She enters.
The morning glow filters from the high-set windows and
descends
like a halo upon her sustainably-dyed roots.
Transcending humanity,
she floats
by the garden of
green stacked chairs at
the back of the community hall,
bearing baskets and ribbons and tinkling jars.
A humble tilt of the head,
a demure smile, she
does not speak of her organized magnificence but
she knows;
she knows she is the
Patron Saint of Infant Craft.
Now playgroup begins.
For the sixth, nay, seventh, week in a row,
our nine, nay, ten-month-olds
will participate in her arts and crafts, not any old craft, but
Handprint Craft.
Where once we were lost—
a new mother’s group,
clutching drive-thru coffees like pagan talismans,
watching our babes flail on the mat like overturned cockroaches—
deliverance was bestowed.
We are now led as obedient sheep into
scheduled activity:
timed and well-resourced, the
capturing of the print of the hand.
The online suggestions are many,
there are
keepsakes, a mum-print with bub’s hand inside,
an upside-down handprint with googly eyes,
finger-vined wreaths and horses and ducks
hand-turkeys, forests, I’ve run out of
ideas, but her Holiness never, ever exhausts.
Each week she illuminates our
lives with a new
Project.
How does she do it? say the other mothers
(and one father),
A babe of her own
yet she runs playgroup too,
an angel.
A nimbus brighter than stars
pulling pencil, petal, and pinecone
to orbit her crafty brilliance:
Our Lady of Mount Pinterest.
It’s so good, say the other mothers
(and one father),
good sensory play,
babies need that.
And they throw around words
developmental
cognitive
nature
nurture
fine motor
as though we achieve them
through
One Handprint.
Just one handprint.
I brush paint neatly onto my 10-month-old’s hand;
an oxymoron
for all the morons
attempting to paint
a flailing hand that hasn’t
developed controlled movements.
I slap one fleeting, miniature
splat
then I grab the hand
(and the child attached)
and neither may touch the paper again
or the desk, the chair
their face, my face, or Talulah’s $1900 Bugaboo pram.
Run the gauntlet,
do not drip,
make a beeline for the sink
then watch,
helpless,
as watered paint flicks
onto the bathroom ceiling and my
only denim jeans that fit.
My baby screams as I turn off the
tap—the only sensory play
he gets.
Surely it’s over,
surely it’s
“Time to decorate!”
Should I pinch my
son, blame the crying on
a fever…
too dramatic
(and abuse)—
and too late.
The Saint’s heavenly eyes are
omniscient. And insistent.
Guilt and righteous endeavor
bring me back to the fold
of her radiant
decoration station…
My heart tightens as though tangled in twine,
my courage wilts like crepe paper in glue.
I’m not ready for such an ethical dilemma
at nine-thirty A.M. after two
hours of sleep:
do I let my baby smack claggy adhesive,
suck the paper soggy and topple baskets of twigs?
No.
I fling my leg
onto the tiny table and create a barricade
as my child claws and wails
but I hold firm;
this handprint is going to look like a majestic elk or so help me.
And through the shrieks and worldly storms alights a moment
from on high…
I behold a ray as pure
as the sparkle from a lone piece of glitter stuck to someone’s left eye bag.
The Saint
beams
holy approval upon my creation.
I am a good mother.
Louise Walton lives in Australia on the NSW mid-north coast with her husband and three children (and chickens, rabbits and a dog). She loves word play, comedy and Aussie dramedy, and is especially drawn to finding the sweet moments of function within dysfunction. She has had winning stories in New York City Midnight, Writing Battle, and the Not Quite Write Prize. She was also a finalist in Australia’s Best Yarn 2024 and short-listed in the Furphy Literary Award 2025. Author page:
https://twistedtournament.com/author/louisewalton
Illustration via Unsplash (edited)