Pablo Picasso once said, “Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist.”
Children. What a pain in the ass. They know nothing of the pressures of being grown up. They just come and go as they please, experiencing the world through tiny pink glasses that don’t concern them with paying bills, voting for leaders or negotiating business deals. They’re lucky. And they know it. Or, at least my kids do.
Last week we had a freak snowstorm here in Charlotte which canceled school. After the routine logistic chaos necessary to accommodate said children into our grown up workday schedule, I found myself fascinated with the wonder on my daughters faces. It was snow. Glorious, magical snow.
After shoring up some business admin, I decided I could put off the next few hours to be with my kids and soak in their reckless enthusiasm for a solid form of precipitation. I was making a sacrifice. For them. Another one. So I commandeered our makeshift sled and blew the 2-man raft up (with my own lungs) while my daughters hurried themselves with the their snow gear. You know – jackets, hats, sneakers. Hey, we’re southern. We’re ill prepared for the snow like folks who live up north and out west. After blowing up the raft, off to the park we drove. Slowly.
There were only a few inches of snow on the ground, and it was melting quickly. But the sun was out and the sky was blue and for the two hours my kids played in snow in a way that would make kids up north and out west jealous. There was a lot of laughing. We were all soaked.
No work happened that day. And that’s ok. As it turned out, I needed the time alone with my children to slide out of the grown up world in order to remember how fucking brilliant life is. And how all work should aspire to supplement that.
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