As I tiptoed away from the nursery, I knew I had maybe a couple of hours free. Two precious hours in which to indulge myself without having to worry about sticky hands getting into the paints and brushes. I quickly rushed upstairs to the loft room, the hazy sunlight filtering in through the skylights, beckoning me to the warmth and glow.
I got to the top of the stairs and quickly traded the baby monitor for my painting smock; placing it carefully on the hook so that I could hear it. I turned on the small radio to a classic rock station and set it on low. Then I turned to my canvases covered in cloth, on their individual easels standing at attention, waiting for my review. Which one would it be today?
The first canvas I uncovered showed a window scene. Gentle blues and grays defined the snowy slopes and gave shadows to the suggestion of trees in the background. Along the window sill, a single green bird tried to gather warmth from a suggestion of sunlight filtering down and across it. I still needed to instill some more detail to the feathers. I had tried to capture the downy underside as the bird tried to stay warm on the ledge.
The second canvas showed a bowl of fruit. In the center a ripe apple immediately drew the eye. Subtle hues of crimson and gold slowly worked their way up from the base, across the contour of the top and dipped down into the well of the stem. Just a hint of green ran along the stem giving a suggestion of the angle of light. I still had to work on the rest of the fruit, give them and the bowl definition.
I was just unwrapping the third canvas when I heard a sudden yell. I knew instantly it wasn't David Lee Roth. Sure enough, a few seconds later I heard the sound of Henry crying. He had that perfect howl; just an octave below a screech and a scream. Somehow, 120 minutes had passed without my realizing as I was caught up in the daydreams of my canvases. The cry broke my thoughts, and I rushed down the stairs, hanging up my smock once more in exchange for the baby monitor.