me? I’ve had my doctor for 17 years, what can I do without him?’
“The people in this film have been supported by good doctors and programs — by local clubhouse programs, by outpatient therapy, medication and case management,” Mr. Kramer points out to me at the reception. “The art is good, and they are getting validated here. Instead of seeing them as people with deficits, we see them as people with strengths.”
Mike Dunn, another of the artists in the film, tells me: “People are people, you can’t just draw lines. I’m trying to be a good ambassador for people with my illness. We have hurts, and we have hearts, and we have hopes, too.”
I just wish Josh could be here to see it.
Lee Smith is the author, most recently, of the novel “On Agate Hill.”
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
Blog Blahs
I stayed home from work today with what I thought might be strep but more likely is allergies...and I definitely have the blahs. I started a post on my latest health stuff (other than the strep-like allergy symptoms) but I couldn't get past the title. Too blah. There's all kinds of stuff I think I'll write about one day but never do. I've decided to do a list today of very random things. Maybe I'll expand on some of these topics later. Maybe not.
1. My hair is falling out. Really it is. It's not obvious yet but my sister pointed it out about a month ago. Ever since she did, I've noticed it too. Strands of long blonde hair are everywhere. It's really noticable when I wear dark colors or when I look at the back of my chair at work at the end of the day. I'm pretty sure it's hormonal and I'm going to the dr. on Monday to get it looked into. Honestly, I'm not that bothered by it. Maybe it will give me a chance to try some different hair styles/colors out. The celebrities all do it. My hair though, (always blonde, usually long) has been what I consider one of my best features. When I told my dad, he expressed concern but on his own (and whether he meant it or not, it made me feel better) said, "Your hair is one of your best features but your deep set eyes are your best."
2. People who haven't seen me in awhile are kind of amazed because I've lost a lot of weight. I'll check on Monday at the dr. (they'll weigh me) and see how reliable this number is, but I think I've lost about 15 pounds. I'm basically back to the "old Sarah--" the one before having kids. It's nice to hear people comment about looking great due to the weight loss but I wish I felt great.
3. I credit yoga and my change of diet to my strengthening and slendering physique. I am addicted to yoga. I love it and I try to go three times a week. I'm not disciplined to do yoga at home. I'm also not disciplined to exercise in the morning. This young woman (16, actually) had a seizure in yoga class a few weeks ago. It took us awhile to figure out what was going on b/c it presented itself more like she was sleep talking than having the type of seizure I'd expect. The same girl had another one last week.
4. School is going great. I love the program and feel good that I've found "my thing." It's a strange but wonderful feeling spending every Friday with a room full of people that are very much like yourself. In my everyday life I have many pockets of friends, co-workers, associates, family, etc. And I have admiration and stuff in common with all of these pockets but I also differ quite a bit from people in my different circles. On Fridays, though, I'm with a group of people that I've only known for nine months. They get me as well as any other group or individual I've ever gotten to know. Because they're like me. And we're talking about human relationships and social issues in ways that I don't do in other groups. Let's put it another way: many of the qualities that make me unique, define me, categorize me, etc. are qualities that most everyone in the room share. So with those similarities already established, our classroom is furtile ground for pushing the envelope, questioning our assumptions, asking questions that might offend, etc. We've had several people cry in class (including me) because breaking down the issues and talking about individual, family, group, and community relationships like we do cuts to the core of humanity. And those elements can be quite raw.
Ok, time to put my yoga pants on.
1. My hair is falling out. Really it is. It's not obvious yet but my sister pointed it out about a month ago. Ever since she did, I've noticed it too. Strands of long blonde hair are everywhere. It's really noticable when I wear dark colors or when I look at the back of my chair at work at the end of the day. I'm pretty sure it's hormonal and I'm going to the dr. on Monday to get it looked into. Honestly, I'm not that bothered by it. Maybe it will give me a chance to try some different hair styles/colors out. The celebrities all do it. My hair though, (always blonde, usually long) has been what I consider one of my best features. When I told my dad, he expressed concern but on his own (and whether he meant it or not, it made me feel better) said, "Your hair is one of your best features but your deep set eyes are your best."
2. People who haven't seen me in awhile are kind of amazed because I've lost a lot of weight. I'll check on Monday at the dr. (they'll weigh me) and see how reliable this number is, but I think I've lost about 15 pounds. I'm basically back to the "old Sarah--" the one before having kids. It's nice to hear people comment about looking great due to the weight loss but I wish I felt great.
3. I credit yoga and my change of diet to my strengthening and slendering physique. I am addicted to yoga. I love it and I try to go three times a week. I'm not disciplined to do yoga at home. I'm also not disciplined to exercise in the morning. This young woman (16, actually) had a seizure in yoga class a few weeks ago. It took us awhile to figure out what was going on b/c it presented itself more like she was sleep talking than having the type of seizure I'd expect. The same girl had another one last week.
4. School is going great. I love the program and feel good that I've found "my thing." It's a strange but wonderful feeling spending every Friday with a room full of people that are very much like yourself. In my everyday life I have many pockets of friends, co-workers, associates, family, etc. And I have admiration and stuff in common with all of these pockets but I also differ quite a bit from people in my different circles. On Fridays, though, I'm with a group of people that I've only known for nine months. They get me as well as any other group or individual I've ever gotten to know. Because they're like me. And we're talking about human relationships and social issues in ways that I don't do in other groups. Let's put it another way: many of the qualities that make me unique, define me, categorize me, etc. are qualities that most everyone in the room share. So with those similarities already established, our classroom is furtile ground for pushing the envelope, questioning our assumptions, asking questions that might offend, etc. We've had several people cry in class (including me) because breaking down the issues and talking about individual, family, group, and community relationships like we do cuts to the core of humanity. And those elements can be quite raw.
Ok, time to put my yoga pants on.
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
A Bloody Good Time
Wish I had taken pictures of the kids in the tub last night. It looked like a total blood bath and with it being April 1 and all, I could have really tricked you, dear readers. We enjoy an activity at my house about once a month or so when it's my turn to do bath that I've dubbed "Paint Bath." I made it up two or three years ago as a way to make bath-time more fun and paint-time less stressful. Parents, if you haven't tried this with your kids, you're missing out on a great bathtime, rainy-day, sunny-day, anyday activity that you can easily stretch out over an hour. Here are the steps to follow:
1. Ask your kids if they want tonight to be "Paint Bath Night" and see how loud they shriek and how quickly they get undressed and into the tub.
2. Fill up the bath with soapy water because what bath isn't more fun with bubbles? While you're getting the paint supplies together, the kids are getting their legit bath.
3. Gather your supplies: Crayola Washable Kid's Paint (don't bother with finger paints or paints marketed for the bathtub. These don't work as well. Stick to the ones linked here.) Gather paint brushes in all sizes, stamps of all sizes, cotton balls, q-tips and of course finger tips which are already "on hand." Gather old towels, preferrably in dark colors. Gather baby wipes.
4. Lay two old towels down against the side of the bathtub to collect paint drip. This will happen but the towels will minimize mess.
5. Your spot as a parent is on the floor near or on the towels with the baby wipes nearby.
6. Set up your painters' pallettes by dripping a little bit of each color on the edge of the bathtub. If you have more than one kid, they will aruge about who has more paint. Make sure you distribute the paint equally.
7. Let them go crazy dipping their fingers, hands, stamps, brushes, etc. into the paint and onto the shower walls behind them. Let them even paint each other. They can stand up, they can sit down, their soapy bath water will turn colors. They can write their names or draw pictures. They will have a blast and will be entertained and you, dear parent, will have a blast and will be entertained watching them create colorful artwork with no holds barred.
8. Encourage them not to splatter paint outside of the bathtub. Don't worry if they do, it comes off! As the paint drips down toward the towel, periodically wipe it up with the baby wipes. It's easier than you might think.
9. When their masterpieces are finished, take pictures! Then give them each a few baby wipes and let them clean up their "messes!" It works great!! You'll have to do several wipes followed eventually by dry towels, but I think you'll be amazed at how easily this paint cleans up off of shower walls, naked bodies, bathroom walls, floors, and even parents' clothes. Whatever is left, you can clean up during your next shower (or bath. And it can even be a paint bath. The fun is not relegated to kids!).
10. Try it out dear parents, and if you do, please take pictures to show me!!
Happy Paint Bathing!!
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