When Graffin was two, he developed an obsession with painting. We’re not talking about your run of the mill “toddler who appreciates the joy of making a mess with finger paints” type of interest, I’m referring to an all-out passion for paint. And to be clear, his interest should not be confused with a devotion to art — Graffin would be better described as a paint-enthusiast than a budding artist. The love was for the paint itself. Lining up the bottles, delicately opening each one, testing each color and proudly announcing its name (“bwue! Yewwow! Umm…..anunner kind of bwue!”), reorganizing them back into the box when done…that’s where the magic was. The “art” he “created” was absolutely secondary to the ceremony.
The dedication he showed to his chosen vocation was impressive. For months (and think about how long that is in toddler terms, really) he painted every single day, often for HOURS at a time. He’d paint inside, he’d paint outside, on paper, on himself, on the ground, literally anywhere and anytime I could accommodate it. He’d paint until it was time for bed, then wake up in the morning and hightail it straight to the backyard, where the ritual would begin anew. Bottles out, brushes ready, etc etc etc, ad infinitum.
My patio has still not recovered.
Does that sound strange? Cuz it totally was. My perception may have been skewed by my experience with my firstborn, to whom such a peaceful activity would not have been the least bit attractive at any age for longer than about 57 seconds, but I was sincerely perplexed by the very idea of a small child liking something that much for that long, and the fact that the activity in question involved the repeated setup/test/cleanup process of a $5 box of paints as opposed to something like, say, PLAYING WITH A TOY, ratcheted my confusion up a few further notches. On the other hand, it was obviously harmless (except for paint being goddamn EVERYWHERE), and something about the methodical aspect of it struck me as a potential sign of burgeoning intelligence (or at the very least, extraordinary patience), so I was torn on how to interpret my little compulsive Picasso’s behavior. A friend of mine who witnessed Graffin’s painting predilection in action commented on the, shall we say, uniqueness of the hobby, and I agreed, saying, “maybe there’s something wrong with him. Or maybe he’s a genius!”
To which she replied, “Yeah, or maybe he’s just a weirdo.”
Dead. Fucking. On.
Time has proven that there is definitely nothing wrong with this kid (not like…diagnosably wrong, anyway), and while he may indeed be a genius, my friend’s assessment of him as just a straight-up weirdo was far and away the most accurate judgment. He is a weirdo — the very best kind. His all-out obsession with painting eventually waned (although to this day, the pleasure this kid gets from cracking open a new box of crayons, markers, paints, or any other color-ific artistic implements and just lining them up and trying them all out is unrivaled), but his determined individualism persists. This is a kid who knows what he likes and how he likes it, and he don’t give a hot damn if that doesn’t align with what the rest of the world might consider “normal.” He is the most punk rock person I know and I want to be like him when I grow up.
Case in point: his daily visions for himself. Since he was about three years old, Graffin has approached getting dressed not as a mundane but necessary task like the rest of us losers, but as a crucial tone-setter for the day ahead. He does not ask himself, “what shall I wear today?” He asks, “who do I want to be today?” He literally says those exact words and it’s approximately the best thing ever. And when he settles on a concept, he sets forth to gear up with gusto, virtually always without any assistance. Much to Ryan’s horror, for the past two years we’ve been confusing and/or terrifying the public by going about our daily business with Graffin proudly showing off such varied identities as:
Mickey Mouse Hulk (one of his earliest creations):
Guy With a Crown who Loves Easter Eggs:
Marshmallow (inspired by some YouTube DJ who may or may not be appropriate for children; I suppose I should have looked into that at some point?):
Cool Pirate:
Video Game Character (no further specifics were provided, just…Video Game Character):
Random Man (some iteration of this gentleman makes an appearance several times a week; any combination of backwards clothes, mismatched socks, face paint, and headwear of any kind are all hallmarks of Random Man’s signature style):
And this dude commits. Do you have any idea how uncomfortable it is to wear inside-out jeans all day?! Also that’s a swimming shirt in the last pic…and only one sandal…on the wrong foot. Commitment.
He thinks ahead, too. He just informed me that I need to put “pants that are all green” on my Target list, because he needs to be a Ninja Turtle and he simply does not have the necessary accoutrements in his arsenal, and you better believe I’m gonna deliver. Because he may be a little weirdo, and perhaps we attract an odd stare or fifty as he strolls through the grocery store in some objectively absurd ensemble, but much like the bizarre delight he once garnered from incessantly organizing bottles of paint, he fucking loves making his fashion visions come to life and I pray to whatever gods or universal forces are out there that he never, ever changes.
PS: he does still enjoy painting. Naked Painting Man confirms:
The Baby Is Fine 