Red Finger Paint

Red finger paint.

Flashback.

I was in kindergarten again, and I was in turmoil. It was May. The teacher said we were to make a Mother’s Day gift for our Moms.

That was OK.

The teacher said it was going to be a picture, a work of art.

Sounds good to me, I thought.

She then announced that the medium was to be... finger paint? Oh, God, no!

The color, the texture, the smell... a recipe for sensory overload if there ever was one...

Just the thought of touching that primary colored goo made me nauseous... My little stomach churned, and I shrunk back in horrified, ashamed silence.

I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t.

And yet... to disobey would not only be to defy the wishes of my beloved teacher, but would, in the same stroke, dishonor my mother, leaving me with no gift to present to her on her special day...

One finger.

My poor teacher managed to cajole me into sticking one finger into the red morass, and smearing it across the glossy paper a few times.

It was plain to me how lame, even pathetic, my effort looked in comparison with enthusiastic smearing that was going on all around me- but I had not the strength to carry the escapade any further.

My teacher seemed satisfied, and I knew my mother would be OK with it.

Good thing I didn’t get a grade on it, though. Fail finger painting? What kind of kid fails finger painting?
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