A brush with disaster...Mother's Day craft 2024

 What is it with me and months that begin with the letter M? I turn into a short-tempered, moody monster in March AND May. I blame Seasonal Affect for March but May should be lovely. Flowers blooming. Spring peepers singing their nightly chorus. Fresh air and sunshine. But no...May...with its soul-crushing avalanche of looming deadlines... over-tired, over-stimulated children now busy with after-school sports activities...the season of strep...and allergies...and sinus infections. Field trips, fair prep, assemblies, concerts, plays...and we just finished the last of our state testing. 

"Yes, Susie-Q, you still have material that you are responsible to learn. Yes, Johnny-Jake, Mrs. Mosiman is still assigning homework."

And Mother's Day.

Always a struggle for me because I detest crafting but I want my students to conscientiously create a quality project to demonstrate their reflective appreciation for the adults in their lives who selflessly sacrifice their own wants/needs for the betterment of their children. 

The flowering tree in the courtyard beckoned (and bullied...my poor congested nasal passages). "No duck lips," I ordered. "What is that? A gang sign? Stop it!" I wrestled eighteen 4th graders in front of the most beautiful tree in the world and took their pictures, texting my poor husband to swing by the drugstore to pick up the processed photographs on his way home.

I had purchased frames for them to paint.

I hated painting.

Day One:  Paint them (and the table and the floor and their rolled up sleeves and me) white.

Day Two: Using a slender brush, carefully paint branches (and the table and the floor and their rolled up sleeves and me) brown.

Day Three: We were all a-twitter. A whole-group painting session as opposed to the carefully controlled (but still chaotic) small group where I would, in a fit of frustration and disgust, without warning, snatch a paint brush from a struggling artist's hand to yell, "How hard is it to paint a stick, for Pete's sake?" The best gifts are the ones that have some trauma attached to them. On Day Three, each artist was in charge of their own destiny. Heaven help us all.

"Let me demonstrate," I stated firmly as they all wiggled with unrestrained excitement in their chairs. "Commit to ONE finger to apply your petals," I ordered. "Select it now. If any other fingers get marked up with paint, there WILL be consequences." Recess was now on the line. The best gifts are the ones that have an element of danger and risk attached to them.

"You will be receiving three colors," I announced loudly over the cheers that erupted. Did I mention that I hate crafting? These poor honeys are lucky if I let them hold a crayon...let alone a paintbrush. "If you prove yourself responsible (Not likely), you may also (but probably not) receive my special purple metallic paint." They were stunned. Mrs. Mosiman has special purple metallic paint? What next, will she start drinking diet Pepsi or, gulp, water? Who is this woman?

"You will dip your chosen finger-tip into your first paint color," I maintained intense eye contact with my messy little maniacs. "You will test-tap it on your paper plate." They nodded, soaking in every word. "Then you will dot your branches...ping! Ping! Ping-ping-ping." Purple metallic paint was a tantalizing orange carrot. My baby burros were hanging on my every word. "Wipe your committed finger off with a tissue and repeat with the next color. Wipe. Wipe. Ping. Ping. Ping-ping-ping. No swoosh-swoosh. No rub-rub. Do NOT mix your paints UNTIL you've used all three colors. Ping. Ping. Ping-ping-ping." 

"You may begin."

I should have video-taped it.

Apparently, I've got to brush up on my reward system. Forget Dum-Dum pops...purple metallic paint has me covered, incentive-wise.

Eighteen 4th graders, dipping their pinkie fingers daintily in paint like fancy British ladies taking tea,
gave Georges Seurat a run for his money as they applied blossom dots to their branches. What I didn't anticipate was their sound effects: Ping. Ping. Ping-ping-ping. Eighteen 9 year-olds ping-pinging their way across their framed canvases while I tried to suppress my surprised laughter. Ping. Ping. Ping-ping-ping.

I loved them.

The artists AND their creations.

The next day was a different story. I needed to tape the backs of each frame so I gave my honeys an independent activity so that we could have their projects ready to go home.

"Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman..Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman...Mrs. Mosiman..."

"AAAAAAARRRRGGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!!"

I do not say "shut up" very often.

"Shut up. Shut up. Shut up! Shut up! SHUT up! SHUT up! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP!"

The best gifts are gently wrapped in kind and loving words. The biggest mouths should be covered in tape.

There's nothing like a little painting craft when you're feeling blue.

Beauty may be in the eye of the beholder, but paint splatters in the eye of the teacher guiding the lesson.

June can't come too soon.