Child, Blossom: Painting Through a Pause in Parenthood

It started with a quiet moment at daycare.
A hallway. A conversation.
The kind that lingers.

I had just dropped off my son. We were walking like we always do. But just as I turned to leave, his teacher gently pulled me aside.

She brought up something he’d been doing—something that made a few of the other kids uncomfortable. I won’t go into details, to protect his privacy, but the gist is: it was different. Not harmful. Just socially off. And honestly, something my partner and I had already noticed at home for quite a while.

We’ve tried to guide him with calm and clarity, but he still does it—especially when overwhelmed or excited.
The teacher said when she tells him it’s not okay, he doesn’t respond like the others. He just looks away, unsure.

I told her it wasn’t a language thing. And I left.

But the moment stuck.

Sitting With It

I couldn’t focus on painting that day. My thoughts spun.
Not because I was shocked. But because for the first time, this behavior was causing friction outside our home.

So I sat with it. On the car ride. In the kitchen. In my studio.
I started talking it through, asking not just what he was doing, but why.
What was behind it? How did it feel for him? How could we better support him?

That reflection helped. I messaged his teachers with three things we focus on at home. I bought picture books about feelings and boundaries. And still—this thought stayed with me:

What if this difference isn’t just something to fix?
What if it’s a part of him that needs understanding—not erasing?
Could it be a seed of something special, even if misunderstood right now?

Mirror Moments

That same afternoon, something else happened.

I picked him up from daycare and watched him run around with two kids he loves—laughing, chasing, spinning around.
Then one of them fell.

I stood still, watching. Unsure if the boy was hurt or just surprised.
I waited.
Other parents rushed in: “Are you okay?” “Let me help you up.”
But I just… watched.

That’s how I was raised. My mom’s voice still echoes in me: Brush it off, you’re fine, keep going.
And that’s how I’ve been with my son too.

But this time, something shifted. I suddenly wondered, Why didn’t I jump in like the others?
Then I looked at my son. He was still in play-mode, ready to keep going.

“Kai,” I said, “he’s hurt. He needs a little time. Can you see that?”
He looked. He nodded. And we stood there, watching.

Parenting as a Mirror

That moment hit me hard.
I realized: so much of what I see in him—his joy, his reactions, his missteps—are reflections of me.

That week, I started noticing more:

• How people looked at me when I let him roam.

• The things I said about him in front of others—words I wouldn't want said about me.

• The way his face changed when I said no, when he asked me to play.

• The silence we both held when another child fell, and I hesitated.

I realized: these aren’t just his struggles.
They’re mine too.

Almond Blossoms and Eli’s Words

At the time, I was working on my Masters Reimagined series.
March was Van Gogh. And I’d already been drawn to Almond Blossoms—a piece he painted for his newborn nephew, symbolizing growth, renewal, hope.

Originally, I had planned to paint a girl among the branches.
But after that week, I knew it had to be my son.

He had this expression in a photo—chin resting in his hands, daydreaming, lost in thought.
It was the same expression he had when the boy fell.
Puzzled. Present. Quietly feeling.

That became the heart of the painting: Child, Blossom.

And I thought, I’ll paint it slowly. Let it unfold.
Because a wise artist friend of mine, Eli, once said to me:

“There’s an empowerment in waiting.”

She had been learning to enjoy life beyond painting—trusting that art doesn’t disappear when you pause. It fills back up. So I wanted to try that too.

But then something unexpected happened.

When the Critic Gets Loud

When I finally sat down to paint, I couldn’t access the feeling I had when I started.
The emotional thread was… gone.

I painted for six hours straight—and the entire time, I berated myself.
The inner critic was relentless:

• You waited too long.

• You’ve lost it.

• You’re not doing this right.

Usually, painting is where I’m kind to myself.
But that day was different.
I was still holding guilt.

The night before, I’d snapped at my son when he asked me to play.
The day before that, I’d said something in front of others he probably didn’t want shared.
And before that, we were in a supermarket and people looked at me like I was careless—like I wasn’t a “good mom.”

All of that poured into the painting. I painted through the shame. Through the sadness. Through the hope of doing better.

Fear of the Water

Then a song found me.
Fear of the Water by SYML.

And suddenly, everything made sense.

The song uses water as a metaphor—something that nurtures and overwhelms. It’s about surrendering to something powerful, even if you’re afraid of it.
To me, that was creativity.
That was watercolor.
That was parenting.

Watercolor doesn’t always do what you want. It spreads. It stains. It surprises you.
But that’s what makes it beautiful.

And listening to that song reminded me:

Apprehension isn’t a sign that you shouldn’t paint.
It’s a sign that you’re about to create something real.

The Painting Itself

Child, Blossom took 32 hours.
It’s painted on a full imperial watercolor sheet—the largest size I work with.

In it, my son sits quietly, surrounded by blossoming almond branches.
He’s not smiling. He’s not posing. He’s feeling.

The branches became a metaphor for the paths we offer our children—not fixed roads, but gentle invitations.

I thought about the Pixar short Float—how a father tries to hide his child’s difference, but eventually lets him be seen. That’s what this painting feels like to me. A letting go. A witnessing. A message to myself—and maybe to other parents, too.

What It Became About

It became about:

• Noticing.

• Regret.

• Repair.

• Parenting as a mirror.

• And the quiet act of watching over someone while they bloom.

Moments like these—quiet, uncertain, easily misunderstood—hold so much beneath the surface.

This painting helped me hold what words couldn’t.
It reminded me:
Even blossoms take time.
And some of the most meaningful ones bloom slowly.

Thanks for reading.
This painting helped me hold what words couldn’t.
Even blossoms take time.
And some of the most meaningful ones bloom slowly.

Podcast Episode: https://www.miwagardner.com/podcast/039
Youtube video of the process: