A glorious mess
Let me set the scene.
It’s a rainy Sunday afternoon. I’m upstairs with my mom hanging out and knitting. The girls are downstairs painting. I have been up and down several times, and all has seemed well.
Suddenly, Anna runs by me, towards the bathroom, stark naked (which she wasn’t before).
“Anna,” I ask, “where are your clothes?”
“Oh, Mom,” she calls from the bathroom, “I had to take them off because they were all painty.”
Uh-oh, I think.
I walk into the bathroom. “Anna,” I said a little sternly, “when I go downstairs, am I going to find a big painty mess?”
“Oh, no,” she says. “Only a very little one. Well except on my painting. My painting is a glorious mess!”
A glorious mess, indeed. And one that is so, so, Anna.