One morning, when my darling son, Hunter, was 10 months old, I woke to exactly this same scene…but with one rather vital difference. It wasn’t paint.
IT WAS SHIT.
Then that little blonde, cherubic, Jackson Pollock of Feces smiled at me beatifically…with shit in his four tiny teeth.
And, then…my still-practically-a-gottdamned-baby-myself self…just sat down on the floor and cried.