For this past Christmas, I made the mistake of suggesting we buy Abby another stash of crayons. Her previous lot has been broken into pieces, chewed, and lost in every nook and cranny not even imaginable, and I don’t even let her play with them often. If you’ve been reading here long enough, you probably know my position on crayons. They’re an evil hassle more than anything. But she loves them, and who am I to deny that?
So we bought her a tower of crayons. From the moment she opened it on Christmas morning, that was all she wanted to play with. Not color, mind you. No, she does very little actual coloring. She just carried them around everywhere, transferring from one position to another. Until they were dumped out and spread around the house. Then we played pick-up.
We gathered most of them and I put them in their place out of her reach. This way, she’s only able to desecrate the house when I’m in the mood, or am desperate.
Even still, I’m finding crayons hiding under couches and tables. Like the other day, when Abby emerged with a very red, unused Crayola.
I didn’t get a chance to grab it from her, however, as she immediately darted away with it to the boys’ room, hoarding it away like her precious. Since it was time to make the kids’ lunches, I let her go, forgetting how much harm she could really do with one crayon.
It wasn’t until a few hours later that I looked in to realize she had scribbled bold red all over my son’s bed.
I spent the afternoon tediously scrubbing the pigment out of his white and blue comforter. When it was all said and done, most of it had been erased, or more smeared. A light pink-ish hint in its place. But it could be worse. 7 year old boys like pink, right?