“Mom, can I draw on my neck?”
It was spring and I was cleaning the kitchen — trying in vain to scrape the perpetual gick from the bottom of my toaster and scrub the perennial gunk from the base of the faucet — when I heard those words and glanced up, sponge in hand.
Indeed, my toddler’s palms, forearms, elbows, T-shirt and the tablecloth surrounding his untouched coloring book were lavishly scrawled with shamrock-green marker.
“And,” he was good enough to ask, “my hair, too?”