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I got so busy organizing all the supplies on the other side of the room, I lost all track of time and never started my own craft. It wasn’t until I heard the smack of a paintbrush hitting the little tray at the bottom of the easel that I turned around.

“Lincoln!” I admonished. There was paint everywhere, like the little tubes of paint had exploded somehow. He had a rainbow of colors on his shirt, in his hair, and even on the disgusting carpet we thankfully intended to replace. He looked exactly like the toddlers I’d supervised at Paint It, Pal. “What?” He lifted his hand to swipe some hair from his forehead and

left a streak of yellow behind.

I came over to check out his work, thinking he was incredibly adorable all covered in paint. Glancing at his canvas, I did a double take.

“Lincoln!” I said for the second time. This time because his artwork shocked me. Based on his monochromatic frog creations, I’d assumed Lincoln didn’t have much artistic ability.

And I was dead wrong.

The canva