When you have a two year old,
silence is never a good thing unless it is well supervised.
I didn't mean to scream when I saw Jonah with the purple marker. He lay in quiet repose in his cradle (yes, he is in a cradle on my bedroom floor. If you have a problem with that, come build me another bedroom), and as I swished into the room (I swish. Don't judge), I was, for just an instant, caught up in pleasant wonder at a toddler laying so still at 11 AM, and in his bed of all places.
Then I saw the marker.
He was also swishing, in lazy, happy circles, all over my wall. The funny thing was how very relaxed the whole thing looked. He looked like the fat cherubs in those Greek paintings, laying on their backs, holding a cluster of grapes in one hand. Purple grapes, no doubt. His leg was even crossed over his bent knee, his foot held aloft and bobbing gently to the rhythm of the marker dance.
Like I said, I didn't mean to scream, but I did.
He burst into tears from both the startle and the scold. I felt bad for a moment, but that part of my mommy-brain that cuddles away nightmares and kisses owies was suddenly shoved into a corner by the part that finds crayons in the dryer and bowl-fulls of uneaten cereal in the sink.
I lowered the volume and continued the scold, in very clear baby babble:
He sobered up, said "Tay", and pitched in to help clean up.
It was a learning experience had by all.