I love the kids' art work. I love that they can get engrossed in drawing an underwater sea scene for almost a half an hour. I love that colorful circles on a page warrant being posted on the refrigerator. I love octopuses with 7 legs and grumpy faces. I love that Charlie's painting (top) is called Balloons. You know what I don't love? That as an adult, I have such a hard time silencing the internal critic that jabbers away when I draw or paint for myself. It drives me crazy that I cannot stop myself from judging 'good' and 'bad', instead of just enjoying the process and the outcomes of my art, no matter what they may be. At what age does does that nasty little voice start to speak up? William is 6 now, and already I come across crumpled up pieces of paper on the floor. So far, he tells me, he gets frustrated when what comes out on the paper is not like what he sees in his head. That, I hope, is different than comparing his art to that of others - it is not about 'better than' or 'worse than', at least not yet. What a loss, as adults, that I (we?) cannot just enjoy how the pencil feels moving across the paper, that we can't just enjoy the colors coming off of the brush.....Know what? I have to go now. I have some painting to do.