Over the last year my kids have had their face’s painted at a variety of places and twenty minutes later look amazing.
So with a set of overinflated egos, Scott and I decided to buy face paint from CVS. Armed with our motto “How hard can it be?” we set the expectations high and the paint palette on the kitchen table.
My daughter begged to be a puppy dog. My artistic husband did a little googling and set to work. A man-beard later, we were at an impasse. Daughter-not-looking-at-all-like-a-dog-after-sitting-for-quite-some-time impasse. Scott threw in a tongue.
The first time she looked in the mirror, I was shocked how strongly my 4-year-old could suppress disappointment. I thought that was a teenage-I-don’t-really-like-the-guy-my-best-friend-is-dating skill. I wasn’t sure whether to be proud or to start therapy. Instead, I promised to sew dog ears on her sweatshirt, she barked at me, and we moved on to my son.
I was smarter with him. I said: “You can’t know what I’m drawing until I’m done. It’s a surprise.” (possibly to me) Meanwhile, my daughter guessed and guessed and guessed wrong.
To compensate our failures, we let them paint us.
I guess we can’t run away and join a traveling Halloween store. Maybe those face painters do deserve emptying my wallet every time.