Accidents Happen

It was an accident. A spectacular accident, but an accident nonetheless.

I’m an artist. Graduating from a very prestigious art school, for years, I diligently worked on paintings for the important gallery opening I always saw in my future. But to pay the bills I painted commissioned art for commercial billboards to sell various products like breakfast cereal, gum, milk, and anything else someone would pay me to paint. 

Until two years ago, when my boyfriend and I discovered we were pregnant with twins. 

I put my career on hold so I could manage the very difficult job of feeding, clothing, cleaning up after and caring for the minute to minute needs of these two humans-in-training I brought into the world.

To be honest, it was exhausting. Everything had to be done twice. I’d diaper one, then the other. And although I tried to feed and bathe them on mass, there were still two little people that needed to be dried, dressed or cleaned up. 

And after they started walking, I had to be on my toes all the time. Sometimes they would get into things together, but often they’d go in different directions for their mischief. Then I had two messes to clean up.

Finally, when they were two, I thought I achieved a rhythm that made life hum along. 

About the same time, a friend of mine who worked at an art gallery called me to see if I would be interested in a commissioned work. Sometimes rich patrons and their interior designers look for a painting with a specific color scheme or subject matter to fit a design concept for their space. If they can’t find the painting, sometimes they commission an artist to paint something with exact specifications. 

I hadn’t worked in two years and I wasn’t sure I could do it with the twins at home, but my friend dangled a carrot I could not resist. She said this patron was very rich and influential, and if she liked my painting, she’d spread the word and it could lead to a future gallery opening. How could I say no? 

I had one month to finish the painting so every night after I put the boys to bed, by the light of the moon, I sketched and sketched for three weeks leaving a litter trail of unfinished and unworthy drawings. It started to accumulate into a mound that I called Mount Crap. In one evening of frustration I actually mounted a flag on top to commemorate my ultimate failure. 

I just couldn’t get it right and quite frankly started to think I’ve lost my touch. After all, I was rusty.

One night I started drawing and it all came together. Muscles I hadn’t used in years sparked with renewed creativity. It felt wonderful. I was truly an artist once more. 

With only a week to go, I started painting feverishly. My sympathetic boyfriend even took a few days off work so he could watch the boys and I could complete my work. I was riding high on fantasies that I could do it all, artist and mom. Supermom. 

I was nearly done when it happened. 

Stepping away for only a minute to mix a color, I came back in horror to find my two little cherubs, smearing my painting with their hands. It was ruined. 

Standing there, you would think I would’ve screamed, but I didn’t. I couldn’t move. I actually felt like I was having an out of body experience, wrought with disbelief that those weeks of work were for nothing, and my golden opportunity slipped away in a moment. 

When my boyfriend came into the room and saw what they were doing, he quickly grabbed the boys and pulled them away from the painting. 

“No boys no!” 

But the damage was done. 

As he held them, they innocently looked at me with their big blue eyes, hands all soiled with mixed colors of paint. 

“We paint too, mommy,” one said is they both smiled at me. 

They didn’t mean to trash my painting or my hopes and dreams for a revitalize career. They were trying to be like me and didn’t know any better.

I think I scared my boyfriend standing there like a statue. 

“Oh honey. I’m so sorry, they got away from me. Are you OK?”

“Yes. It was just an accident.”

As he took the boys to clean them up, I gazed at my career going down the toilet. 

Again, I surprised myself by my calm. Maybe it was an accumulation of two years practice cleaning up their artistry on walls floors, and each other.

They didn’t mean anything by it. They are just kids. 

But then the dread of reality crept in. What comes next? Can I get an extension on the time or will they think that unprofessional of me? My kids ruined my painting sounds kinda like the old dog ate my homework excuse. 

I’m almost embarrassed to call my friend at the gallery and ask. But I have to tell her something. So I called. 

“Emily. I know this is gonna sound crazy, but I was nearly done with my painting and my kids ruined it by accident. I can replicate it in a week. Any chance of getting an extension?”

The silence on the other end of the phone was endless, leaving me terrified with uncertainty. 

“Well, we usually don’t do that,” she said. 

“I understand,” I said, defeated. 

But as I was picturing my career going down the drain, she said something surprising. 

“Wait, I think the patron is out of town so I can buy you three days, that’s all.”

I thanked her profusely and hang up the phone with renewed vigor. 

I’d have to work around the clock, but I thought I could get it done. Unfortunately my boyfriend had to go back to work so I called my mother and she agreed to take the boys to her house for three days. It was a huge ask, but I didn’t have many options.

Three days later, it was finished. I turned it in at the gallery, and Emily really liked the painting. 

“I promise to get a lock on my studio, if you have any more work in the future,” I told her. 

She smiled, but made no commitments. But ultimately, I proved to myself that I can get back in the game. It’ll take some heavy duty coordination, but it’ll be worth it. I can do both. 

(C) 2025, Suzanne Rudd Hamilton