Those special need parent OMG moments

"He likes purple, purple and purple." That's me responding to the lady at the art studio who asked which color Max would want to use. We were at Sabrina's birthday party yesterday, and Max wanted to paint.

Art birthday parties are always a good reality check about how much progress Max has made using his hands and fingers. When he was little he couldn't grasp the paintbrush independently, but now I watched him happily mzkinb purple strokes on the canvas. Come to think of it, when he was little birthday parties at places like that used to scare him and it took a lot of coaxing to get him in, let alone paint.

Dipping the brush: Another amazing feat of fine-motor skills

Then Max decided what he really wanted to do was fingerprint. Again, this was wow-worthy. I watched him isolate one finger, then spread all of them wide. It used to be that Max's hands only relaxed like that while he was sleeping but lately, I've seen him purposefully open them up.

Both kids' hands are yummy; I have been known to nibble on them. (Not when they are full of paint.) 

Sabrina was busy making Sculpty creations

The most surprising thing of all happened when Max decided to tap into his inner Picasso (or Rauschenberg or Monet or whoever painted in purple) and dump water onto the canvas, so he could play around. I have never seen him pour before. I had no idea he could do it. But, look:

He held onto that plastic container for dear life but he did not drop it. It took a lot of dexterity and control, and I was awed, proud and just plain thrilled. Yes, it might have been easier for him to use two hands but he doesn't always do that spontaneously. His right hand is weaker, and unless I prompt "Two hands, Max!" he likes to keep the right one resting on his stomach, a la Napoleon Bonaparte. Though Max is far cuter.

Who knows, Max may have already been pouring at school; I'll have to ask at this week's parent-teacher conference. I've sometimes found, over the years, that Max is a lot more independent at school than he is around me and Dave. Once, years ago, I came to visit his class during lunchtime and walked in to find Max sitting at his desk, contentedly spooning food into his mouth. "He feeds himself?!" I said to the teacher. At home, Max only wanted me or Dave to feed him. "Of course!" she answered, puzzled by my reaction.

I will forever remember the art studio as the place where I first saw Max pour. He can't be far off from learning how to whip up drinks. I'll have mine shaken, not stirred.