Genetically crafty

I remember one time when I went to the make-up counter at Nordstroms. One of the spooky, perfectly made-up women put my face under a special light to show me the effects of sun-damage, aging, and, of course, lack of a certain expensive line of cosmetics.

It remains one of the more horrifying moments of my life. My cheek looked like the lunar surface, with larger pores.

I thought of this when I watched Owen do a craft at storytime yesterday. Much like that dreadful light (which, for all I know, shows the same image to everybody), having children brings you face to face with some of your less attractive qualities, and magnifies them mercilessly.

Owen lacks patience. He won't commit to doing something unless he sees The Point. I would chalk this up to being two, except that I'm the exact same way. This manifests itself in my world brilliantly. For example, I skip the taping portion of the painting process, since it takes too much time and doesn't matter anyway. My baseboards would beg to differ. I also selected my career based on the question: "What requires the least math?" My lack of patience has resulted in half-frozen pot roasts, endless circles around unfamiliar towns (who has time to look things up on Mapquest?), and blogs written, and immediately posted witout editing.

So, with a unique mixture of shame and pride, I watched Owen take the turkey cut-out, scribble two half-assed circles on it, and pronounce himself, "All Done!" It's without a doubt, what I would do, and did do, whenever a craft reared its ugly head during my schooling. The sooner I could finish the dumb craft and return to my book, the better. I still feel this way when, egad(!), asked to scrapbook.

For Owen's sake, I hope that he learns to take his time, notice details, and not rush. But, secretly, I hope that he and I will be kindred spirits, leaving glitter and glue sticks behind for a warm patch of sun and a good book.