We hit Roadblock Number One when the six-year-old returned to find Daddy. “Why aren’t you at your office?”

“Daddy stayed home to paint with us,” I said.

“Yay, let’s go!”

“We have to wait for your sisters—”

“I want a treat while I wait.” Ha! Sugar was not the path to a successful afternoon. But neither was denying him the opportunity to self-soothe.

Cue tantrum.

When my three-year-old came home half an hour later, I made the executive decision to begin setting up.

“What are you doing, Mommy?” the kids asked in perfect unison. (They must rehearse these lines in the early morning when they’re up before me.)

Brother and sister raced over and tugged on the plastic tablecloth, forcing me to rearrange it a dozen times. At that point, I should have known better than to bring out the paint box in front of them.

“Can we see?” And they proceeded to see with their hands.

Abort mission! This was not going to end well. Cut your losses and stop now!

Luckily, my husband came to the rescue. “How about some story time with Daddy while Mommy sets up?” I knew there was a reason I wanted him here for this.

We began when the 11-year-old got home, beginning with a round of musical canvases. (They were all different sizes and shapes. My kids are big into equity.)

I had chosen a penguin paint night video that was designed for kids. But not my kids, as we quickly learned — it needed at least half-hour intervals for parts to dry. And that was without taking into consideration that my son heaps on paint the way the guy at the bagel store puts on cream cheese.

It became clear that the three-year-old was better off doing her own thing. I gave her a set of her own paints, which helped for about 30 seconds. “Chava Shaindel, will you PLEASE stop dipping your black paint into everyone’s red bowl?”

Silly me. I thought if I asked nicely it might help.

I threw my hands up in defeat more than once, but for some reason, kept going back into the ring for more.

“Why is Daddy doing something different?” my son asked. “Didn’t you say everyone has to listen to you?”

I looked over at my husband, who was making trouble by painting a US flag instead of penguins. I glared the universal Mommy Look of, “Now is not the time to be creative.” He didn’t get the memo.

When it was all over, my son whined, “Moooommy, why doesn’t mine look like yours?!”

“It’s okay for everyone’s to look different,” my husband commented. “That’s what makes it art.”

“I hate mine.” Apparently, philosophy didn’t speak to my son.

And so, after an hour of crying, moaning, feet-stomping, and full-on meltdowns (and that was just me), I wrapped up the tablecloth and asked the older kids to wash up for dinner. Then, I escaped to the kitchen and stood, staring into space. The melancholy on my face must have been apparent, because my husband asked, “What’s wrong?”

“I’m sad. I’m sad we can’t have a normal, enjoyable family activity. I’m sad that it has to be filled with fighting and frustration and that we can’t just—” I teared up, unable to finish my sentence.

“Don’t judge life by the moment,” he said. “You have to judge it by the moments.”

I stared at him. “I don’t understand.”

“The kids just appreciate the time we took to paint.” He shrugged his shoulders and went back to the dining room to set the table. I immersed myself in dinner prep and tried to shove away my feelings of abject failure.

At the dinner table, my husband asked everyone to reflect on the best part of their day. No thanks, I thought. He called on me first.

“I’m happy Daddy stayed home today,” I said, trying not to think about what happened after that.

My 11-year-old daughter was next.

“I’m happy we painted today.”

What?

She continued, “We don’t usually get to paint, and it was really fun to do it all together. I had a great time.”

So much for failure.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 950)