Just Paint

She was getting the dishes down for our morning bowl of porridge.

Her fingers, being a little too small, and slightly clumsy in the morning didn't have a tight grip.

As I stirred the porridge, insurance against clumps, happily lost in the morning noise of two hungry chatter-boxes, a crash and shatter abruptly brought my senses into focus.

Faye was standing with one foot on a stool and one on the counter.  A shocked expression was on her face and Keith moaned "Fa-aa-aye!"

Little glass shards littered the floor, challenging my bare feet.  Remnants of the bowl she was so excited to eat from.  It was a little bowl.  A Chinese rice bowl turned kitchen floor mine field.

I inspected her with a glance, and she seemed fine, so I hurried to pick up the big pieces and get the broom for the little pieces.  While I was sweeping, I heard Keith and Faye discussing something.

"It's paint." she said very matter of factly.

"No it isn't.  Mom, tell her it isn't paint."

I looked to find the source of the argument.

Red, dripping off of Faye's big toe.  The counter had already been 'painted' and she was happy to show me.

I asked her where the paint came from if it was paint, and she smiled and said "I don't know.  Do you want me to paint you a picture?"

I laughed, told her it wasn't paint, and hurried to get the peroxide and bandaid.

The whole time I cleaned her foot off and bandaged it up, she insisted it was just paint and she didn't need a bandaid. It must be her artist genes.  Keith, on the other hand was fascinated.

"Mom, how does the blood get out?  Why does it leave the body?  Did she cut a blue blood vessel or a red one?"